Page 73 of Luciano (Belles & Mobsters 1)

“It wouldn’t really matter, would it?” He stood up from the table. Cassio King was an intimidating man. All Luciano’s friends were. Their vast resources could easily make Ella and I disappear and nobody would ask questions.Well, except my fucking uncle or Benito King.We were cash cows to them. “Because you and your friend already made up your mind,” he concluded.

He was right, of course. We didn’t trust any of them after Luciano’s betrayal. Massimo’s too. They treated us without any regard for our safety and well-being.

Luciano stopped his friend. “Grace, like I told you yesterday. Let me help you.”

Russian Roulette.

“You betrayed me!”Those words from that winter day evening rang in my ears.

Click.

“Then you should have left us in Italy,” I muttered without meeting their eyes. Instead, I focused on my son.

“Thank you for dinner, Mr. Vitale,” Cassio commented to Nonno, changing the focus of the conversation. “Luciano. Mrs. Vitale.”

He purposely called me that, I knew it. It was a reminder there was no escaping this life. Once you were born into it or married into it, you were in it for life. Till death do us part.

But what if I had no choice and was forced into it.Does it still count?

Our rushed wedding flashed in my mind.

The bedroom door rattles with the force of Luciano’s fists.

“Grace, you fucking open this door or I will tear it down.” His voice was cold and threatening. I knew it wasn’t an empty threat, but did my mind or body care. Nope, it didn’t. My body caved into his touch every time, and my mind rebelled and fought him at every angle.

Like some damn foreplay.

“No.”

“Grace.” One word. The meaning behind his calm voice more threatening than all the actual threats he could ever utter.

“I don’t want to marry you,” I muttered, frazzled. The ceremony had started, but I refused to leave the room. After the make-up artist and the dressmaker got me all ready, they gave me a few minutes before the ceremony.

Instead of working on calming my nerves, I locked the door and then barricaded it with the dresser. I was surprised nobody below me could hear the loud, screeching noise of the dresser legs against the hardwood floor. There was so much racket, I was sure someone would barge through the door at any moment.

“Open. The. Fucking. Door.”

“No.”

“You better step away from that door, Grace.” Whatever, dude! Who did he think he was? “I’m shooting the door.”

Wait. What?

“Make sure you are away from the door. I don’t want to shoot my bride on her wedding day.” His tone was mocking but serious. Who in the hell was this asshole?

“Wait.” I yelled out. “Wait.”

I put all my strength into pushing against the heavy, mahogany dresser. “Fuck, it was lighter on the way to the door,” I muttered to myself.

“Hurry the fuck up.” His tone was impatient, demanding.

“Buy lighter furniture next time, jerk.”

I barely pushed it a foot to the left of the door. I couldn’t get it all the way back. Maybe I exhausted all my strength while I pushed it over to the door.

“Grace-” I quickly unlocked the door.

I swung it open and stepped aside. “Jesus, dude. Learn some patience.”

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