2. Gemma
Chapter 2
Gemma
I was firmly convinced that the DMV resided in the ninth circle of Hell.
Where else did you go to be tortured like this, waiting for hours on end while the numbers on an electronic screen moved at a snail’s pace until they finally landed on the one associated with your paper ticket? Would the world stop if— gasp —they ever decided to take appointment times like a regular business?
Even though I’d gotten here not long after they opened, it didn’t feel like I was any closer to being called to a counter. At this rate, I was going to be late for my shift, opening the bar for the lunch crowd. The last thing I needed was to have my hours cut because I wasn’t the dependable employee my manager had come to expect.
But I didn’t have a choice. Today was the last day before my Illinois driver’s license expired, and I needed a new one from the great state of Indiana.
I’d moved to Indy from Chicago with a considerable nest egg, intent on breaking free of my family. Getting a little breathing room and being able to start all over again in a place where no one knew me was refreshing.
I bought a cute little townhouse in a quiet suburb where the neighbors weren’t afraid of knocking on my door to welcome me to the community. I got a job on my own merit. Sure, it was tending bar, but for the first time in my life, I was no longer dependent on my brother, my male cousins, or my uncle for anything. Hell, I even had an herb garden.
It was all so fucking normal, and I loved it.
There weren’t armed guards tracking my every move or chauffeuring me around. There weren’t rival families looking for ways to exploit weaknesses or trying to get even for perceived slights against them. There weren’t skeevy old men hoping my daddy would grant them the honor of my hand in marriage so they could form an alliance with the Bellinis.
But then I met Joey. And everything went to shit after that.
I hadn’t dated much. My father had been intent on selling my virginity to the highest bidder and kept me locked up tight throughout my youth. An untouched bride was worth more and would bring in the best offers. Which was why the second I got a chance, I didn’t hesitate to hop into the backseat of a shitty little sedan and grit my teeth through the pain as some guy whose name I didn’t even remember shoved his dick inside me.
If I closed my eyes, I could still see my father’s face turning purple in rage when I’d hiked up my skirt enough to show the streak of crimson lining my thigh. But that was nothing compared to the memory of the backhand I’d received as a result of purposely defying him.
It had been worth it, though. The steady stream of offers dwindled when word got out that Dario Bellini’s daughter was no longer as pure as the driven snow.
I had spent a lifetime trying to find ways of protecting myself from the life I’d been born into. As the only girl in a family that valued male heirs, my existence became a bargaining chip in their quest for power.
A shudder rolled down my spine, thinking of how well that had ended for my cousins’ wives. But their misfortune was what I’d used to convince my brother to pitch my case for freedom. I refused to become another casualty of war.
Not long after I’d gotten myself settled in Indianapolis, a good-looking guy with a charming grin parked himself at the bar where I’d been mixing drinks for customers. Dressed down in jeans and a T-shirt, he’d chatted me up all night, telling jokes and stories aimed at making me laugh, going so far as to say he loved hearing the sound of it. Truth be told, there hadn’t been much to laugh about until I had broken free of my life in Chicago, and it felt good to let loose.
Joey was such a departure from the men I’d known growing up. He didn’t talk down to me like I was a second-class citizen simply because I’d had the bad luck to be born with a vagina rather than a dick. But the nail in my coffin had been when his heated gaze roved over my not-so-tiny body and his Adam’s apple bobbed on a swallow before he told me I had the most luscious curves he’d ever seen.
Putting on weight had been a defense mechanism, the same as losing my virginity. Fat mafia princesses were in even less demand, family name be damned.
So to have a man openly express his appreciation—the lust in his eyes belying the truth of his words—was intoxicating.
Three months later, he was as charming as ever, practically living at my place. But I was starting to pick up on subtle cues that something was off. There was an uneasiness when I asked about his work; he’d avoid the question, directing the conversation back to me. And after hearing so much about his incredibly close extended family, he’d never once invited me to meet them.
Dark thoughts began to creep in that maybe he was embarrassed to be with me. Or worse yet, I wasn’t the only girl he was seeing.
But I’d brushed it off, convincing myself that I was being paranoid. He’d given me no reason to distrust him, and I chalked it up to my past leaking into my present. I was starting fresh and decided that Joey deserved the benefit of the doubt.
That was, until I woke up in the middle of the night to noises on the first floor, a few weeks later. Grabbing my gun from the safe—the first thing I secured the minute I was out of my father’s reach—I rushed downstairs only to find Joey digging through a cupboard in the kitchen.
When I asked what he was doing, he banged his head on a shelf, cursing before whipping around with wide eyes. His gaze landed on the gun in my hand, and for a split second, I saw the mask slip. The Joey I knew would have been appalled to discover I owned such a weapon. But the one staring back at me eyed the sleek black metal with a hungry gaze like he was calculating how to get his hands on it.
He was quick to school his features, selling me some story about how he came downstairs for a late-night snack and offering me a glass of water. Wary, but not wanting him to realize I was becoming suspicious, I threw on a smile and gratefully accepted the thoughtful gesture. It took everything in my power not to view him with a critical eye as I let the cool liquid slide down my throat. When I went to wash the glass, Joey took it from my hands, telling me he would take care of it for me and to go back to bed; he’d be right behind me.
That one glass of water led to me uncovering the depth of his deception.
The very next day, I got home from work and went to deposit my tips into my safe. Cash was king—especially if you were forced to run—but I didn’t like leaving large sums of it lying around, so I always locked it up along with my gun.
I pressed my fingertips against the scanning mechanism, the gears worked as it unlocked, and the heavy door swung open. My heart stopped beating when I saw the entire thing was empty. Not only was all my money gone, but so was my gun.
Panic stole over me, and I stumbled back onto my ass inside my closet, trying desperately to breathe. A lifetime of shady family dealings had me figuring out what happened in record time. Joey had lifted my prints off the glass from the night before and used them to unlock my safe.
That motherfucker had stolen from the wrong girl.
It took every ounce of my self-restraint not to choke the life out of Joey when he’d waltzed in the door later that evening like nothing was wrong. I threw on a smile and made him dinner. I tried not to vomit when he put the moves on me and suggested we have sex. I gave him the vocal performance of a lifetime as he grunted on top of me, making him believe that he was a sex god and no one could ever please me like he did—spoiler alert: I wasn’t a huge fan of sex in general and had never particularly enjoyed it.
In the morning, I pretended to be asleep when he got up for work. The minute the front door latched, I was moving. Throwing on clothes and shoes in record time, I peeked through the bedroom window, watching as he pulled out of the driveway. Rushing down the stairs, I jumped into my car and followed, mindful of keeping enough distance so he wouldn’t notice.
Confusion edged out my anger when he stopped at a local high school. But then I watched him get out of his truck, a backpack slung over one shoulder, as he approached a group of teens hanging out near a shaded alcove on campus. Squinting, I saw the exchange happen—a tiny baggy of white powder for a wad of cash.
And I saw red.
I wasn’t about to sit there and pretend like my family wasn’t into some shady illegal shit—because they sure as hell were—but drugs were where I’d always drawn the line. Drugs ruined lives, ruined families, and I wouldn’t stand for it.
The day Uncle Dominic died, I sat down with my brother, Enzo, and my two cousins, Matteo and Gio, and told them if they ever decided to venture into drug distribution now that they were running the show, I would flip on them so fast their heads would spin. They’d be locked up for life if I had anything to say about it, family or not.
Joey might not be those three men I was related to, but I was about to make good on that promise.
Pulling out my cell, I’d dialed the local police department, tipping them off that there was a man selling drugs to kids. I gave them the exact location, Joey’s name and physical description, as well as an account of how I’d discovered he had broken into my safe and stolen my very legally registered handgun. If he was going to be arrested and found with my weapon, I was going to ensure I didn’t go down with him.
Thankfully, a patrol car was nearby, and within minutes, I had the pleasure of watching Joey being cuffed and thrown into the back of a police cruiser.
The irony was not lost on me that in trying to escape the life of crime I’d been born into, the first guy to pique my interest since leaving all that behind was just like the ones I’d grown up with. Only, he wasn’t the big man in charge of organizing the entire operation. No, he was nothing more than a low-level grunt pushing drugs to kids.
Fucking pathetic.
But the best part of it all? When that asshole had the fucking nerve to call me up from jail, begging me to bail him out, selling some story about how it was all a big misunderstanding, I got to tell him that I hoped he became someone’s bitch on the inside. Because that’s what he deserved.
The stunned silence on the other end of the line had been extremely satisfying. That was, until I realized I was fucking broke because he’d taken all the cash I had been stashing for months.
So now, I was working my ass off, just trying to pay my mortgage and surviving on my shift meal at the bar, which was why I couldn’t afford to be late or miss my shift today. Any reduction in hours—while I dug out of the financial hole Joey had thrown me into—could be the difference in keeping the lights on this month.
I didn’t need to look down at the paper ticket in my hand; the number seventy-three printed on it had been memorized hours ago. Eyeing the electronic board, it had been stuck at seventy-two for what felt like an eternity.
Cautiously optimistic, I pulled out my cell and texted Benny, my manager. Told him I would be there soon, offering anything short of sexual favors if he didn’t cut my hours because I was late this one time. His reply was instant, letting me know I would be cleaning the bathrooms for the foreseeable future and that I would owe Rachel half my tips for the rest of the day because she’d have to cover my ass. It was a small price to pay if it meant I could keep my hours, so I heaved a sigh of relief.
That damn seventy-two was still taunting me, and the longer I stared at those red digital numbers, the more I feared they’d be burned into my retinas.
Blinking, I tore my gaze away, deciding it was like a watched pot. If I stopped watching, maybe the numbers would change, and it would finally be my turn.
A girl could hope.
Training my eyes on the glass door entry to the DMV, people-watching became my new method of passing the time. It was almost cathartic, watching as they entered, optimism reflected in their expressions, until they pulled that paper ticket, checked the screen, and realized that hope didn’t belong here—that this place would suck the life right out of them if given enough time.
The glass door opened once again, and the first thing I noticed was that the man had to duck to enter. At five-eleven myself, I was used to being at eye level with most men, and I couldn’t help but wonder what it might be like to crane my neck to meet his gaze.
The next thing I noticed was his hair. Sandy-blond, it hung down around his face, reaching the level of his chiseled jaw. It was far too long for any self-respecting man. My nose wrinkled at the idea of him tying it up into one of those despicable man buns.
My perusal continued, noting the muscles bunching with each step he took. The hard ridges were barely concealed beneath a tight-fitting T-shirt and jeans. Tattoos lined the length of his right arm, stopping right above an expensive-looking watch affixed to his wrist. From this distance, I could barely make out the symbols depicted in black ink, permanently placed beneath his skin, but they were definitely foreign.
Then there were his eyes. The most incredible ice blue—almost glacial in color—but they weren’t cold. Instead, they were full of warmth, with the skin around them crinkled in the corners. It was such a strange contradiction that I couldn’t look away.
He walked with such self-assurance, his long legs eating up the distance from the door to the seating area. His lips turned up in a brilliant smile, not directed at anyone or anything in particular, like he was simply happy to be alive.
I was mesmerized, intrigued more than I should have been by this stranger.
At least until I heard a soft ding signaling the numbers on the board had moved, and a voice called out, “Number seventy-three!”
Fucking finally.
Breathing out a sigh of relief that this morning’s misery would soon be forgotten, I stood, my focus switching from the big blond man to the desk clerk who had called my number.
Clutching my paper ticket, I waved it on approach. “I’ve got seventy-three.”
The man behind the desk gave me a bored look as I moved closer. But then something alighted in his eyes as his gaze shifted to my right and he held up a hand. “Hold on, ma’am.”
My eyes bulged, and I stopped dead in my tracks. “Excuse me?”
Unapologetically, he flicked his wrist. “If you could take a seat, I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”
Confused, I peeked down at the seventy-three on my ticket, matching the number on the electronic board. “But it’s my turn.”
Ignoring me, he waved to someone behind me. “I’ve got you right here.” Annoyed, he barely spared me another glance. “Step aside, ma’am. I said I would be with you in a bit.”
My jaw went slack, and I spun around to discover exactly why I was being shoved aside.
Him.
The blond giant with the overgrown hair and permanently affixed smile.
Trying to rein in my temper, I used my best service voice to address the man who was even more stunning close-up. “I’m sorry, sir, but I was here first, and they called my number.”
Those blue eyes scanned me from head to toe, and damn, if his undivided attention didn’t have a wave of heat rushing through me.
He let out the tiniest huff of a laugh. “Is that so?”
Fuck, he wasn’t just beautiful; his voice had a rich timbre that rolled over me like honey.
The stern voice of the desk clerk broke through whatever trance I was under. “Ma’am. After I help this gentleman, I’ll be right with you.”
My head whipped around. “Are you fucking serious?”
The clerk jumped at my harsh tone but didn’t back down. “Take a seat before I take your ticket and make you go back to the end of the line.”
When he gestured for the blond man to step forward, I snapped. After having spent far too long watching men pull strings for special favors, laughing as they shared secret handshakes, I was done.
“No! He can take a seat. He didn’t even pull a ticket!” I yelled, my blood threatening to boil over.
It was the chuckle from beside me that threw me over the top.
Glaring openly at the stranger who had invoked some kind of DMV special privileges, I shrieked, “Are you fucking laughing ?!”
His smile was a mile wide, only serving to further piss me off. My breaths came in broken heaves as darkness crept into the corners of my vision due to not drawing in a sufficient amount of air.
“You-you can’t—” My words were choppy as my brain struggled to concentrate with the haze of rage surrounding everything I saw. “This isn’t how the world works. You don’t just get to waltz in here and skip the line while the rest of us are made to sit in purgatory for hours on end, putting our lives on hold for one tiny piece of laminated paper. What makes you so fucking special?”
A hand clamped down on my arm, and I wrenched it away. Being touched without consent was a cardinal sin in my book.
When my fist connected with flesh, I knew I was fucked.
“Bitch broke my nose!” A voice cried from behind me.
Peeking at my clenched fingers, I saw a flecks of crimson along my knuckles.
Nostrils flaring, as it wasn’t quite so easy to turn off my temper once I’d been pushed past my limit, I didn’t make a fuss as several more men in DMV-branded polo shirts ushered me into a small office to await whatever consequences they deemed worthy of my actions.
Enzo was never going to let me hear the end of this one. I’d be lucky if he didn’t drag my ass back home kicking and screaming after making a scene in a public place. It was a damn miracle I had been allowed to leave in the first place.
Just when I thought I’d reached rock bottom, I found a new low.