Arranged Mafia Marriage

Elsa

“That was delicious.” I pat my mouth with my napkin. “The pasta was incredible, and the gelato was to-die-for.”

“And you ate your pasta in the right way, too.” Seb smirks.

“You seem surprised.” I raise an eyebrow.

“You’d be amazed at the number of people who get it wrong,” he scoffs.

“My mother taught me never to use a knife to cut pasta. She made it clear it must be eaten with a fork. The strands need to be rolled around the tines before being scooped up.”

“Your mom was right.” His lips kick up. “Are your parents in London?”

“My mother is; my father died when I was very young.”

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

“It was a long time ago.” I place the napkin on the table. “My mother loved cooking all kinds of food, but especially Italian food. Probably because it was the easiest to make, considering she had to work and bring me up all on her own.”

“What does she do now?”

“She still teaches, a lot of it volunteer based work with kids. I don’t think she will stop working until the day she dies.”

“You miss her?”

“Yeah.” I lower my gaze. “She’s a great mom. We didn’t have much money, but she made sure we had enough to eat. Supported me when I wanted to learn music. She encouraged me to pursue my interest in playing the piano.”

“Were you good?” He raises the wine goblet filled with water to his lips.

“Better than average. If I’d kept at it, perhaps I could’ve become a performer, but then… I met Fabio when I was eighteen, got married at nineteen, and was pregnant at twenty-one. My mother warned me about him, you know.” I twist my fingers in my lap. “I didn’t listen to her. I thought she was jealous that I’d met a man who would take care of me. When I got pregnant, she was there for me. I never told her how abusive Fabio could be toward me, but she guessed. She told me to leave him. No, she begged me to leave him, actually. But I didn’t. I thought I could make it work.”

I raise my hand to the small scar on my wrist, then realize what I’m doing. I drop it, but not before he notices it.

“He did that to you?” Seb’s voice is soft, but there is an underlying steel to it that makes me flinch. “Answer me, Princess. Did he do that?”

“It was nothing; just a small scratch. It healed quickly.”

“What did he do?” His gaze narrows on me.

I wave my hand. “Seriously, it doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.” He lowers his voice to a hush, “What did that carogna do?”

I hesitate.

“You will tell me.” He leaves no room for disagreement, and my belly quivers. A melting sensation assaults my chest, and I feel like I am sinking. When he uses that Dom tone, I cannot refuse him.

“He-” I gulp. “He pushed me away, and I hit the side of the table.”

Seb winces. The color drains from his features. His jaw tics and storm clouds gather in his eyes. “He scarred you. He laid his hand on you.” His shoulders bunch.

“You have scars, too.” I touch the puckered skin at his temple.

“It’s not the same thing. My scar is a fallout of my chosen way of life, something I expect in my profession. You, on the other hand, were innocent. He should have protected you. Instead, he hurt you. I’m going to kill the bastardo.”

Is he angry on my behalf? When was the last time anyone was angry on my behalf? The band around my chest tightens, and the pressure behind my eyes increases. But Avery… I have to think of Avery.

“He’s still the father of my child. I’m not saying that to justify anything, but he’s her blood. I can’t let anything happen to him, knowing how much it could affect her,” I say in a low voice.

The skin at the edges of his eyes tightens, and his grip on his goblet of water tightens.

“Seb,” I clear my throat, “promise me you’ll spare his life.”

“Cazzo.” His forearms flex. The stem of the wine-goblet breaks, and the remaining water splashes on the table.

“Oh.” I lean back in my chair as the goblet part of the glass rolls over and crashes to the floor.

I reach for a towel and try to mop up the water on the table, but Seb places his hand on mine, stopping me. “I can’t promise not to teach him a lesson, but…” he blows out a breath, “I’ll spare his life.”

I jerk my chin in his direction.

“I’m sorry he hurt you, Princess,” he says in a gentler voice. “You know I’d never hurt you like that, right?”

I glance away, and his grasp on my hand tightens. “Look at me, Elsa.”

I turn my gaze in his direction.

“Tell me you believe me when I say that I’ll never lay a hand on you.”

I peer between those gorgeous golden eyes of his. “I don’t believe-”

His forehead crinkles in a frown.

“That I’ll ever have that complaint with you, Seb.”

His shoulder muscles unwind a little, but he seems far from satisfied.

“The scenes I set for us, when I’m your Dom and I ask you to do things that a sub should do… I make you perform those actions because I know you need it. I understand that you want to give up your choice to me, of your own volition. I’m aware that, by doing that, you let go of your tensions and stresses, and relax completely into the safe space that I’m creating for you. You understand that I won’t judge you. That I’ll always be there for you after a scene, to take care of you. That if anytime, anything makes it uncomfortable for you, you simply have to use your safe word and I’ll stop. You get me?”

I nod. Something hot stabs at my chest, and my throat feels scratchy. A pressure builds behind my eyes, and I blink away the tears that are on the verge of spilling. Damn it, why does he have to be so understanding, so self-assured, and yet, so caring? How can one man have all of the traits I’ve been looking for, for so long? The one man I am going to destroy before too long. Why do I have to feel so much for him? Why is it that he couldn’t be horrible, someone I would have loved to hate? Why did he turn out to be the kind of person I’m falling in love with instead?

“Elsa?” he prompts. “You understand what I’m saying, right?”

I nod. “I do. I know you’ll never hurt me or my daughter. I know you’ll do everything to make sure I get custody of her. You’re going to be a wonderful husband, Seb.”

Just not mine. When you find out what I’ve been doing to you, when you find out how I’ve been double-crossing you, you’re going to hate me. And then… You’ll never want to see me again. But I had no choice. I hope you’ll understand, I’m doing what I’m doing because it’s the only way to keep my daughter safe.

He peers into my features and the furrow between his eyebrows deepens. “Why do I get the feeling there’s something here you’re not telling me?”

“There is, actually.” I lower my eyelashes, before I raise them back to his face.This is property © NôvelDrama.Org.

“There is?” He leans forward. “Tell me, Princess. You can tell me anything; you know that, right?”

I open my mouth, and god, I’m so tempted to tell him everything. Everything. “I’m worried about Fabio.” I bite the inside of my cheek. “How do you know he’s not the one who arranged to shoot at us at the restaurant? Either way, he’s not going to be happy that we’re married. There’s no telling what he might do next.”

Seb firms his lips. “He’ll have to get past me to hurt you, and I promise you, that’s not going to happen.”

“What if he hurts you? If something were to happen to you-”

“Nothing’s going to happen to me.” He cups my cheek. “Don’t you trust me to keep us both safe?”

I search his features, take in the intent that shines in his eyes. I want to believe him; I do. If anyone can ward off the threat posed by Fabio, it’s Seb. Besides, there’s no way Fabio would actually try to hurt him, would he? Not when he’s sent me to Seb to get more information on his family. A shiver snakes up my spine.

“Seb, I…”

He tilts his head, a quizzical look on his features.

“What is it?”

“I… I’m thirsty,” I glance away then back at him. “You promised me the best espresso on the Amalfi coast.”

As if on cue, Francesco, the owner and chef bustles in with cups of espresso.

Seb draws in a breath and studies me. “This conversation is not over, Princess,” he says in a soft voice, but when I pull my hand out from under his, he releases it. Thank god.

Francesco places a tray in front of me, which has the espresso and a small shot glass filled with a clear liquid, as well as a glass of water. He’s placed a similar tray in front of Seb, minus the shot glass.

When he’s taken his leave, I eye the contents of my tray. “I take it that’s grappa?” I point at the shot glass.

“You’re meant to pour it into the espresso and then drink it,” Seb explains.

“Alcohol and caffeine. Trust you Italians to think of something this explosive.” I laugh.

“It’s not that unusual. The carajillo in Spain is a similar type of coffee-liquor drink, as well as the kaffekask and kaffepunch in Scandinavia. This combination is called a caffe corretto.”

“You’re not having any?”

“I’m driving.” Seb reaches over and pours the contents of the shot glass into my espresso. “Go on; try it.”

I pick up my espresso cup and take a sip. The bitterness of the espresso is tempered by the grappa, which lends it a sharp, clean taste. All in all, it doesn’t taste too alcoholic, but more like an intense, if concentrated, coffee.

“Well?” he arches an eyebrow. Bet he expects me to say I don’t like it.

I firm my lips. The liquid is not too hot. The temperature is just right to down it in a shot. I hesitate then raise my cup. “Salute!” I drain the rest of the grappa-espresso combination, then sputter and cough as tears run down my cheeks.

Seb chuckles. “You’re supposed to savor it over a few sips, not toss it back.”

He hands me the glass of water, and I drink from it. A trail of heat runs down my gullet and expands in my stomach, filling me with a nice warmth.

“Mmm.” I smack my lips. “I can definitely see the merits of that. Do you think he’d bring me more, if I ask him?”

“More than that will get you drunk, and I need you in full control of your faculties for what I have planned later.”

“And what’s that?”

“If I tell you, it won’t be a surprise.”

Elsa

“Oh, it’s gorgeous.” I gaze up at the mosaic that takes up an entire wall of the ancient Villa Romana in Piazza Armerina, a small town a few hours’ drive from the restaurant.

When he said he wanted to surprise me, this was not what I expected. We finished lunch, and two of the men exited the restaurant first and scanned the surroundings to make sure that it was safe before we walked to his car. We drove along the gorgeous coastline. Once more, he switched on the music in the car- more Puccini, then Aida by Verdi. The haunting music faded away, to be replaced by the strains of a very familiar tune.

“No, wait.” I straightened. “Is that… It can’t be, is it?”

Music from Joy Division’s Love Will Tear Us Apart filled the space.

“Whoa!” I listened to it for a few minutes, then turned to him. “You know what you’re playing, right?”

He shot me a glance, as if to say, ‘are you really asking me that question?’

“It’s Joy Division,” I supplied.

He nodded.

“It’s Love Will Tear Us Apart by Joy Division.”

“I’m aware.” He frowned.

“You like this song?”

“I am playing it,” he reminded me. “I assume the song is of some significance to you?”

“It’s Kea- I mean, it’s the favorite song of The-Actor-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named.”

“Of course it is.” He threw me a sideways glance, as if he wasn’t quite sure what to make of my reaction.

“It’s just…” I shook my head. “I can’t believe you’re playing it, that’s all.”

“It’s part of a collection I put together,” he admitted.

“It’s an eclectic collection,” I remarked.

“I’m an eclectic man.”

“More like a hardheaded, over-the-top, dominant, full-of-himself alphahole.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” He snorted.

“Love Will Tear Us Apart.” I shook my head again. “I still can’t believe it.”

“Why do I get the feeling I’ve passed some kind of test?” he muttered.

“It’s nothing like that.” I flushed. “I just didn’t expect you to play it, is all.”

“You don’t think The-Actor-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named and I could have something in common?”

“That’s not what I mean,” I lied. “It’s a surprise. That’s all.”

“Hmph,” he slowed down, then took the turn leading us to Piazza Armerina, which is how we got here.

Now, I turn to face him. “This place is unexpected.” I gesture to the vibrant colors on the walls. “I feel like I’ve been transported into a different dimension.”

“I know the feeling. There’s so much history around here, it’s like we’ve entered a different world, for sure. For those of us who grew up here, sometimes we take it for granted. It’s like you drive through Rome and come across the Colosseum, then turn a corner and find another ruin built in 312 AD. And this place,” he gestures to the ancient walls, “was built sometime in fourth century AD. Can you imagine all the history this place has seen? All the events it has witnessed? The people who have walked through this hall before us?”

He turns to find me staring at him.

“What?” He tilts his head.

“You love history, don’t you?”

“Eh?” He rubs the back of his neck. “I grew up with it. It’s a part of me. It’s in me, I suppose.” He glances about the space. “I’ve never thought about it, but you’re right. The sense of timelessness in places like this grounds me, I guess. Makes me feel like anything is possible.” He laughs a little self-consciously.