Page 48 of Mafia Bride
Quattrocould go fuck itself. I will be out of here and long gone before I risk connecting to this sexy, arousing, beautiful bastard. I hated him, but there were pieces of his humanity floating around that made it difficult to ignore.
Because something in me wants a connection, too, and once that happens, I’ll never be free.
13
VIOLETTA
Every morning, I put on his ugly clothes, curse his awful name and his beautiful face, then meet him downstairs for breakfast. I hate that there’s a “we tradition” as much as I hate the fact that there’s a “we” at all.
I put on the lavender, floral shift I find in the back of the closet. It’s the most feminine thing I see, and it feels good to wear something other than slacks and old lady blouses. I’m not here to doll myself up for him, but for me. It’s bad enough I’m trapped. Being trapped and having to dress like a nun is killing me.
The moment I walk into the dining room, Santino’s coffee cup stops between the table and his face.
“What is this?” he asks, flicking his hand in the direction of the dress. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. Mocking me. Silly girl-child.
“This is what you left me when you kidnapped me without letting me get my things.”
“I sent men to get your books.”
“Okay, so you want them running their fingers through my underwear drawer?” My cappuccino’s still hot. I blow on it, making a point of not looking at him. “I don’t want you to have to kill anyone.”
I keep my eyes on my coffee as my breath makes a little hole in the foam.
He doesn’t say anything or acknowledge how I turned our last conversation against him. Like I don’t matter. He’s impervious to the gotcha because he doesn’t care one way or the other.
“We’re going shopping.”
When I turn, he’s got a smile on his face. Turning over my books must have made him think I’m back on a leash.
“I’ll make a few calls.” He pushes his chair out. “Drink your cappuccino and we’ll leave.”
Leave? Go past the bounds of my jail cell that is this house? I haven’t been anywhere since the wedding. And shopping! Okay, so I hate the man, but this is the first kind-of-maybe-normal thing I’ve been able to do in weeks and I can’t stop my veins from thrumming with excitement.
My cup is empty before Santino can even get out of his chair—while he’s still folding his paper. It’s weird that he reads an actual newspaper when the world is all digital. It’s so...Italian.
The men like things in their hands. Money, newspapers, women. Rosetta tried to warn me, but it went in one ear and out the other.
“Armando.” Santino rings his stupid bell. “The Alfa. I’ll drive.”
So, just him and me. Shopping.
Could I escape? Maybe through a stock room. Maybe hide in a rack of clothes. Who knows what opportunities may unfold.
The car’s brought around. Santino opens the passenger side as if he’s my valet, but I know better. He’s doing it so he has a hand in making sure I’m under control.
“Buckle,” he says, hand draped over the top of the open door.
I reach for the safety belt, but can’t find it. He untucks it from some fancy, hidden place and bends over me. The angle of his jaw is inches from my face and I’ve never smelled anything that could be so crisp and clean, yet so rugged and raw at the same time.
Snap. I’m in.
He stands without turning to me, claps the door closed, and touches the hood as he comes around as if making sure everything in the world is where it should be.
He’s going to be a tough guy to run from.
* * *
Santino floorsit to Flora Boulevard. The car responds like a passionate lover, hugging curves with both appreciation and affection, leaving me with fingers gripping the armrest, panting like a sprinter. Even if I want to hold a conversation, I can’t. The ride is too breathtaking for words.
