Married to the Mafia Devil (Rossi Mafia Brides #2)

1. Emma

ONE

Emma

“Emma, we need to talk about your rent.”

I’ve barely opened my apartment door and already Mr. Petrelli is leaning in, trying to get past me.

“I’m late for work,” I say. “Can we do this later?”

“You tell him to come out, stop hiding behind his daughter.”

He leans in too close, the smell of stale cigarettes clinging to him like the mold clinging to the wall behind him. “I’ve been generous since your mother died but it’s been a year. The world keeps turning, Emma, like it or not. You earn money, you work hard, you pay your rent.”

Something inside me snaps at the mention of my mother. “Mom was barely cold when you raised the rent, slipped the letter under the door while we were at her funeral.”

He looks surprised that I’m arguing back for once. “Ten percent is nothing,” he splutters. “I’ve got bills to pay too.”

“You’ve got a brand new Audi in the parking garage. You want me to feel sorry that it’s not the Bentley you keep bragging about getting?”

He looms over me, finger wagging. “My choice of car is none of your business. Your father’s drinking is my business. He spends on liquor but not rent. Where is the son of a bitch?”

“I told you. I don’t know.”

“Three months I believed his lies.” He affects a horrible voice, mimicking my father’s pleas. “It’s coming next week, Mr. Petrelli. I left it in my other pants, Mr. Petrelli. I swear you’ll have it tomorrow. All bullshit.”

“Look, I’ll talk to him when he gets back, okay? I’m sure he just forgot?”

I’m not sure if I’m trying to convince him or me. Since Mom died, my dad’s memory has gotten as bad as his drinking.

Mr Petrelli reaches a bony finger my way, his breath sour as he leers at me. “You could make up the shortfall. ” The suggestion hangs in the air. He stretches toward my hair, yellow nicotine stained nails getting too close for comfort. “Pretty little thing, aren’t you?”

“You’ll get your money, all right?” I say, cowering back from his reaching hands.

He scowls. “Too good for an old man, is that it?” He shoves something into my hands. “Eviction notice. You have one month to vacate.”

The words hit me like a punch, knocking the air right out of me. “But what about Amelia? It’s not that simple. She?—“

“Your sister’s legs aren’t broken, are they?” His expression hardens, and I steel myself, hoping to reach below the vicious exterior and extract a scrap of humanity from this heartless, greedy man.

“It’s her agoraphobia. She hasn’t left the place since the attack. She’s still recovering but it’s slow. Please, you don’t have to do this. We’ll find the money.”

He stares at my tits, licking his lips. “I tell you what. You keep me company and I’ll give you more time to clear the debt. Otherwise, I’ll drag her into the street myself along with you, that lush you call a father, and all your shit.”

“You lay a finger on her and I’ll...” My voice trails away as I realize I have no leverage

He grins. “That’s what I thought. One month and that’s being generous.” He turns and limps off down the stairs.

I duck back into the apartment. I can’t leave yet. I’m late but I have to go through the ritual from beginning to end before I can go. He interrupted me halfway through. I need to start again.

Lights on and off twice in my room with right hand. Check the window lock with left hand. Check the kitchen faucet is off.

Amelia’s asleep when I pass her room. I’m glad. I don’t want her to see how stressed I look as I rush through the list of things I have to do.

What happened to the rent money? I think to myself. Why is Dad letting this happen to us?

I run my fingers over my favorite photo, the one held onto the refrigerator door with a magnet. It’s one of the few photos I have of Mom; it was always her behind the camera, urging us to goof around for the shot, but Dad took this one.

She was getting real sick by that time. In the picture, she seems almost to glow in the sunshine, as though she has a foot in the next world.

Already an angel, bound for another place, but she is smiling. Always, every day, there it was. The same benevolent smile that warmed my heart through every scraped knee, kid’s nightmare, or high school drama.

Mom loved Hannigan’s Park.

By the end, she was too tired to travel anywhere else, but she loved to sit beneath the cherry trees, her blanket on her knees, letting the breeze stir her thinning hair. In the photo, Amelia and I sit beside her, each holding one of her hands.

She was delicate by then, thin and birdlike, skin like paper, but the park was the place we went to feel whole. It saw us as children, carefree and playing, and it saw us as adults, loving and hurting, side by side.

It’s not there anymore, just a wasteland waiting to be sold off to some asshole developer to turn into offices. You can never go back to your past, no matter how much you might want to.

My real dream, way beyond any thoughts of college, is for the park to come back. The idea of being able to sit where Mom sat, see the views of Manhattan like she used to, that plucks at my very soul. But I have to make do with this old photo. It’s better than nothing.

Open the door, touch the nameplate Mom wrote in that delicate flowing script of hers, cross the hall to the shared bathroom. Light on and off twice. Then back to my door. Check it’s locked again, rattle the handle twice. Check my bag, book inside for the quiet moments. Now I’m ready to go.

I blink back tears, refusing to let them fall. I can't afford the luxury of breaking down, not when everything's falling apart. How am I ever going to go to college and become a counsellor when I can barely take care of myself let alone anyone else?

I promised Mom I’d go to college and I’m going to break that promise. Dad’s drinking again, spending the rent money again. I can’t bail us out, not this time. My savings are long gone.

Amelia can’t leave our place, her agoraphobia has gotten too bad. I’ve got a shitty hourly pay job and college is a pipe dream. Right now, I need to worry about keeping a roof over our heads, making sure Amelia is okay, nothing else matters.

Pulling my jacket tighter, I hustle down the dimly lit stairs of our apartment building, the scent of old coffee and something rotten overwhelming my senses, making me want to retreat back to my floor. I can’t. If I don’t keep earning, we really are screwed. At least Mr. Petrelli is nowhere to be seen. Thank heaven for small mercies.

I’m glad of the fresh air when I get outside. The chill of the morning does nothing to cool the flush of panic on my cheeks or the stress filling my mind.

As I head towards the liquor store where I work, only one thought is clear: everything is falling apart.

The bell above the door jingles mockingly as I step inside, the familiar scent of aged wood and alcohol greeting me.

It's a smell I usually associate with stability. The routine of shelving, sorting, and selling provides a rhythm to my days.

I’ve been here since leaving school. Hidden in the back at first, dealing with the deliveries. I’ve gotten used to the place. But today, the rhythm feels off, like a song played by a covers band who suck.

“Emma,” my boss calls from behind the counter, his tone solemn. “I need to speak with you for a moment.”

I approach the counter, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace. “Morning, Mr. Jenkins. I’m sorry I’m late. My landlord wanted to speak to me about something.”

He doesn’t return the smile. Instead, he places a sheet of paper on the counter between us. I look down at the list of figures.

“Not again,” I say. My heart, already low, sinks further.

Mr. Jenkins nods, his voice laced with a regret that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Sneaking decent bottles this time, the expensive stuff. When I caught him he swore you’d cover it for him. It’s up to three hundred dollars now and I can’t leave it any longer. Bank’s open. You can go now.”

I close my eyes, a silent plea for strength, for patience, for anything that might stave off the wave of embarrassment and frustration crashing over me. “He promised me he’d stop doing that.” I think of the other promise he made, that he’d been paying the rent.

“I let it slide the first few times because I know how tough he’s had it since your mother died but I can’t let it slide any longer.”

“I’m sorry, Can you maybe take it out of my pay check?”

He gestures to the figure at the bottom of the paper, “It’s too much. Either you pay his tab in full today, or I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

The numbers on the paper blur as my eyes fill with tears. “Please, Mr. Jenkins, we just got given an eviction notice. Please don’t fire me.”

“So you don’t have enough to pay his tab.” He shakes his head, the final nail in the coffin of my pleading. “I'm sorry, Emma. I really am. But my costs are through the roof. Petrovitch Industries keeps putting my rent up. I’ve got bills of my own to pay.”

“Please, we can work something out. I’m begging you.”

He shakes his head again. “I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” I say, my shoulders hunched as I turn and head back out of the liquor store, away from the job that kept us barely afloat, into a future as uncertain and dark as my emotions.

As I reach the door, he calls my name. “Emma?”

I turn, praying he’s changed his mind. “Yeah?” I ask, my voice trembling.

“Tell your dad if he comes in again, I’ll have him arrested.”

When Mom fell ill, Dad had to quit his sales work to look after her. Amelia and me did our best to help with the bills and we got by.

Between her waitressing and my job, we were able to cover things until Dad got back to work six months ago. Then Amelia got attacked and couldn’t go to work anymore. My OCD got worse than it’s ever been, panic attacks coming on top, just to add to the fun.

Dad’s drinking came roaring back as well and he got canned without telling us until we figured it out for ourselves. I’ve been giving him all my pay the last three months to at least make sure we keep a roof over our heads. And for what?

I look up at the sky. Mom would be so ashamed of me if she was here. I promised her just before she died that I’d look after the family, take care of my sister, keep my dad from drowning in grief. Beg the city to keep a corner of the plot they’re trying to sell. Rebuild her park as a memorial to her.

I desperately wanted to make her proud of me. Go to college, become a counsellor, help people like she did before she got sick. Now all I have is an eviction notice in my pocket and no job.

The morning sun, now fully risen, mocks me with its brightness. I pull my jacket tighter around me, a futile attempt to hold myself together as my feet make their own way down the street to the only place that might make me feel better. I try to call Dad on the way but of course he doesn’t answer. God alone knows where he is right now.

The bell above The Book Nook sounds cheerful as I push the door open. Mom used to spend hours in here when we were younger. I remember pottering around her legs when I was little. It’s how I met Pamela. She used to come in here as a kid too.

Pamela is talking to a customer. “I couldn’t sell you this,” she says, her nose wrinkling. “It’s mindless exploitative tat. Now go over to the Classics and apply yourself.”

The man she’s talking to frowns like he’s not sure whether to complain or laugh. “Go,” Pamela says, giving him a nudge.

He heads away, half a smile on his face.

Pamela waves when she sees me. “He needed help,” she says as she walks over. “Thinks Jeffrey Archer is the greatest writer of the last fifty years.”

“He has sold a lot of books,” I reply.

“So did Hitler.” She leans over my shoulder. “Proust,” she shouts at the guy. “You’ll love him.”

The man grins, coming over to the counter to pay for his purchase. “Listen,” he says as he hands over the cash. “If you’re not doing anything later…”

Pamela shakes her head. “Come back in when you’re ready for volume two.” She gives him a wink. “I’ll be here.”

He heads out with his purchases and I give Pamela a look. “What?” she asks. “What did I do?”

“You know you only get away with being mean because you’re pretty. You do know that, right?”

She laughs. “I am merely helping the great American public move in the right direction. Can I help it if they interpret my insults as flirting?” She frowns at me. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work? What’s up? Jenkins give you time off for good behavior?”

I sink onto the worn couch in the corner, a fixture as much as any book in here. I hand her the eviction notice. “He fired me because Dad’s been stealing again.”

“Shit.”

“It gets better. Petrelli wants us out because we’re three months behind. I don’t know where Dad is and I’ve no idea what he’s been spending our money on.” I feel a panic attack clawing at me.

Pamela sits beside me. “Okay, deep breath,” she says, an arm around my shoulders. “Remember the breathing exercises we talked about. In and out, like gentle sex.”

“How would I know what that’s like?” I ask as I start to gasp. “The closest I ever got was that kiss from Santa when I was six.”

“I had no idea you wanted more from Mr. Ho Ho Ho. Early developer were you?” She puts an arm around me. “And dirty Santa aside, you’re breathing normally again.”

“So I am. You distracted me. I hate you.”

She squeezes my shoulder, her usual optimism undimmed. “You’re not in control of everything in this world, Emma. I know you want to be, especially on the days I find you straightening every single book in here.”

“They need straightening sometimes.”

“It’s not your job to get everything straight in this world. You can’t stop your dad drinking. That’s up to him. And when Amelia’s ready to leave, she will. All you can do is be ready to help them both. You can’t sort everyone’s problems out. Let someone else take the slack sometimes, give yourself a break.”

She jumps to her feet as she spots someone over by New Releases. “Put that back, have you no shame? It’s as cliched as that cravat you’re wearing.” She turns back to me as the book is returned to the shelf. “I’ve got it. You can stay at my place.”

“No overnight guests, no subletting, remember?”

“How about we find somewhere together then? Finally try out all those lesbian fantasies I’ve been nurturing in my heaving bosom.”

I shake my head. “Tempting but where are we finding a place with space for you, your Mom, me, Dad, Amelia, and that bosom of yours, heaving or otherwise?”

She glances past me. “Hey, take a look outside.”

“I’ve seen New York before. I’m trying to mope here.”

“No, there’s a guy. He’s staring right at you.”

I look up, straight into burning dark eyes that are fixed on me. The owner of the eyes is Italian, enormous, and wearing a jet black suit. His jaw looks like it’s made of granite and he’s got cheekbones to die for.

People walk into the street to avoid him but no one dares ask him to move.

A shiver runs down my spine. My heart races out of control, a confusing mix of fear and an unfamiliar thrill. His gaze is stripping me naked, leaving me exposed and vulnerable.

I turn away, grabbing the nearest book and reading the back like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

“You know him?” Pamela asks. “Because if you do, I want introducing right now.”

“Never seen him before in my life.” My heart does a little skip, an unfamiliar flutter as I glance his way again. He’s still staring at me. I get an image in my head of him ripping open my blouse, growling as he lifts me into his arms and plunges his tongue into my mouth.

“You want him?” Pamela asks as I turn back to the book, my face reddening. “Or can I jump on those bones?”

“You’re insatiable,” I reply, trying to ignore the flare of jealousy rising in my chest. “Be my guest.”

“Are you saying you wouldn’t?” She turns to look at me. “Still holding out for Mr. Right?” she teases gently. “What’s wrong with Mr. Right Now? Got to snap that V-card of yours in half sooner or later.”

“I’m happy with a vibrator and a book.” I glance his way again and the words suddenly feel like a lie. Wrapped up in arms like that, I’d feel so safe, like nothing could hurt me again.

Pamela nudges me. “Vibrator can’t cuddle you in bed afterward though, can it?”

“Mine can. I got the special edition. It even brings me coffee in the mornings.”

She laughs. “Some men are all right, you know? Last week I met this guy who didn’t think I meant Texas or wrestling when I asked if he’d heard of Austen.”

“I neither need nor want a man in my life. Even if I did, which I don’t, what kind of a catch am I?”

“You’re a very attractive woman. Neurotic but aren’t we all?”

“I’m a virgin with OCD, panic attacks, no job, and I’m about to be homeless. I’m sure they’re all lining up for a pop at me.”

“You’re intelligent, you love books, and you’ve got a great rack. Everything a growing boy needs.” She glances outside. “Hey, where’d he go?”

The sidewalk’s empty again. “I’m going to head home,” I say, getting to my feet. “Job applications aren’t going to write themselves.”

“Want to go for a drink tonight?” she asks. “What do you say? Commiserate the pain of unemployment with copious amounts of alcohol and regret?”

The thought of small talk and forced socializing sends a wave of anxiety through me. People bumping into me, the noise, the tables all misaligned. My idea of hell.

She spots the panic in my eyes. “Or I could bring a bottle and a pizza to yours and help you job hunt.”

“I’d love that.”

“One step at a time, kid. We find you another job first, and then we deal with your dad and Amelia.” Her resolve is infectious, a reminder of why she's been my only real friend since we were kids. That and the fact she gives me twenty percent off anything I buy in here.

“Hey,” she continues, getting to her feet as another customer comes in. “You'll be all right. I have faith in you.”

“Glad someone does.” I smile, a real one this time, bolstered by her faith in me. “Thanks, Pamela. I just wish it were that simple.”

“Simple is boring,” she teases. She hands me a copy of Les Miserables.

“I’ve already got a copy,” I say as she wraps my hands around it. “What kind of a friend doesn’t know what my favorite book is?”

“Your mom’s copy is falling apart. You said so yourself last week. Have a new one on me. Call it an early birthday present.”

“My birthday’s not for three months.”

“You do understand the definition of the word early, right? Now get out of here and get job hunting. You’ll have something lined up by the time I next see you. I guarantee it.”

“How do you stay so optimistic?”

“Look, you’ve saved my bacon dozens of times. Let me copy your homework, picked me up when I was wasted. Been there for me whenever some asshole dumped me. You’re a good person. You deserve good things.”

The customer calls for her attention at the register. “Oh, no,” Pamela says, walking up to her and examining her choices. “Seriously? Everything in here and these are what you choose? Have you no shame?”

I head for the door with a final smile, I step back into the daylight, the weight of the world still on my shoulders but now a bit more bearable.

I get back to the apartment and go through my rituals. I call to Amelia but she doesn’t answer. I peer around the door to her room. Still asleep.

I go into my own room, setting the book down on the nightstand next to Mom’s copy. I dig out my battered old laptop and boot it up. I spend the next hour on my bed, looking at jobs, applying for anything I can find.

I shift as time passes, trying to find a comfortable spot on the mattress that has known too many restless nights. The weight of today presses down on me. My sister’s soft breathing from the next room is the only sound apart from the traffic outside.

I should be used to this by now—life throwing curveballs at me. I always believed that if I worked hard enough, then maybe I'd find solid ground. Maybe then I wouldn't feel so...

Lost.

But deeper than that, buried beneath the layers of worry and exhaustion, is the thought that’s shadowed me for years: that I'm not enough.

Not good enough to hold my family together, not capable enough to chase my own dreams, not worthy enough of any future beyond this cycle of struggle and despair.

It’s a truth that’s been drilled into me every time my dad looks at me with glassy eyes, every bill I can't pay, every dream I push aside to deal with another crisis. I’m not good enough.

“Help me,” I say to Mom, my eyes drifting to the window. Exhaustion hits me like a tidal wave. I close my eyes for a moment to rest them but a moment later I’m fast asleep.

I wake up and I know something’s wrong at once. What’s making my heart race? I look across at the window. The breeze, the rumble of traffic. That’s the problem.

I left it shut. Now it’s wide open. Someone’s in here with me.

Then I see it. A shadow in the corner of the room.

My breath catches in my throat, a scream building just behind my lips as a panic attack seizes me, a visceral, clawing thing that has my heart hammering against my ribs.

And then a hand is over my mouth, large and firm, smothering my scream before it can escape.

This is it, I think to myself as a shadow leans over me with a gun pointing straight at me.

This is how I die.