Arranged Mafia Marriage

Karma

I raise my face to the shower. The hot water pours over me, down my back. My side twinges. It’s where he etched something into my skin. To be honest it hadn’t hurt too much-not then, not now… Probably because I have a high pain threshold. Also, because he hadn’t pressed down too hard. It’s more like he had scratched the surface of the skin enough to draw blood. Bet that had made him happy. He probably wanted to see me bleed. After all, I, too, had drawn blood when I had smashed the oar into the side of his head. I wince. Jesus, we really are all wrong for each other. The way we are hell bent on causing each other pain… It’s just plain unhealthy.

I’d tried peeking in the mirror earlier but hadn’t been able to make out what he’d etched into my skin. What could that alphahole have written there? The man who had pretended to be dead just so, what…? So he could surprise me with that crazy back-from-the-dead enactment in church? Jesus Christ, the man has a macabre sense of humor. That particular scene was like something out of a horror flick… Or some gangster flick I saw with Summer, who’s name I can’t quite remember, in which the guy rises from the coffin and proceeds to gun down everything in sight.

Not that Mika had had a gun on him. He didn’t need it. Not as long as he had his knife. The knife I returned to him; the one which, clearly, has sentimental value for him, even though he hasn’t mentioned anything about it to me. The man has more secrets than the Mafia. Oh, wait, he is the Mafia. I shake my head. Seriously, I am losing it.

Seb had driven me here to Michael’s house, making sure to keep his gaze averted most of the way. He’d paused only long enough to guide me up the steps of the house and to what looked like a spare bedroom. He’d told me someone would be along shortly with clean clothes for me. Before leaving, he’d also warned me that I shouldn’t try to escape because the place is guarded.

Question is, do I want to escape? Frankly, right now I am not sure about anything. I had had my chance to be rid of him, and I had come back. I pause in the act of massaging the shampoo into my hair. If I had stayed on with Luca, it was only a matter of time before I could have gone home. But I hadn’t. I’d insisted on returning for Michael’s fake funeral. Had I wanted to make sure that he was really dead? Had I wanted to satisfy myself that he was truly gone? Or had my subconscious known that he was alive? That he’d grab me, and make me his prisoner again? Is that what I wanted? To be reunited with my husband?

I lower my hand, stare at the ring on my left ring finger… The ring I have grown attached to, the one that I am not in any hurry to remove. The one I consider mine. Just as he is. All mine. My capo. My captor. My husband. Shit, I really am a goner. I am half-way into falling for him… Or maybe, I am already in love…or at least, in lust with him. It had taken almost killing him to figure that out. What does that say about me, huh? Guess you have to lose something to find out how much it means to you, eh?

I rinse off my hair, shut off the water, then dry and wrap a terrycloth robe around myself. I step out and glance about the bedroom. It’s smaller than the room I’d had at the villa on the island, but the view is still breathtaking. I walk to the window, glance at the sea that stretches out in front of me. Clearly, the Capo ensures that all of his homes come equipped with the most spectacular scenery.

As soon as I had stepped into this house, I’d known that this was the alphahole Capo’s place. It had to be because his scent had wrapped itself around me like that of a security blanket. I wrap my arms about myself. It’s crazy that, despite how horrible he had been to me at the chapel, I still…trust him? Or maybe trust is too strong a word… Let’s just say that I still sense the connection I have with him. The attraction I feel for him… That mindless lust that I seem to succumb to every time I am near him. And he feels the same. I know it; I can feel it. Can sense it. Had seen the lust in his gaze when he had told me to turn around and drop to my hands and knees. Had heard the heaviness of his tone when he’d instructed me to part my legs for him.

My core clenches. My nipples bead. Shit, all I have to do is think of him and I am already dripping. Also, because that jerk had denied me my orgasm. Honestly, how dare he? If he thinks he can continue to do that to me… Well… No way, am I standing for it. He has to come to me at some point. Unless… he’s fucking someone else? I curl my fingers into fists.

Still, that little encounter in the chapel had confirmed that he wants me. So why had he not escorted me back? Why had he left it to Seb to do so? The Michael I have come to know is so possessive, so primal in his ownership that, no way, would he have allowed anyone else to come near me, let alone hand me over to another man’s care, even if it had been only for a little while. I hunch my shoulders, stare at the horizon…

Unless…what I had done to him, had really broken down the trust-tremulous as it had been-between us completely. Unless he really doesn’t consider me as his wife anymore. No, not possible. He’s not someone who would let go of his possessions. And really, that’s what I am. That’s what I want to be… His property. His plaything. His.

There’s a knock on the door, and I jerk my head around.

A familiar face peeks through the gap between the door and the wall.

“Cassandra?” I exclaim, “OMG!” I pivot, walk over to her as she steps inside the room. I throw my arms around her. “Am I glad to see you, or what?” Okay, maybe I am overdoing the welcome a little bit, but seriously, I am just happy to see a familiar and friendly face. So what, if it’s the alphahole’s housekeeper?

She steps back, and that’s when I notice that she’s carrying clothes, and what looks like a first-aid kit in her arms.

“Are those for me?”

She nods, “The Capo instructed me to tend to your wounds.”

“Did he?”

She nods, “If you take off your bathrobe, I can attend to them.”

I hesitate and she holds out the clothes, “Perhaps you’d be more comfortable wearing a fresh set of clothes first?”

“Whose clothes are they?” I murmur. She opens her mouth to answer and I hold up my hand. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. Either it’s clothes from someone who’s left them behind, or else, he’ll have some dumbass explanation of how he ordered them for me or something. Either way, they aren’t clothes that I stitched, so it’s all the same.”

She hands over the clothes, as well as underwear, complete with tags. So, he bought me fresh underwear, huh? Guess I should be grateful, but honestly, it’s the least he can do for me. Besides, the thought of him buying lingerie for me feels… Intimate and somehow, right. Okay, maybe a little bit creepy, but hell, he is my husband, he knows my size, and yeah, I definitely need clean underwear right now, so I’ll take it.

I accept the clothes from her, murmur my thanks, then walk back into the bathroom to change. Not that I am a prude or anything… But it feels weird just drooping my bathrobe in front of her, you know? Apparently, I have no such qualms when it comes to the Capo. Heat flushes my cheeks. Need to stop thinking about him, seriously. And considering he sent Cassandra to tend to me, he can’t be all that angry with me, right?

I pull on the jeans and the T-shirt. It’s all in my size, and thankfully, neither is pink in color. Or beige. Or cream. Not even the underwear, which is all black. Hallelujah. I pull on the socks, then walk out into the bedroom, where she’s waiting.

“Okay, so while you are applying antiseptic to it, or whatever, can you tell me what it is?” I turn my back to her and pull up my T-shirt.

A gasp fills the air. “What the-!”

I stare at her over my shoulder, “What’s wrong?” I frown at her features. She’s definitely gone pale.

“What is it?” I ask again as she stares at whatever it is that he drew there.

“It’s,” she swallows, “it’s nothing.”

“It’s something.” I scowl, “Go on, you can tell me.”

“No really, it’s just, uh, a scratch.”

“It didn’t seem like a scratch when he drew it onto my skin with his knife.”

She walks over to the bed, “Why don’t you lie down on your front so I can bandage it?”

“Not before you tell me what it says.”

“No,” she shakes her head. “Really, Karma, you should let it go.”

“You do realize that refusing to tell me what he drew on me is only making me even more determined to find out what it is, right?”

I march back inside the bathroom, turn my back to the mirror, then lift my T-shirt, twist around and try to make out what the hell he carved into my skin. I catch sight of the edge of what looks like a letter. Huh, did he write something on me? What could it be? His name, maybe? Perhaps a declaration of his love?

My heart begins to thud in my chest. Maybe he’d done it and then he’d been upset about it, and that’s why he had pushed me away. My capo hates being vulnerable. It’s probably why he had asked Seb to drive me here. He probably needed some time to come to terms with having bared his soul to me. That’s why he had turned away from me and driven away. Yeah, that’s what it is. But why would Cassandra gasp like that?

I arch my neck, trying to sneak a peek. Oh, bloody hell, can’t see a thing yet. My spine protests and my side hurts. I turn back, glare toward where she is hovering at the doorway to the bathroom. “Come, on, Cassandra,” I whine, “you have to tell me what it is.”

“I can’t.”

“If you don’t, I won’t let you clean the wound and bandage it, and then the Capo will be angry with you.”

Her shoulders slump. “Please, Karma,” she says in a low voice, “you are not going to like it.”

“Oh, please,” I swipe my hair over my shoulder, “I am a big girl; I can take it. Besides, I have an inkling what it could be.”

“You do?”

I nod, can’t stop myself from smiling. “Sure, he’s my husband, remember? We already had a fond reunion,” I smirk, “earlier at the chapel. Trust me when I say that it won’t be a surprise for me.”Ccontent © exclusive by Nô/vel(D)ra/ma.Org.

She hesitates.

“Come on, please, Cassandra, please,” I beg.

She blows out a breath, then walks over with the first-aid kit that she places on the counter near the sink.

She begins to roll up the back of my T-shirt and I turn my head, “Well?” I scowl, “Are you going to tell me, or what?”

“Whore,” she mumbles.

“Excuse me?”

“Whore.” She grimaces. “He wrote, whore.”