CHAPTER SEVEN
EDEN
Day four since my life was blown to smithereens.
I cried Sunday night.
Then again Monday and last night.
All the tears and worrying about my future must have screwed with my brain, too, because I dreamed of a mystery man coming to my rescue. The fantasy breached so far into reality that it felt like he was in my room, stroking my cheek, and comforting me with his protective presence.
If only.
“Damian, pull your pants up, please!” I call to the toddler with his navy joggers around his ankles. I don’t know what it is with little boys wanting to get naked whenever and wherever they can, but it’s a constant battle between us daycare providers and our male charges.
“I swear these kids are aging me before my time,” Corey grumbles good-naturedly.
At twenty-two, she’s fresh from college and my boss’s niece.
She’s still learning how to balance the two sides of Rainbow Childcare—the helpless babies who hang out in the nursery and the wilder toddlers who rule the playroom.
“Try a different perspective,” I tease, dabbing at the smears of paint Raya left on my work polo. “Instead of aging you, they’re keeping you young at heart. All that energy can be contagious if you let it.”
Corey’s expression turns contemplative before a crying match between two girls tugging on opposite ends of a stuffed dolphin toy distracts her. Her aunt and owner of Rainbow Childcare heads that way to calm the girls, and we both watch as one dolphin toy miraculously becomes a pair.
“We’ll see…” Corey drawls, then smiles. “But thanks for the advice. How are you doing?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve seemed off this week.” She shrugs. “I don’t mean to pry, but it looked like you were crying Monday morning.”
Crap. I didn’t think anybody had noticed the puffiness around my eyes. I’d been careful to splash cold water on my overheated face. Throwing the wet paper towel I’d been using on my shirt in the trash, my mind races for an acceptable excuse to explain what’s wrong.
It’s not like I can blurt out that I’m being married off to a mafia man.
That would raise all sorts of red flags.
“Just family stuff.” The lame reason is close enough to the truth that I don’t feel completely awful for lying to her. “I’ll be okay, though.”
“Are you sure? If you ever want to talk, I’m here for you.” Corey squeezes my bicep then adds a quick goodbye when her aunt calls her name.
As kind as the offer is, I won’t be confiding in Corey anytime soon. It’s safer to keep my personal life separate from my professional, especially now that I’ve failed to distance myself from The Family .
Besides, Corey can’t help me.
No one can.
I’m on my own.
***
“Stand straight. We need to get proper measurements for the wedding dress.” My mom circles the round platform I’m standing on while the seamstress calls out numbers to her assistant.
Never underestimate a mother eager to marry off her daughter.
Somehow, she landed an appointment with one of Boston’s exclusive wedding dress designers, requiring me to drive straight here from work for this impromptu measurements session. Which is exactly what I wanted to do after a day of dealing with dozens of active children.
A dress fitting seems premature given I still haven’t officially met my husband-to-be, but Mom and Dad were adamant that the don wants a quick wedding. No waiting and planning an elaborate ceremony over the course of a year. No engagement party. No bridal shower.
I know this marriage is a business transaction rather than a love match, but skipping all the usual wedding prep and events pinches a nerve. I’ve never been the center of attention. I’ve always been hidden in the background. Unseen. Unnoticed.
But a woman’s wedding?
That’s supposed to be her moment to shine, yet I’m once again relegated to a set piece being directed and moved by Don D’Amora and my parents. None of this is for me.
“Is this really necessary? Fabian isn’t known for his commitments. He’ll probably change his mind about marrying me soon.” I cross my fingers, though it’s a vain hope.
Marriage contracts are a respected tradition in Italian mob families. You can’t just break an engagement. But perhaps a don’s son has a little more leeway? He definitely has more power.
I’ve got no say at all in my future unless I want to run away from everything I’ve ever known.
The lack of control I have over who I marry is still on my mind hours later as I walk back to my apartment after checking my mail. Distracted, it takes a couple of minutes to register the eerie quiet surrounding me instead of car doors shutting or neighbors walking their dogs.
Quickening my step, I shelf my worries about becoming Fabian’s wife and focus on getting home safely. Every scary story my parents told to dissuade me from leaving my childhood home flashes to life as I hurry home from the resident mailboxes.
The walk isn’t long, and the sidewalk is well-lit, but I can’t shake the feeling of being watched. This isn't the first time I've felt the sensation, but it is the first time it's freaking me out so much.
My keys jingle as I arrange them between my knuckles. I’ve made this journey a dozen times and never felt concerned for my safety. This isn’t a neighborhood known for trouble, but something feels off tonight.
You’re probably on edge because of the impending nuptials to a complete stranger.
Marrying Fabian D’Amora will put me in the thick of danger, a place I never wanted to be.
Could rival gangs already be planning to use me against him and his father? Against The Family ?
I’m about to scold myself for how ridiculous that sounds when there’s a rustling of leaves to my right. Probably a squirrel, but my pace increases anyway. The entry to my apartment is close, a mere ten feet away, when two bulky arms wrap around my chest and haul me backward.
Mail flutters in the air. My keys clatter to the sidewalk. A yelp of fear bursts from me before my attacker stuffs a ball of cloth in my mouth. The metallic flavor stings my tongue as a second man steps forward and lands a backhand to my cheek.
“This is a mafia princess?” The man behind me scoffs.
“More like her fat servant,” his accomplice jokes with a swift punch to my stomach. I groan at the impact. My chin dips low before Thug #2 wrenches my head back by yanking my hair. “Uh-uh, Miss Marino. A couple more bruises, then we’ll be done. Courtesy of Fabian’s half-brother.”
Half-brother?
There have been whispers of Enzo’s past indiscretions with a mistress leading to a bastard child, but it wasn’t until recently that the rumors were confirmed when the man was invited to Enzo’s birthday celebration.
Despite attending the party with my parents, I never met him. I was too busy reading on my phone at an empty table by the exit.
“He thinks he can fuck Fabian over without consequences. Like he’s the next in line to become don. Luca needs to be taught a lesson, and unfortunately, you’re it.”
Luca. The image of my strong and handsome maintenance man ripples into memory. I could use a strong protector right about now.
Because if I’m understanding correctly, my fiancé is the one who arranged for this attack. Because of an illegitimate half-brother.
Somehow, I’ve fallen into the middle of their sibling rivalry.
“P… Please…” The garbled plea gets lost in the rough cloth filling my swollen cheeks.
Not that it matters.
Both men are focused on their task. They’re not even concerned about being caught by my neighbors based on our location between two vehicles. Sure, we’re in the shadows, but anyone could walk by.
These men couldn’t care less.
“Last one,” Thug #2 says as if he’s doing me a favor.
After another hit to my ribs, I’m dragged backwards—my head covered with a black hood while my hands are zip tied behind my back—and unceremoniously tossed into a van.
My head thumps against the floorboard as my shoulder jambs into something soft.
Another person. Fear freezes every muscle except for my racing heart.
Where are they taking me?
Why not dump me on the sidewalk?
Who else have they kidnapped?
Frantic questions fill my thoughts as the vehicle rumbles to life. The hood blocks out the light, but it’s obvious we’re driving away from Spring Falls. I carefully test my bonds and wince at how tightly I’m trussed up.
Rolling toward the stranger next to me, I whisper, “Hello? Can you hear me?”
No response.
Shoot. Shit. This definitely calls for cursing.
Ducking my head, I try to maneuver the hood higher to increase visibility, but all I can see are my companion’s hands bound like mine, a jade bead bracelet with a Q charm on one wrist.
“Are you alright? Please—” The van zooms over a speed bump, or an unlucky animal crossing the road. Either way, the result is the same.
My body flies up then slams down hard enough to halt my cautious attempts at connecting with my companion as a heavy darkness descends on my consciousness.
The last thing to register is the misplaced scent of eucalyptus.