Filthy: A Bad Boy Romance (6 page)

But I’m not. Not one bit.
I tap my front teeth closed, hard, before those words can make it out of me. I swallow, compose myself, then say carefully, “But of course I’m happy to be with you, Carmine. We haven’t been out in a while. This is nice.”

Anything to get that look off his face. The look that tells me if he had half a chance, he’d backhand me. The same look Pop used to give my mom before he asked me and Sophie to leave the room so they could “talk.”

My stomach’s in knots by now, and it’s all I can do to keep from crying. But by the time we talk to Carmine’s next “friend,” I’ve got the smile back on my face. It’s self-preservation, and I’ll keep it on until I get home if I have to.

#

The movie’s okay. Not my favorite—the script is more than a little insipid and I have a feeling the lead actor was cast more for potential box-office draw than because of any kind of acting ability or chemistry with the lead actress.

The worst part, though, is Carmine. He drapes an arm across my shoulders as soon as we sit down, and then when the theater goes dark, he scoots a little closer. His hand dangles over my shoulder so his fingers can just brush my breast, and he takes advantage of that. I try to move away, then I try to shift positions, but he keeps adjusting to compensate. And whenever I move too much, the person on my other side gives me a look. I don’t want to attract attention, so I try to ignore Carmine. It’s not the easiest thing in the world.

Then he leans over and starts mumbling in my ear. “C’mon, baby. We’re going to be married. Don’t tell me you want to wait.” All while stroking my breast, trying to shift enough that he can trace a finger over my nipple. I shoot him a glare, and he just grins. “Fiancée,” he whispers. “I like the sound of it. Don’t you?”

But then his seat neighbor gives
him
a look, and he backs off. It’s a relief. I manage to mostly avoid interacting with him for the rest of the movie, although he doesn’t move his hand.

After the movie I put on an uncomfortable face. “Maybe we could just go home?” I suggest. “I’ve got a hell of a headache.”

“Oh, no way, Jess. You don’t want to miss the parties, do you?”

Actually I do. Anything to get away from Carmine. “It’s a really bad headache.”

“Well, get some ibuprofen or something. I’ve got an invite to this party, and we’re going. Besides, we need to talk.”

My eyebrows shoot up. We do, do we? But I don’t say anything. I just follow him to the limo and go along with his plan. I’ve got a little bottle of pills in my purse, so I fish out a couple of ibuprofen so they’re ready as soon as I can get a glass of water or something. Not that I actually have a headache, but if he finds out I’m faking he’ll just get angrier.

The party is noisy, full of B-list celebrities and people I recognize as working for my father. I snag a flute of champagne and pretend to take the pills for my “headache.” Carmine schmoozes with a few people, flirts with an actress who’s about an inch taller than he is, then finally deigns to admit he’s not alone.

He doesn’t introduce me to anyone though. He just grabs my arm and steers me off toward a corner.

“This is where you want to talk?” It seems less than ideal, what with the noise of the crowd and the number of people around us becoming increasingly drunk.

“We talk where I decide we’ll talk.”

He’s getting a little tipsy himself, I realize. I wasn’t keeping very close track of him while he was doing his circuit. He must have tossed off a few of those glasses of champagne while I wasn’t looking.

“Fine.” Might as well get it over with. I have a pretty good idea I know what he wants to talk about.

In the corner, which I have to admit is a bit sheltered from the party’s goings-on, he leans against the wall, effectively hemming me in. He lifts a hand and traces the back of it down my cheek. I’m sure it’s meant to be an affectionate gesture. It just makes me feel that much more cornered.

“So,” he says. “I’m thinking it’s time we set a date.”

“A date?” I’m flummoxed for a minute.

“Yeah. For our wedding.”

Oh God. That. I shrink back a little, trying to keep the abject horror I’m feeling from showing on my face. “Oh. Um… When did you have in mind?”

“Maybe this summer?”

“This summer? So soon?” My heart’s speeding up, and I’m going to spiral right into a panic attack any second now.

“Well, you keep putting it off. I mean, first it was you wanting to finish college, and then you wanting to take a little break after you finished college… What is it now?”

The fact I have absolutely no desire whatsoever to marry you?
“I’m thinking of going back to school. You don’t want to get married now. I’ll be so busy.”

His face hardens. “Yeah, your daddy told me something about your plan to get another degree. And that’s not happening.”

“I don’t think that’s your decision.” I’m starting to get queasy. Did Pop put him up to this after our “little talk” the other night?

“It is as long as I’m your husband.”

“You’re not my husband.” Just saying that word in reference to him makes me sicker.

“I will be. And it’s going to happen this summer. So get your pretty little head around that fact.”

He reaches for me again, his hand closing around my arm. I’m already a little sore there where his fingers bit into me before, and they bite in again, right into the same spots. I’d threaten to tell Pop he’s hurting me, but the sad part is Pop won’t care. He’d approve, even. Carmine jerks me closer to him, my chest pressing against his. “I don’t think you understand how this works. You’re promised to me. I own you.”

“Not yet.” My voice is shaking a little, and I hate that. Just the implication that he
will
own me someday makes my hands tremble. I want to add “not ever,” but again, I don’t want to make him any angrier.

He laughs, and then he kisses me. His mouth is hard and insistent. I want to bite him. I could say the hard kisses remind me of the way Cain is rough with me, but they don’t. It’s a completely different thing. The kind of dominance Carmine’s trying to assert here is repulsive to me. Cain’s is…something entirely else.

I jerk my head back and barely restrain the urge to slap him. “Take me home.”

“I’m not done with this party.”

“Then I’ll call a cab.”

“Like hell you will.” He jerks me by my hand back against him and bends his head so his mouth is against my ear. “You need to learn to obey. I get my ring on your finger, and you’d best do as you’re told.” He bites my earlobe. “The things I’ll do to you…” The chuckle is as repulsive as everything else about him. “Ah, I can’t wait.”

To my horror, I feel a hot tear slide down my cheek. He sees it and his grin widens. With a thumb, he shoves the drop off my skin. “You’ll be a fun one to break.”

I take a sharp breath; it’s as much as I can manage. “I’m going home.”

“You’re not—”

But I jerk free and start quickly away from him, counting on his not wanting to create a sideshow in the middle of his precious party. The bet pays off, and I make my way outside. There’s a cab waiting—I’m sure somebody else called it, but I get inside anyway and tell the driver to take me home.

#

The front hallway is dark, and for a few minutes I think maybe I’m actually going to be able to make it to my room without seeing anyone.

No such luck. Trying to slip past the living room, I hear Pop’s voice.

“Carmine called. He said you left him at the party. What do you think you’re doing, young lady?”

I stop. I consider just turning my back on him and stalking the rest of the way to my room. Because what the hell kind of way is that to talk to a grown woman? It’s not like I’m sixteen years old and sneaking in after curfew. No, this is bullshit. So I turn and stare him down.

He’s in the living room, pushing out of his favorite chair, where he’s been sitting reading the newspaper. He does not look happy. I toss my head a little and answer him. “I wasn’t feeling well. He didn’t want to leave, so I just caught a cab.”

“That’s no way to treat your future husband.” He folds his hands in front of himself, the paper dangling limply from between two fingers. “You don’t just abandon a man like that.”

I barely manage not to roll my eyes. “He’s a big boy. I’m sure he figured out how to take care of himself.”

He’s silent a moment. Then he speaks again, very slowly. “It’s a matter of respect, Jessica. And I expect you to show respect to your fiancé.”

“He didn’t need me there. And I have a headache, and I just want to go to bed. Is that a problem?” My face has gone hot with rage.

He doesn’t answer my question directly. Instead he shifts his posture, using one arm to gesture toward an empty chair in the living room. “Why don’t you come in and sit down. Let’s have a talk.”

“Pop, I don’t—”

“Come in. Sit.” His tone isn’t sharp, but there’s a look in his eyes that tells me it’s not worth fighting him. I come in and sit, perched carefully on the edge of the chair. He heads back to his chair and sinks into it, dropping the newspaper on the coffee table. “Now. Let’s talk.”

“What about?” I don’t quite meet his eyes. I don’t want to have this conversation. It’s just like conversations we had when I
was
sixteen. It’s infuriating.

“About your attitude.”

If I clench my teeth any harder, I’m going to crack a molar. Then he’ll have to pay for a crown, and won’t that make him happy? “My attitude?”

“I don’t like the way you flout my authority.”

“Your authority?” It’s all I can do to keep my tone even. It’s certainly more than I can manage to contribute anything to the conversation beyond repeating his nonsense.

He leans forward, elbows on knees, fingers steepled. His expression is the epitome of reason and fatherly concern. “You’re living in my house, spending my money. While you’re here, you do what I say.” Leaning back again, he gives me a dark, level look. “Until you get married, you’re my responsibility.”

Your property, you mean.
I don’t say that out loud, but damn, this grates. It’s not like I don’t know this is his attitude. This is just the way things are in this family. The women do what they’re told and the men do what they want. They run the “family business.” That’s not a venture women should dirty their hands with.

“Then maybe I’ll just get married and move out,” I shoot back, but it sounds a little weak even to my ears.

“That’s fine with me. I’ll discuss the details with Carmine.”

My fists clench. “I am not marrying Carmine. Forget it.”

Again, he speaks with careful reason. “I don’t understand this, either, honey. Carmine’s a good guy. We’ve known him since he was a kid. Shit, since he was born. He’s from a good family. He’s been raised right.”

A mob family, he means. And by “raised right,” Pop means Carmine has learned from right at his father’s knee the “proper” way to treat a woman. How to keep her under control. How to make sure she doesn’t know what’s going on. That she’s kept ignorant and controlled and covered in furs so maybe she doesn’t know she’s ignorant and controlled. He demonstrated that all too well tonight.

That’s not me. I won’t do it. I won’t be that. I’d rather live on the street. “I don’t like him.”

“Oh, you’ll learn to like him.” He picks up the paper again. “Your mother learned to like me.”

Did she? I’ve always wondered. Mom had seemed fairly content, but there was no way to tell. She never crossed Pop, never did anything he didn’t approve of. And if she came to breakfast with a purple eye once in a while—carefully disguised with make-up, of course—well, no one ever said anything about it. That was just the way things were.

I decide it’s not worth my time or my energy to argue with him anymore. I stand. “Maybe. May I go?”

He’s already starting to disengage, figuring he’s dispensed all the necessary chastisement. “Yes.” He flicks the paper and gives me another level look. “Don’t plan to go anywhere tomorrow. I need you in the office.”

“Fine.”

I swivel and head for my bedroom. I’m too angry even to cry.

I’ve known since I was about eight that I’m supposed to marry Carmine Romano. There’s never been any question about it. It’s like Medieval England or something. But there’s something dark in Carmine, and he showed me that tonight. Again. He’s never actually raised a hand to me, though he’s come close. I’ve been careful not to give him an excuse.

There’s darkness in Cain, too, but somehow, when I’m with Cain, I feel safe, even though he’s seething with danger. With Carmine, even though he’s safe in the eyes of my family, I feel desperate, like I’ve got my leg in a trap and I’m going to have to chew it off to get away. Cain won’t hurt me—I’m certain of that, but I don’t know why. Carmine? Carmine would backhand me across a room if he felt like I deserved it.

I’m surprised to feel my eyes going hot. I’m crying—not a lot, but my eyes are definitely leaking. I backhand the tears away and sniffle, disgusted with myself. There’s a way out. There has to be. I can’t keep living like this.

Again, that thought drifts across my mind. Cain. Cain could be the answer. He could be the one who gets me out of this hellhole.

Bad idea, Jess. Just let it go.

But I can’t. I just can’t.

CHAPTER THREE

Cain

There are days I wonder why I fight. Days I wonder what gets me into the ring, makes me almost crave the adrenaline, the smell of the sweat and the blood. The pain. Days I think it would be so much easier if I gave it all up and became an accountant or something. Something easy.

This is not one of those days.

Why? Because today I’m supposed to win. And it’s not going to be a cakewalk. If Spada’s scouts misjudged the last opponent as stronger than he was, they misjudged this one in the opposite direction. He’s not nearly as far beneath me as they seem to think he is.

That’s okay. I need to work for it once in a while, if for no other reason than to take my mind off the fucking cesspit that my life has become. To forget that I don’t only
want
to win, but I
have
to. Because if I don’t…