29. Amara
AMARA
THE CALM IS A LIE
T oday, sunlight filters in through the sheer curtains, casting soft reflections across the pale wood floors.
The bedroom is enormous—larger than any space I’ve ever called mine.
The bed is an Alaskan king, dressed in layers of Egyptian cotton and rich charcoal-gray linens that are naked without the smell of his cologne.
The sheets mock me.
I’ve earned the scorn of the one man I want to share my bed. I’ve pushed away the only man who loved my one-liners—the man who gave me a family when I didn’t ask for one.
Now, Pietro doesn’t trust me. I can’t fault him for what he feels. He probably hates me. He thought I got pregnant on purpose, and now, well, he’s hurt.
I want him to love me. But I doubt he’ll forgive me because I pissed him off. I should have confided in him, but I wanted to handle it on my own. I’m independent, and I won’t ask a man to fight my battles.
I never realized the consequences of my actions when I told my father I was pregnant. I thought it would end the arranged marriage. I foolishly believed that I would be off the hook.
But a promise made is a promise kept. I’ve learned this lesson the hard way, and now, my baby is in play, and wanted by every mafia family in the city .
The enormity of this baby and what it means to every mafia family scares the shit out of me. Everyone wants my baby. I have no idea if I can fix us.
Are we even fixable?
What will the Borrellis do when their enemies burn their warehouses and shoot at their men?
There will be a war.
I’m filled with angst. I need to do something to occupy my mind because right now, I’m helpless, and I hate feeling this way.
Pietro brought me here for safety, but this place is both a sanctuary… and a prison.
I step carefully onto the cool floor, and a sharp twinge rippling through my ribs reminds me of my past every time I move. My bare feet pad silently down the hallway. I spend time exploring the house since there’s nothing else to do. It’s time for me to become acquainted with the mansion.
And it is stunning.
Glass walls line the east side, revealing a sprawling view of the water, the horizon endless, dotted with white caps on the water. The shimmer of morning sun pirouette over the floor, like joy learning how to move.
The architecture is sleek, masculine, and with understated elegance.
Dark slate and warm wood accents. Minimalist, but expensive.
The silence is deafening, so I walk onto the patio that overlooks the ocean.
I wrap the blanket around me and breathe in the fresh air.
The scent of saltwater and cedar swirls in the air like something out of a memory I never had.
Every room is intentional. There’s a small library with floor-to-ceiling shelves and buttery leather chairs, a gym Pietro probably abuses every morning, and a kitchen that looks like it was designed by a chef who moonlights as a hitman, judging from the enormous amount of cutlery and the overhead metal rack filled with cast-iron skillets and copper-bottom pans.
When I finally push open the door to my walk-in closet, I freeze.
All my clothes are here, and some I’ve never seen .
Every single item is hung perfectly or folded with care. Even the expensive French vintage silk scarf Pietro insisted we buy is draped across a shelf like it’s been waiting for me. My expensive shoes, some of which I didn’t select myself, adorn the shoe racks.
An elegant ottoman sits in the middle of the spacious room.
There are purses on the shelf that cost more than what I make in a year.
I pick up the Louis Vuitton and sniff the rich leather before I run my hand over the rich exterior.
Beside it is a Birkin. I’m afraid to touch it, and it sits on the white shelf like a unicorn.
I’m stunned into submission as my throat tightens. He did this. Pietro made sure I had everything.
How can he be so cold but have the foresight to do something so thoughtful?
I hear the guards talk outside and know that one will be in the house soon, and he’s probably hungry.
I know I am, so I return to the kitchen and grab the mozzarella and fresh tomatoes.
I butter four slices of Italian bread, putting two slices in a skillet.
Then, I add the mozzarella and tomatoes, making sandwiches for two.
I search the pantry, my fingers land on a bag of chips, and I pull a soda out of the beverage drawer.
The butter sizzles. I add the tops and watch as the cheese melts. When the bread is grilled to a buttery crisp, I flip it.
Arman walks through the door.
“I’m happy to see you up and about,” he says.
The fact that he has a gun under his jacket isn’t lost on me. He’s here to keep me safe.
I plate the sandwiches, add chips, and slide one across the island.
“You must be hungry. Eat.”
“I can’t,” he protests.
“No one is here. Eat. I insist.”
“I’m not sure Pietro would approve.”
“I got you.” I smile.
He nods but stands as he holds the plate and wolfs down the sandwich. I push the soda toward him as I take a seat near him and nibble at my sandwich .
“Thank you,” he mumbles sheepishly.
“You’re welcome, Arman.”
His eyebrows raised when he heard his name. “Thank you…”
“Amara, call me Amara,” I sweetly supply the title he’s unsure of.
“I’m not sure the boss would like that,” he replies as he puts the plate down and takes the soda. Then, he mutters, “I gotta check the house.” I hear him pop the tab on the can as he walks off.
I smile. Well, he’s not Pietro, but cooking for someone who appreciates it makes me feel good. To be honest, it was nice to chat with someone, even if it was only a few words.
Pietro has been so quiet, and it scares me. I don’t know what he’s thinking. I miss the days when we bantered with words.
I miss working with him at the club. I even miss work . I’m going stir-crazy. I watch TV and step outside periodically to get a breath of fresh air. I pass the day, yearning for Pietro to come home.
Home. The word meant so much when he said it, and now, I realize I don’t have one.
It’s late in the afternoon when the front door opens. He’s early today. He’s scrolling through his phone, shrugging off his coat. He’s as tense as ever, and his eyes briefly look at me before he busies himself with a text. He drapes the coat over a barstool and ignores me.
I have a second to take him in. His shirt is wrinkled, like he slept in it and his eyes are tired. I long to run my hands over his solid chest and rake my nails over his taut abs, but he hasn’t touched me in that way, and it hurts.
He places his phone on the counter and rolls up his sleeves, revealing his strong, tatted forearms, and the dark ink coiled around his wrist like a secret on display. Just when I think he’ll continue to ignore me, he speaks.
“How are you feeling?”
“Much better, thank you. Long day?” I inquire.
“The usual.”
“I’ll cook dinner,” I volunteer, excited at the possibility that we can eat together like adults.
It only makes sense since we will eventually be co-parents.
I have no idea what he has envisioned as living arrangements after this war is over.
He’ll be hard-pressed to keep his child close to him without me because I’m not letting my child out of my sight.
“Fine.”
Great. A one-word conversation. Again.
“Can I call Sarah?” I ask quietly.
He lifts his eyes to mine. There’s that flicker, it’s guarded but soft. “Three minutes.”
He hands me his phone like it weighs something heavy. I step to the living room window, clutching it with both hands as I push in the number and listen to it ring.
“Amara?” Sarah’s voice fills the line like sunlight.
“Hey,” I whisper, already smiling. “It’s me. Are you okay?”
“God, I’ve been going crazy. I’m fine. Are you okay?”
“I’ve been better,” I murmur, glancing over my shoulder. Pietro is still at the counter, pretending not to listen. “But I’m safe. What about you? How are you? Are you being treated well?”
“I’m with the family at the mansion. Everyone has been wonderful. I called in sick this week. They said it’s not safe for me to be out until this is over, but from what I gather, I’m lucky I’m still breathing. I can’t say the same for my sanity. This lockdown is giving me anxiety.”
We both laugh softly, the kind of laughter between best friends that teeters on the edge of sadness.
“I miss you,” I say.
“Me too. How long do you think this war is gonna last?”
“I don’t know.” I close my eyes. “But it’s starting to feel like we’re all pawns in it.”
Before I can say more, the phone buzzes. Pietro is already moving toward me.
“Time’s up,” his tone is gentle but firm.
“I gotta go, Pietro needs his phone, but I’ll call soon.”
“Make sure you do,” she says as the connection ends.
I hand the phone back to him like it’s a loaded weapon.
He answers and walks down the corridor that I assume is his wing .
I glance out the window, and as the sun begins to set, I move into the kitchen to make steak and potatoes. I know Pietro loves cow.
He enters the kitchen and pulls out a bottle of water. His expression is unreadable.
“Where’s Luca?” I ask, walking around him slowly.
His eyes narrow. “It’s not your concern.”
I sink my heels in. “It’s my fault. I set him up. I had to get to my father… he’s making me marry Vukan.”
Pietro’s jaw tightens as if I’d struck him. His voice is low. “That’s the past.”
“Is it?” I press. “Because last I checked, Milo?, Vukan, and my father are still running the show and Luca’s paying the price.”
He doesn’t respond. I know I pissed him off when he turns to me and says, “You are not to mention Vukan in my presence.” His forehead furrows, and I step back in fear.
“No other man will ever lay a hand on you. You are mine to fuck, and mine to do with as I please. I’m the only man who will touch you and my cock is the only cock that will fuck your tight pussy. Are we clear?”