Waiting for my Queen: A Dark Mafia Romance Page 2

  He’s bending. I sense it. Now isn’t the time to let up. “Do this for your passerotta, and I’ll never ask you for another thing as long as I live.”

  Passerotta. Papà’s special pet name for me, meaning little sparrow. Yes, it may be a dirty trick to use that endearment to persuade him, but I’m desperate.

  “I can’t marry Luca.” I won’t.

  My father sighs. “All right. I will make Marco an offer, passerotta.”

  Relief pulsates through my body with each beat of my heart. “Thank you, Papà. I will never forget this.”

  This is going to work. I have a very good feeling about it. Because love has a beautiful way of making you believe that everything is going to be okay.

  And if it doesn’t work, Nic and I can run away and elope. Marco and Luca Rossini won’t be able to do a damn thing about that.

  No one can.

  2

  Luca Rossini

  “This has been a long time coming. Two decades in the making. I’m only sorry that our fathers aren’t here to see the fruit of the partnership we forged all those years ago.” My father holds up his whiskey glass. “To the marriage of my son Luca and your daughter Emilia.”

  Turning up my glass, I gulp the warm amber liquid. It’s high quality, and I’m guessing that Alessandro probably opened his finest bottle. As he should. This is an occasion to be celebrated.

  The burn of the whiskey on the way down isn’t sufficient to keep me from noticing what’s happening over the rim of my glass.

  Alessandro Bellini isn’t toasting with us. And that is concerning.

  “Things have changed since we last spoke about the betrothal between Luca and Emilia.”

  Things have changed. I don’t care for statements like that. I like plans to go as intended because change causes chaos. Chaos results in panic. And panic leads to shit going sideways.

  “When you say things have changed, I hope you mean that Emilia is now eager to take her place as my wife.”

  “I’m afraid not.” Alessandro Bellini’s eyes leave mine and focus on my father’s. “I’d like to discuss other options. Offer an alternative plan.”

  “Don’t disrespect me by looking at my father. Look into the eyes of the man with whom you’re dealing.”

  Bellini continues looking at my father. “The agreement was between our fathers, which has passed to us, but I’ll negotiate with Luca if that’s your wish.”

  I’m twenty-five fucking years old. I’m not a child.

  “My son is a man, and Emilia is to be his wife. You should speak with him concerning his marriage to your daughter.”

  My fist clenches so tightly that the tips of my fingernails dig into the fleshy area of my palm. “There will be no negotiation. I want my bride, and I intend on having her this time.”

  She should have been mine three years ago, but I granted Alessandro’s request to let her stay with her family a little longer. I wanted to please my father-in-law-to-be. And Emilia.

  “Hear me out, Luca. I believe you’ll find my offer to be more appealing than having Emilia as your wife.”

  I doubt it, but I’ll hear him out. “I’m listening.”

  Bellini pleads his case, and his offer is generous. He wants to gift me three separate properties, each turning a million-dollar profit a year, as a trade for dissolving my betrothal to his daughter. The topping on the bountiful proposal is that I’ll have the right to marry a woman of my choice.

  But holdings aren’t the only thing I’m after. Bellini should know that.

  “Why is Emilia opposed to marrying me?”

  “She’s in love with someone else.”

  My father’s grunt is laced with laughter. “She’s a silly girl who fancies herself in love. She probably falls in love with someone different every week. It’s what girls do, Alessandro. You know this.”

  “Emilia isn’t a typical silly girl. Her thought process is very methodical. She’s serious about her love for Nicolò, as is he about his love for her.”

  “Nicolò Moretti? Paolo Moretti’s boy?”

  “Yes.”

  “She means to marry the son of a soldier over the son of a boss who will inherit a powerful empire?” My father chuckles. “She isn’t a methodical thinker. Your girl is a little fool.”

  A little fool who, I’m certain, has tainted herself by whoring around with a man who will never be more than a soldier. A nobody.

  “My daughter is not a fool, but if that’s the impression you have of her, then I would expect you to be more than happy to dissolve the betrothal.”

  “She was promised to me. To dissolve our betrothal so easily would send the wrong kind of message to our adversaries. We would appear weak. But also, I’m not one for giving up what belongs to me. Even if she is a whore.”

  Bellini’s eyes widen. “You dare to call my daughter a whore? Insult her in my own home?” He turns and looks at my father. “This is the way you’ve taught your son to deal with the head of another family?”

  My father narrows his eyes at me.

  “My son chose his words foolishly. He lashed out because he’s angry, Alessandro. Surely you can see why.”

  “I understand your disappointment, but my offer is generous. More than generous and we both know it.”

  “I would never argue that three million a year isn’t generous, but holdings won’t give me sons.”

  “Another woman can give you children.”

  Another woman can’t give me sons who are half Bellini.

  If Emilia had upheld her part of the deal and married me when she was supposed to the first time, we would already have a child by now. Maybe even a second one.

  Alessandro believes he can withdraw his agreement and substitute it with a few holdings and the promise of another woman? Emilia Bellini believes she can turn her back on our marriage? Both are wrong, but I choose to let them find that out the hard way.

  “I accept your offer.”

  I’m not sure who looks more surprised, Alessandro or my father.

  “Luca? What are you doing?” my father says.

  “Emilia and Nicolò are in love. They want to be together and they should be. Who am I to stand in the way of true love?”

  “Luca. You’ll be relinquishing your Bellini bride. Half of your children’s inheritance. I think you should step away and think about the repercussions before you make a rash decision.”

  “There’s nothing to think about. My decision is made.”

  We stand and Alessandro offers his hand. “I’m truly sorry this didn’t work out. I thank you for your compromise, and your kind gesture won’t soon be forgotten.”

  To compromise is to show weakness. I haven’t compromised. I’ve reevaluated and decided upon a plan that better suits me and my ambitions.

  “One day when you have a daughter of your own, you’ll understand why I had to do this for Emilia.”

  My children won’t whine and convince me to bend to their wills. They will know who rules our home, and they will marry who I say they marry.

  My father’s voice is low when we leave the Bellini mansion. “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done. What you’ve just lost?”

  “I have a plan. I’ll explain everything after we’re in the car.”

  “You have no idea what the fuck you’ve just done,” he says.

  My father is a wise man, but he has tunnel vision. Everything he does must be done according to “the old ways.” He fails to see opportunities when they are right in front of his face.

  “I’ve lost nothing and gained everything.”

  “No. You just walked away from multimillions and settled for a measly three per year.”

  Does he really believe that I’d leave a fortune like the Bellini family’s on the table and walk away?

  “The three holdings Alessandro offered to gift me are nothing compared to what I have in mind.”

  “That show you just put on was part of a bigger plan?”

  “Not just a bigger p
lan. It’s the master of all plans.”

  I’m going to be king of everything.

  Including Emilia Bellini.

  3

  Emilia Bellini

  Aunt Connie finishes curling my hair and presses the comb of my veil against the back of my head. “Here?”

  “Higher I think.”

  She adjusts the placement and assesses me in the mirror. “Closer to the crown of your head like this?”

  “Yes, I think so. What do you think, Mamma?”

  My mother stands behind us and studies the positioning of my veil. “I think it’s perfect.”

  My cousin Mara holds out a glass of bubbly for me. “Here. This’ll help calm your nerves.”

  I take the offered glass and tilt my head back, sipping carefully so I won’t mess up my lipstick.

  “I’m not nervous.”

  Why should I be? I’m marrying my best friend today and with my family’s blessing. Hands down, this is the happiest day of my life. And there are going to be so many more happy days to come with Nic.

  Anniversaries. Babies. Lots of babies.

  And our escape.

  Nicolò Moretti. My best friend. My lover. My husband. My future children’s father. My hero. The man who is going to take me far, far away from here and this Mafia life.

  “Come on, Em. Every bride is nervous on her wedding day,” my cousin Natala says.

  “Not me.” I expected to be, but it’s the opposite. I’m very much at ease about marrying Nic today. Because it feels right. Because it is right. We’re perfect together. Of that, I have no doubt.

  A wicked grin spreads across the face of my youngest sister, Isabella, and she giggles, sounding like the twelve-year-old child that she is. “What about later? Are you nervous about your wedding night?”

  My sister Micaela snorts. “Good Lord, Isabella. Don’t be so naïve.”

  “I’m not naïve. I happen to know that the first time hurts,” she says, grinning and looking so proud of herself for having that kind of knowledge.

  “You can be such a child sometimes.” Micaela rolls her eyes. “Em isn’t nervous about tonight because it won’t be their first time.”

  “Micaela,” my mother warns.

  “Come on, Mamma. We all know that Em has kept Father Michael’s confessional booth hot since she and Nicolò got engaged.”

  Micaela isn’t wrong. I’ve had to visit Father Michael on a routine basis since Nic asked me to marry him.

  “Tell us, Em. How long have you and Nic been doing it?” Micaela asks.

  I’m not discussing something so personal in front of an audience, and especially not in front of my grandmother. “Can we please change the subject?”

  Isabella giggles and adds, “I bet Father Michael knows.”

  I love my three sisters, but I’d like to strangle the two youngest ones right now.

  “Girls, not another word about this nonsense. This is your sister’s special day.”

  Today is a special day indeed. But in some distant part of my mind, I’m ready to have this day over and done. I’m eager to breathe easy tonight because everything went well.

  With hair and makeup complete, my sister Gemma plucks my dress from where it hangs. “Time for the most important part.”

  Yes, the dress is important, and I love the one I chose. But for me, Nic is the most important part of today. That’s something my sister doesn’t understand yet because she’s never been in love. It’s still all about the wedding in her mind. But she’ll understand one day. Hopefully. I pray that my sisters will have the same good fortune as me: to marry for love.

  A tulle, lace, and pearl veil flowing from the crown of my head.

  Seven pounds of lace and satin swathing my body.

  Three-inch pumps on my feet.

  Mamma stands behind me, and together we look at my image in the mirror. “You are a beautiful bride, Emilia.”

  “Thank you, Mamma.”

  My grandmother, Caterina, who’s been silent until now, gets up and comes to me. Opening a pink velvet box containing a strand of pearls, she says, “Your great-grandmother wore these when she married Salvatore. I wore them when I married Franco. Your mother wore them when she married Alessandro. And you’ll wear them when you marry Nicolò.”

  “These are beautiful, Nonna, and I’m honored to wear them.”

  Bending at my knees, I lower myself so my petite grandmother who barely stands five feet in heels can fasten the strand around my neck.

  “Bellissima.”

  “Thank you, Nonna.”

  Bang.

  POW. POW. POW.

  The nine of us drop to the floor with hands covering our heads, just as we’ve been taught. Every shred of excitement I felt today is now gone, morphed into sheer terror.

  No. This can’t be happening. Not today.

  Luca Rossini and his men coming here to kidnap me on my wedding day—that’s the nightmare I’ve been having every night since my betrothal to him was broken. And it always begins the same in my dreams: shots downstairs while we’re upstairs getting ready for the wedding.

  “They’ve come for me, Mamma. The Rossinis. They’re here.”

  “Don’t be afraid. Your father left plenty of men here to protect us. We’re safe.”

  We wait silently, listening for more shots. None come.

  “What do you think could be happening down there?” Isabella asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  Micaela lifts her face from the floor. “Do you think it’s safe to get up?”

  Mamma sits up a moment and listens. “I think the situation must have been defused since there have been no more shots.”

  Isabella bolts to her feet. “Let me help you up, Nonna.”

  Gemma and Micaela see me floundering on the floor in my wedding dress and grab me beneath my arms, helping me stand.

  One creak. Two. A third and then a fourth.

  Isabella’s eyes widen. “Someone’s coming up the stairs,” she whispers.

  My heart pounds so hard that I’m certain it will crack the bones containing it. Because we’re trapped. We have nowhere to run.

  Correction. I’m trapped. I have nowhere to run.

  My mother’s name follows a few taps on the door, and my body relaxes when I recognize the voice.

  “Bono?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What in the world has hap—” Mamma swings open the door but stops midsentence and gasps.

  I take a single step to the right so I can see Bono, and I too gasp when I see his blood-soaked shirt.

  “Are you shot?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Obviously someone was. Who’s injured?”

  Bono stares at my mother for a moment. “I don’t know how to tell you this.”

  Nonna goes to the door. “Just say it, boy. You know that’s how it’s done.”

  He shakes his head. “They’re all dead.”

  “Who’s dead?”

  Bono stares at my mother for at least three heartbeats. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Bellini.”

  “Tell me now, Bono. Who’s dead?”

  “All of the men except the ones who were here with you.”

  “Names. I need names,” my mother screeches.

  “Alessandro and Giovanni.”

  A sharp inhale of air catches in my mother’s throat, and her knees fail, forcing Bono to catch her limp body as she goes down. “No. Not Alessandro! Not my sweet boy, Giovanni!”

  Bono searches the room and makes eye contact with Nonna. “Ricci, Emeril, the boys.”

  “My sons and grandsons are dead?” Nonna asks.

  “All of them.”

  I wait for it, knowing that Bono is going to look for me in the room next. And then our eyes meet. “Nicolò and Paolo.”

  Despite blinking rapidly, all I see is darkness. The wails I hear from the women surrounding me confirm that I haven’t completely blacked out. At least not yet.

  I’m hot. So damn hot. But my fa
ce feels ice cold. As does my heart.

  One of my sisters, I’m not sure which one, catches my arm and cushions my fall as I collapse to the floor.

  My father.

  My little brother.

  My beloved Nic.

  Nic’s father, Paolo.

  My uncles.

  My cousins.

  My father’s most loyal men.

  DEAD.

  All dead.

  “Dammmn them. Damn every last one of them to hell,” Mamma wails.

  Them. The Rossinis. They did this. They did this because of me.

  The Bellini and Moretti men are dead because of me.

  4

  Luca Rossini

  Sofia Bellini is sitting on her living room sofa. Her face is stoic, her back stiff as a board as we approach. Although customary, she doesn’t make a move to stand and receive us into her home.

  It’s been a month since the wedding day massacre, and she’s still dressed in black from head to toe. A little dramatic. And pathetic.

  She lifts her black veil, and I’m pleasantly surprised when I see her face. She’s still a lovely woman at her age, hopefully a predictor of how her daughter will be lucky in her looks now and years down the road. I don’t want an ugly wife. But this isn’t about good looks. Taking possession of the Bellini assets trumps Emilia Bellini’s outward appearance.

  Sofia Bellini holds out her hand, and my father kisses the ring on her finger, the ring worn by her husband while he was the reigning Mafia king. The ring that would have passed to their son Giovanni had he lived to adulthood.

  “Thank you for having us in your home,” my father says.

  Her face is expressionless because she is a woman who has learned to disguise her fear and anger and pain. She looks calm on the exterior, but I’m certain that inside her mind, she has killed us at least twenty different ways since we walked into this room, none of them mercifully.

  I kiss the ring on Sofia’s finger. A formality. A formality that ends today.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Bellini.”

  Sofia pulls her hand away and places it on her lap, saying nothing. I recognize the catty act for what it is—respectfully disrespecting me.