5. Stella
5
STELLA
P apà leaves us standing there with nothing more than a glare tossed in my direction.
He just… leaves . And even though it shouldn’t hurt, at least not more than everything else he’s done, I can’t stop the sudden ache from lancing straight through my heart.
It’s fucking ridiculous to give a shit when he never gave one about me, or my sisters, but the desire for a parent is intrinsic. I can’t stop the wound from opening up and trying to swallow me whole.
They say a father’s anger lingers forever. What about his absence?
Does that ever stop stinging?
Regardless, I don’t have time to dwell on it. There are far more pressing matters at hand, like the fact my razor blade ended up in Leopoldo’s mouth.
I tried to keep the kiss simple, thinking maybe he’d be satisfied with something superficial to give our witnesses. Clearly, I underestimated the man.
As soon as I could no longer feel it tucked against my lip, I knew I was in deep shit.
When silence blankets the church, I wait for some acknowledgement or for him to take it out to inspect.
Instead, one of his guards—a tall, burly man with a buzz cut and bleak eyes—grabs my biceps and drags me away from the altar. I trip over my feet, trying to keep up with him as he rushes me out a side door and then down a narrow, poorly lit hall.
Only the sound of Leopoldo’s distinct heavy footsteps alerts me to the fact that he’s following us.
We come to a fork in the path, and I’m shoved outside, through the door beneath a glowing EXIT sign. The guard’s grip on me smarts, and I try to extract my arm before it loses all feeling.
“Plotting your escape already?” Leopoldo’s voice bounces off the brick walls surrounding us, ominous with its echo.
We’re sandwiched between three different buildings, the alleyways not big enough for a car to veer down, and it strikes me as an odd place to bring your new wife.
Unless you aren’t planning on letting her leave.
The guard stops when we’re a few feet from one wall, then yanks hard, turning me around to face my husband. As he strides closer, gloved hands shoved in his pockets, my mind flashes briefly back to our kiss.
Once he forced my lips open, it was all flames and no extinguisher. Two angry mouths, each trying to push the other into submission, yet falling into oblivion instead.
For a moment, I lost myself in the heat of it all and forgot my plan entirely.
“Release her,” Leopoldo tells his soldier, though he barks the order while staring at me. He’s always staring at me.
The guard hesitates. “I don’t think that’s a good idea?—”
“She won’t run,” Leopoldo cuts in, a slow smile spreading across his handsome face. “Will you?”
I quickly peek past both sides of him, noting the damp darkness we’re in. Two paths open up on either side of the church, presumably heading toward the street, but there’s no guarantee I’ll be able to fit through them or that there aren’t men waiting at the curb to grab me.
My eyes shift straight ahead, focusing on the slight knot in Leopoldo’s nose. “Where would I even go?”
He waits, and finally, after what feels like a lifetime, the guard drops his hand. I rub at the area, certain that between Papà and him, the skin is already bruised.
“Why did you marry me?” I ask eventually, hoping to keep him talking long enough that maybe he forgets about the razor blade. Since he hasn’t mentioned it yet, I’m not sure what his angle is. It wasn’t that small, but perhaps he was too distracted to really notice. Or he’s waiting for the chance to strike. “You could’ve easily told Papà no if what you wanted was money.”
“Make no mistake, money is always my priority. But I didn’t feel like traumatizing you further today.”
“Don’t pretend you did any of this for me . I’d probably be better off dead.”
One of his brows rises. “How long have you been suicidal, stellina ?”
“I’m not. It’s a figure of speech,” I say, shrugging one shoulder. “And my name is Stella.”
“I know what your name is.” He gives me an unreadable look, then comes closer. “I’ve been watching you, you know.”
“Creepy.”
He grins. “Every Sunday at church. You’d come in with your head down and sit between your mother and sisters, like a buffer between them. Eventually, you started to come alone, though you sat in the same pew like the dutiful little Catholic girl you are. Most people told me not to bother, because you were more interested in your books than anything else. But sometimes, I’d feel your gaze. You wouldn’t look anywhere but at the priest or me, and it felt good when I had your attention. Like the Devil winning against God. I could never stop staring.”
I roll my eyes, though something churns in my stomach at the idea of him watching me. Like a predator stalking its prey. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never noticed.”
How could I have missed him looking back?
He moves forward again, standing so close that our clothes brush. “You wore these thick, square-framed glasses that were almost too big for your face, but also made you look wise beyond your years. They once gave you a choir solo, and I remember questioning my faith because your voice was so perfect. You weren’t given another after that, supposedly because they didn’t want to highlight someone with your worldly curiosity. I’ve always wondered if that was why your participation seemed to become robotic. Is it possible you lost your way then, too?”
My eyes burn. “Science doesn’t mix so well with creationism. I tend to have more faith in the former.”
“As do I.” He licks his lips. “What happened to the glasses?”
“Contacts.” The word is barely a whisper, and I’m not sure he hears it.
Instead, I watch his gaze dip to where my hand still rests on my biceps, and I try not to get too caught up on the bombshell he just dropped on me.
Leopoldo De Tore noticed me ? No one else ever has—or at least, they’ve never been bold enough to say so.
Even though it shouldn’t, that knowledge makes my belly twist with some sort of perverse pleasure.
“Get her an ice pack,” he snaps suddenly at the guard, who scurries away with his tail tucked.
I press my lips together, trying not to laugh at how pathetic I find the ranking system in the Mafia. How these grown men, capable of gruesome acts of violence, fall into line so easily depending on who has the most money or physical prowess—or the preferable bloodline.
“Something amusing?” Leopoldo asks, raising his hand to my face.
I flinch out of instinct, then freeze when he only tucks a strand of loose hair behind my ear. “No. I just find your trained rats vaguely entertaining.”
The one rat still standing out here with us clears his throat, turning away.
“Funny that you, of all people, would call them rats, considering what the whole of Boston calls your family.” Putting his back to the other guard, Leopoldo lowers his voice and tilts his head. “But I suppose that doesn’t matter much now, does it? You’re a De Tore as of five minutes ago.”
A knot forms in my throat. This is the opposite of freedom—of everything I’ve worked so hard to get.
“ As a De Tore,” he continues, pulling away from me, “do you care to explain the grievous act of treason you committed by bringing a weapon to a business meeting?”
I watch in horror as he reaches up, slides two fingers into his mouth, and pulls out the blade. He holds it between us, and I notice that it’s still wrapped in blue athletic tape.
My chest tightens, and I take a step back, bumping up against the brick wall. “ You had a weapon.”
“I wasn’t hiding it, was I?”
“So, it would’ve been fine if I’d come to you with it in plain sight?”
He ignores the question, leaning back in. “Do you realize what would have happened if one of my rats knew you had this on you? If they thought, even for a second, that you were some kind of threat?”
I don’t answer. I don’t need to.
“It wouldn’t stop with you either. Sure, I’d be forced to slit your throat with the damn thing—although it’s so small, I’m not sure that would be very effective. But I’d send people after your family. Your papà. Your bitch of a mamma, wherever she is. Your sisters.” His eyes almost seem to glow in the flickering overhead lighting, like talking about violence excites him. “Everyone you’ve ever loved would suffer, all because you were too stupid to wait and kill me with something you found at my home.”
My thoughts are clouded. “Are you saying you wanted me to try?”
“I’m saying I thought you were supposed to be the smart Ricci daughter. Yet here I stand, disappointed again.”
Closing my eyes, I suck in a deep breath and try to square my shoulders. “Just kill me then, Leopoldo.”
“Leo,” he corrects with a tsk. “And why on earth would I give you an easy out when punishment promises to be so much more fun?”
He pulls away, his breath no longer tickling my nose. I grit my teeth, bracing for the impact of whatever abuse he’s planning to hurl, and he pries my mouth open again, pushing the blade inside. I don’t have a chance to blink before he pounces, cupping my jaw and crushing me to the brick as he crashes his lips to mine.
His tongue flicks in, maneuvering the blade around, and his teeth scrape against mine. My head bounces off the wall, and he cups my skull with one palm, covering the spot as he continues the assault.
Mind swimming—drowning, rather—I press my hands to his chest to keep from falling completely into his embrace.
Heat stirs in my gut, sparking like a thousand little firecrackers. I jerk my head, trying to escape before the sensation can really take root.
Something coppery blooms inside my mouth, but I can’t seem to focus on the taste of anything but him. Bitter, like hard liquor and blood.
The hand in my hair flees, snaking a fiery path down the front of my dress. He bunches the long skirt in his fingers, inching it up until I feel a cool breeze brush my ankles. A sound of protest dies between us as he drags the fabric higher, exposing a sliver of my flesh to the moonlight.
“What are you—” I attempt to say around the kiss and blade, but suddenly, he’s grazing the outside edge of my lacy pink panties while his tongue plays a wicked symphony inside my mouth.
When he finally yanks his head back, his breathing is ragged, and his eyes are wild. One finger skims over the seam of my pussy, above the lace, in a horizontal motion that makes my hips buck, immediately seeking more.
“Uh-uh.” His voice grows as dark as the night air above us. “Be careful, stellina . Wouldn’t want you to cut yourself.”
My brows furrow as confusion weaves a tapestry in my chest—until a little scrap of blue fabric appears between his lips.
The athletic tape.
I swallow hard, and my tongue twitches inside my closed mouth, locating the uncovered metal blade sitting right in the middle.
My breaths grow short and staggered. God, I am an idiot.
“Stay very still,” he says, even as his hand continues its exploration, dipping beneath my panties for a millisecond before sliding back out and drawing invisible circles over my pulse point. “Or would you like a mouthful of blood, wife?”
At that, my skin heats—and not just because he’s tugging aside the crotch of my underwear and stroking me. He does it lightly, as if testing the waters to see if I might protest.
I should. Oh my God, I should.
But I don’t want to.
“Are you afraid of me?” he whispers, bringing his forehead to mine.
I shake my head.
“Interesting. Then you’re wet because you do want to fuck me?”
When I don’t reply, he releases a deep chuckle, swiping through my sensitive flesh once, twice, and a third time for good measure. His glove is rough, creating an extra layer of friction that I should find uncomfortable, but for some reason, it’s kind of nice.
“Tell me to stop.” His chest rises and falls rapidly. “If you don’t want it. This. Otherwise, I’m going to take what your father offered me inside. Right here, while you do your damnedest not to cry out for mercy.”
If I open my mouth to speak, the blade will almost certainly cut me. He knows it, I know it, and that knowledge makes the core of my being throb with heightened awareness.
Still, he said I could stop it. That he wouldn’t continue if I didn’t want it.
I could shake my head again or push at him. He’s not restraining me, despite being plastered to my body. Dark, delicious tension coils tight in my stomach as he shifts, revealing the evidence of what I’m doing to him against my hip, and it’s…powerful.
Surreal.
The Demon of Boston is unraveling because of me, and I find myself wanting to see his threads lying in a pile at my feet.
But before we can continue, a sharp voice cuts through the night air.
“Didn’t I teach you better than to fuck your whores in public?”
Leo’s hand falls away from my pussy, and it’s alarming how much I miss the pressure.
He swallows audibly, but he keeps his forehead against mine as he answers. “Can’t you wait in the car, like I asked?”
I can’t see the intruder, but I hear his feet shuffle to a stop somewhere behind my husband’s massive body.
“Forgive me for coming to see what the hell was taking my son so goddamn long. Collecting a debt and disposing of a body shouldn’t take longer than an hour, max.”
Leo’s jaw clenches. He smooths his gloved thumb over my chin. “I’ve been occupied.”
“Which leads me back to my original question: Do I need to step in because you’re too incompetent to take care of shit?” There’s a pause, and then the voice edges closer. “Who’ve you got back there anyway? You know I hate when you hide your pretty little toys from me.”
My eyes widen at the nasty words, unease creasing my mouth, but Leo just shakes his head.
“Don’t worry,” he mutters, pressing one last kiss to my lips before pulling away completely.
He steps aside and turns to face the other man. Halfway between us and the church stands an older version of him with graying dark hair cut very short, wearing a loose-fitting designer suit. His right hand clutches a black cane.
Beside him is the pushy guard from before, though he lacks the ice pack he was instructed to retrieve.
I glare at him. Tattletale rat.
The man—presumably Leo’s father—glances at me, and his eyebrows hike up to his hairline as he lets out a string of Italian. I don’t know the language, but I can tell they’re expletives.
“Leopoldo.”
“Father.”
“What the hell are you doing with Don Ricci’s daughter?”
“Wife.” Leo leans back against the brick wall and shoves his hands in his pants pockets.
His father blinks. “Excuse me?”
“Stella is not his daughter .” A shiver runs down my arms at the finality in his tone. “She’s my wife.”