Salvatore: a Dark Mafia Romance (11 page)

G
rowing up
, I’d loved coming to the house in the Adirondacks, but that felt like a hundred years ago. Now, as we neared the property, Lucia sat beside me in the car, everything about her tense. She looked beautiful in the cream-colored dress I’d chosen, her auburn hair piled high on her head, dark eye makeup accenting the almond shape of her whiskey-colored eyes.

I touched her knee as we pulled up to the security gate.

She startled.

“You’ll be fine. I’ll stay with you.”

She nodded, but the tension kept rolling off her.

I hated this. Knew as I waved to the guard and pulled around back to the garage that she was here to be shown around, shown off, a token of my father’s—of my family’s—triumph. I also knew my father had not forgotten what she’d done at the funeral. He would punish her for it, and I had a feeling he’d do it tonight.

I just needed to keep her reined in nice and tight. After parking the car, I climbed out and met Lucia on her side.

“I feel sick.”

I slid her hand inside mine and squeezed. “You’ll be fine. Just breathe.”

We were barely inside the front door when a woman’s voice called out my name. It was Dalia, Roman’s wife.

“Salvatore. There you are. I wasn’t sure I’d see you tonight.”

She leaned in, and I kissed her on both cheeks, as expected.

“Dalia,” I said. I never called her Aunt Dalia. It didn’t fit, not when she was only two years older than me. My uncle liked younger women.

She turned eager eyes to Lucia, who stood stiff beside me.

I introduced them. “Lucia, this is Dalia, my uncle Roman’s wife. You’ve…met him.” Shit. She’d met him five years ago on the day she’d signed the contract.

Luckily, she didn’t register and only gave a faint shake of her head.

“Lucia
DeMarco
, isn’t that right?”

Dalia could be a bitch but it only seemed to strengthen Lucia.

“Yes, that’s right. Lucia DeMarco,” she annunciated her last name slowly, standing up taller, her smile conquering, telling anyone who dared question that she would not be a victim.

I respected her for that, but it also made me worry. If my father saw her weak, if he thought she’d been broken, at least a little, he might lay off.

Dalia clearly wasn’t expecting Lucia’s response. “Well, lovely to meet you,” she managed before excusing herself.

“Be careful,” I whispered to Lucia. She gave me a cocky raising of the eyebrows.

“What do you mean? I was simply confirming that she was right.”

“Don’t make waves, Lucia. Once this night is over, you won’t have to see these people again.”

“Fuck these people.”

I squeezed her hand hard.

“Ow!”

My father’s guests turned to us as we moved through the room, not one even trying to hide their interest in Lucia. I let go of her hand to grab two glasses of champagne from a passing server.

“Drink,” I said, handing it to her.

She took it and swallowed a big gulp.

“We need to see my father. He’s waiting for us, I’m sure.”

She downed the glass.

“Be good. Do not antagonize him. Remember what we talked about.”

“Fine.”

My father stood at the end of the room beside the fireplace. I knew he’d seen us, but he didn’t let on and remained in a relaxed conversation with Roman and two other guests. But before we reached him, Dominic stepped into our path, his eyes hungrily sweeping over Lucia, making me wrap a hand around the back of her neck.

She was mine.

“Dominic,” I said.

He dragged his eyes away from Lucia, the glimmer of fun disappearing the moment they met mine.

“Salvatore.” He turned to Lucia again. “I don’t think I’ve formally met the beautiful Lucia DeMarco.”

Lucia shrunk into my hold. Dominic held out his hand to shake hers. It took her a moment, but she extended hers.

“Dominic,” Lucia said.

I don’t know why but I liked the fact that she didn’t say it was nice to meet him.

“Dad’s waiting for you. He’s peeved you’re late.”

He took a sip of his beer, his eyes still on Lucia, who looked around the room, defiantly meeting the eye of every man and woman who glanced her way.

“Is he? Better not keep him waiting any longer, then. Excuse us.” I made a point of knocking my shoulder against his and guided Lucia toward my father, who now watched our approach. His gaze, like Dominic’s, traveled the length of her. It made my skin crawl.

I leaned down to whisper a reminder in Lucia’s ear. “Behave.”

She didn’t reply but kept her eyes locked on my father’s.

“Well, well,” Franco Benedetti started, checking his watch. “Glad you could make time for us, Salvatore.”

“Traffic,” I lied, hating how whenever I was around him, I felt like a kid again, that eager–to-please child who never could. He didn’t reply to my lie but turned to Lucia, appraising her dress.

“So nice to see so much more of you today than at the funeral,” he said to her.

Her hands fisted at her sides, and I squeezed her neck in warning. Even though she tried to hide it, I knew she feared my father. It was just that her hatred of him overrode that fear.

“Another year of your life over,” Lucia said, looking at the server who’d just appeared with a fresh tray of champagne. “I’ll drink to that.”

My father fumed. I stood uncomfortably by her side, wanting to shake her. To ask her what part of
behave
she didn’t understand.

I heard Dominic’s chuckle behind me. Roman placed a hand on my father’s shoulder.

“Well, since my son has finally graced us with his presence, let’s have dinner.”

My fingers tight around the back of Lucia’s neck, I held her while my father disappeared into the dining room. I took her into a corner of the hallway and turned her to face me, held her by the arms, and shook her once.

“If you don’t want me to take my belt to your ass here and now, shut the fuck up, understand? Do
not
goad him. He is not a man for you to fuck with. He
will
retaliate.”

“You’re hurting me.”

I looked at my hands wrapped so tight around her arms my knuckles had gone white. I released her, turned away, and ran a hand through my hair. I plastered on a fake smile when someone passed by.

“Why does he have power over you? Why do you care what he thinks?” she asked.

I spun around to face her, making her stumble backward. “Not here. Not now. Just keep your mouth shut. Am I clear?” I squeezed that last words out, desperate. We just needed to survive this dinner. She could go to our room, then, and we could leave early the following morning. But how many nights like this would we have to survive? And what would happen if she didn’t do as I said, and she did goad him into action? What would he do?

Take her from me.

Take my place from me.

Give it all to Dominic.

She had no idea what she was doing.

“Let’s go,” I said.

Her gaze stabbed me, as if by forcing her in there, I was betraying her. In a way, I was. Because I was a coward, I was. But this was the only way.

Twenty-eight sets of eyes turned to us as we entered the dining room, my father’s flat gaze locked on Lucia who, for once, didn’t challenge him with her own. Instead, she kept her eyes on the intricate patterns of the fresco on the far wall, probably wishing she could disappear into it.

Alice in Wonderland. My mother had loved the story, and my father had surprised her with the fresco. Tenderness was not a trait I associated with my father, but he’d felt it. For her, at least. It was almost as though I never knew that version of Franco Benedetti, though, and in a way, it was sad.

My father pulled out the chair beside him. “Lucia.”

Fuck. The only other empty seat stood at the foot of the table, as far from her as physically possible.

Lucia’s footsteps dragged, and I had to nudge her forward. As the guests watched, I sat her down between my father and Dominic and, hands fisted, I walked to the empty chair and took it. Lucia’s eyes met mine, and I burned my warnings in the look that passed between us, knowing she’d heed none of them.

Servers began to pour wine, and conversation flowed. I watched the lecherous eyes of both my brother and father consume her. She remained between them, eyes on her plate, her face tense as she pulled her arms tighter to herself. I’d come to know those little things she did, small physical movements she may not have been aware of herself, to protect herself. To hide away. Perhaps willing herself to disappear.

I felt powerless as course after course was served. I ate a few bites from each plate, forcing myself to join in the conversation or at least smile and pretend to be listening, but all I could do was watch her. She refused to eat a bite of food but drank glass after glass of wine and, after a glare in my direction, finally turned her attention to Dominic. He gave me a grin and brushed his fingertips over her shoulder.

I fumed, nearly breaking the stem of the wineglass I held. Clearing my throat, I stood and, with my knife clinking against the crystal of the glass, called everyone’s attention.

“A toast.”

Everyone picked up their glasses. Everyone except Lucia.

“To my father on his birthday.”

We waited, the room silent as my father watched her, his fury visibly increasing. I willed her to pick up her glass, to take one last fucking sip, before I could excuse us and take her away, but she wouldn’t do it. She was too stubborn to save her own damn neck.

“Happy birthday,” I said, hoping to draw attention back to me. “And many more, father.”

Everyone joined in, wishing him many more, and, after a moment, my father turned to me, acknowledged my toast with a raising of his glass, and drank, our gazes locked, his angry, dark, and foreboding.

He stood. The guests put knives and forks down and wiped their mouths, rising too. Lucia remained as she was. At least she knew to remain seated. As if the guests understood, they cleared the dining room quietly so only my father, brother, Lucia, and I remained. A server closed the doors.

“Punish her,” he said, spitting the words. “Make it good, or I’ll do it for you.”

A grin played along Dominic’s lips. I nodded once. Dominic and my father left the dining room. I looked at Lucia sitting there, her face insolent, her eyes the only part of her betraying her fear.

I took my jacket off and hung it over the back of a chair, then loosened my tie, unbuttoning the top buttons of my dress shirt before it choked me. All the while, my eyes remained locked on hers. I walked toward her, rolling my right shirt sleeve up as I went. I wondered if she knew what was coming, what had to happen now. Why the room adjacent to ours became suddenly so quiet, as if there wasn’t an audience just beyond the doors to bear witness.

I reached for the buckle of my belt and undid it.

That was when she understood. She made to rise, but I was too close and caught her halfway up.

“Make this easy on yourself,” I whispered, wondering if those in the other room heard the swoosh of my belt as I yanked it from its loops, pulled her up out of her chair, and pushed her to bend over the table that had yet to be wiped down.

“Salvatore,” she began.

“Quiet.” I shoved her dress up to her waist. She struggled, but I held her flat and pushed her panties down so they slipped from her hips and pooled around her ankles. “Count yourself lucky that he closed the doors.”

“You can’t mean to…”

I gripped a handful of her hair and leaned down close to her ear. “One fucking sip. You could have been drinking to his death for all I cared, but you couldn’t do it. Now, you pay.”

I straightened, keeping one hand on the flat of her back while I swung with the other, the sound of leather striking flesh coming instantaneously with the sharp intake of her breath.

“He’ll require more than that,” I said, lashing her again. “And forgive me, but so will I.”

I whipped her hard, knowing I had to, wanting to beat her for her stupidity, her inability to keep one fucking promise. Knowing if I didn’t, he would. Or, worse, he’d let Dominic do it while I watched.

It took nearly thirty strokes, her screams becoming hoarse as she wept, lashing my heart as I lashed her flesh, hating myself, hating her for making me do this. Hating him, hating my father for his power over me. For the power I allowed him to have.

I only stopped when the quiet on the other side of the door grew into a soft murmur and the sound of silverware on dishes told me cake had been served. The vultures had been sated or perhaps had grown bored. I hated them all, but hated myself most of all.

When I lifted my hand from her back, she remained as she was, bent over the table, her dress hiked up to her waist, her ass bare. I adjusted the crotch of my pants before sliding the belt through the loops and buckling it. Red welts crisscrossed her ass and thighs, and when I placed the flat of a palm over her hip, heat throbbed against my hand.

I squeezed.

She mewled.

I picked up her panties and pocketed them before lifting her to stand. The skirt of her dress dropped to her ankles, covering her. I turned her to face me and held her tight to me as she wept into my chest, fists pounding against me. Hiccups interrupted her sobs, and I lifted her into my arms and, ignoring the stares of the waitstaff as I carried her up to our room from the server’s stairs, I locked the bedroom door behind us. I sat on the bed, cradling her in my lap, refusing to let her go even as she fought me.

“I warned you.”

She pounded her fists into my chest, trying to free herself, tears streaking her face black with mascara.

“You liked it!” she screamed as the evidence of my arousal stabbed her hip.

“I didn’t like hurting you.”

“You’re hard, you prick! You liked it just fine!”

“I can’t deny the fact I’m aroused.” One corner of my mouth quirked upward. “But you deserved that one.”

“I hate you!” She clawed her fingernails down the side of my face.

I flipped her onto the bed, gripped her wrists and spread them wide, straddling her hips. “I fucking warned you. You have only yourself to blame!”