Chapter 4 #3
“Oh.” I deflate like a popped balloon. My muscles are throbbing from how tense I’ve been for the past several hours.
And unlike the discomforting jolting movements of the train that I’m used to riding on my way to and from work throughout the city, the smooth car ride lulls me into a false sense of security as the lights of signs and other cars fly by.
Just before I close my eyes and sink into sleep, inhaling the clean scent of the leather seats, I think maybe my luck isn’t all that bad. I might be dead tired right now but at least I’m not dead dead.
GIULIO
Irony: [noun] Being dreadfully handsome and still having to pay or threaten a woman to marry you.
The girl—Daisy Marie Turner according to her New York driver’s license—falls asleep fifteen minutes into the ride to her apartment.
The soft waves of her sable-brown hair flutter over one side of her face.
The balloon of a gown that she’d worn down the aisle practically dwarfs her frame.
She’s not a petite woman, but she’s not overly large, either.
If anything, I’d say that Daisy Turner is exactly what comes mind when people think of the average American woman.
Barely five-four to my six-one, she feels incredibly small as she slumps next to me, her head resting on my shoulder.
I take a moment to look her over again. Without the stress and strain on her face, she appears younger.
She is young, I remind myself, still in her early twenties.
Unlike Isa, the woman is pretty rather than a bombshell type of knockout.
Soft, rounded cheeks and a slender waist that curves out.
As her slow breaths cause her chest to rise and fall, the rounded globes of her breasts push pleasingly against the restrictive bodice of her gown. My cock perks up in interest.
I shake my head, trying to ward off the thoughts. It doesn’t matter if my bride is pretty; Daisy Turner is simply a means to an end.
“A man without a family does not know the true meaning of life, son. If I were to promote you now without that tie, you would lose yourself in this world, and I doubt you’d ever find a mate with whom to share your life.
” Don Luciani’s words reverberate through my mind.
It’d been one of our last conversations before he’d left for Italy.
I owe the man everything. My life. My career.
My honor, respect, and loyalty. He’d seen a broken, unwanted kid and invited him into his home.
If having a wife and starting a family is what he wants from me to prove myself, then that’s what he will have.
“Signore? We’re here.” I glance out the window and frown at the neighborhood as Alonzo parks the car.
“This is where she lives?” I stare up at the faded brick building with multiple windows coated in a layer of grime so thick that it’s difficult to see inside.
“This was the address on the girl’s license,” Alonzo replies, “and from the records we researched during the reception, she’s already been here for a year.”
I grimace. This building isn’t fit for a damn rat, much less a woman I intend to keep as my wife. Scowling, I gently ease the woman off my shoulder as I open my door and step outside.
When I round the vehicle on her side and pop open the door, her head falls into my waiting hand. Even with all the jostling and movements, she doesn’t wake. A muffled sound of amusement comes from the driver’s seat. I glare at the back of Alonzo’s head.
“If you find this so funny, then you can get out and help me,” I order.
Alonzo doesn’t argue; he simply pops open his own door and gets out.
Together, the two of us manage to get the girl out of the car and into my arms—big, ridiculous dress and all—in a matter of minutes.
He shuts both car doors and jogs ahead of me to open the door into the lobby of the apartment building.
He doesn’t even have to scan any sort of identification.
“Dear God,” I mutter, “it’s a wonder this place hasn’t been robbed yet.”
“According to police records,” Alonzo offers helpfully as he leads me toward the elevator doors at the back of the lobby, “there are regular calls to this building for robbery, theft, and domestic disputes.”
I close my eyes and draw in a careful and annoyed breath. Why did I ever let Dante talk me into letting the girl go back to her home? Did he know she lives in a place like this?
The light overhead flickers and then goes dead a second later. I glare at the closed doors of the elevator. “Press the damn button,” I mutter.
Alonzo frowns at me and then at the elevator. “I did, Signore.” He reaches forward and presses the button to the side of the elevator doors. It lights up a dull yellow before going out just like the overhead light. No sounds echo down from the elevator shaft. “I think it’s broken.”
Of course it is. I turn toward the stairs. “Which floor is she on?” I demand.
Alonzo follows a step behind. “The top floor,” he tells me.
I pause at the base of the stairs and release a quiet snarl that has the woman in my arms grumbling in her sleep and cuddling closer as if I’m her favorite pillow. Dark lashes throw shadows against pale, freckled cheeks.
“Would you like me to carry her?” Alonzo offers, moving forward with his arms outstretched. I step back before he can touch her.
“She’s my wife,” I snap. “I will carry her.”
Without another word, I ascend the stairs of the run-down apartment building, jaw winding tighter and tighter with each creak of wood and curse from behind closed doors of the various apartments we pass.
One night. That is all I will allow. One night for her to get settled and pack her things, and then, tomorrow, I will be removing her from this pigsty indefinitely.
We reach the top floor several minutes later, and Alonzo carefully pries the girl’s purse from her grip without waking her to withdraw her keys.
The light jingle of metal against metal rouses her only slightly, and she merely presses her face into my chest with an annoyed huff.
The heat of her breath shoots an odd sensation straight to my groin.
I ignore it and clench my teeth as Alonzo finds the right key on the ring.
The door swings inward, revealing a long, narrow foyer.
Together, we make our way into the small apartment, bypassing two doors.
One of them is cracked enough to reveal a bedroom, but I’m not sure if it’s hers, so I keep going.
A moment later, the foyer opens to an equally cramped semi-open-concept living room and kitchenette area complete with a two-burner stove and a mini fridge.
A spiral iron staircase cuts up through the floor in the corner and rises toward a loft area with plant vines crawling over the railing.
Snoozing, breathy noises echo down into the living room area.
“This is a two-bedroom unit?” Alonzo asks, sounding horrified when he realizes there’s snoring coming from the loft above, but there are no other doors for bedrooms. The one we passed must be hers if the loft above has someone else in it.
I take a moment to frown at the collection of strange odds and ends gathered in the tiny home. Plants hang from almost every corner of the ceiling, and I can see even more hanging outside of the slitted window above the loveseat shoved against the farthest wall.
“There are plenty of smaller places in the city,” I remind Alonzo.
“Some contain families.” Before moving to New York and joining the Syndicate, he’d been raised in a village in Italy.
Even if the houses there were small, at least they had land to spread out on.
In New York City, space is a commodity afforded only to the rich.
Turning away from Alonzo, I retrace my steps to the foyer and the door we passed before. I lift the woman’s head against my chest as her skirts catch on the narrow doorways and make carrying her through the apartment far more difficult.
I carry her inside the cracked bedroom door from earlier and am thankful to find the room uninhabited. It must be hers. I circle the messy bed with the patterned comforter thrown back and the pillows askew before gently lowering her down. Alonzo appears in the doorway a moment later.
“Her keys are on the counter in the kitchen with a note,” he says. “Do you want me to bring them in here?”
Daisy’s hands flex on her bed, and I watch as she reaches forward, snagging a small flower-shaped pillow and dragging it into her chest, crushing it and her purse together.
The shape of her waist draws my eye, and my fingers twitch with the desire to touch her there.
My gaze moves up to her neck, and the urge to press my lips to the hollow of her throat makes my mouth dry.
Then she lets out a little snorting noise, ruining the arousing thoughts.
With a sigh, I extract her purse and set it on the nightstand.
“I’ll get them,” I answer, waving him off. “Go make sure the men Dante sent are in place. I’ll be out in a moment.”
Set on his task, I hear the front door opening and closing a short while later. Briefly, I contemplate the girl lying before me. She can’t be comfortable in that monstrosity of a dress, but neither do I believe she’d be pleased by the idea of me undressing her.
The longer I stare at her, though, and at the dress that swarms her body—a body I’d quite admired when she’d been dressed in the far simpler server’s uniform—the more I hate her in it.
So, with as much indulgence as I can muster, I roll Daisy to her front and quickly undo the row of buttons running the length of her back. Thankfully, she’s not naked beneath the fabric and instead wears a simple, pale shift that isn’t attached to the otherwise massive swath of fabric of the dress.
It takes far longer than expected to remove the dress from her body without just ripping the damn thing.
To my utter shock, she doesn’t wake as I maneuver the cupped sleeves over her shoulders and down her arms. Sweating and silently cursing the woman who, for all intents and purposes, is dead to the world as I disrobe her, I practically strangle my fists around the dress when it’s finally kicked to the end of the bed with her tired, annoyed little feet.
The second I’m no longer worried about gently untangling the dress from Daisy’s body, I pause to look her over.
My breath seizes and the dress flutters to the floor already covered in various items of clothing.
For as big and elaborate as the dress had been, it had made her look small when she is anything but.
Full, round breasts strain beneath the fabric of the shift she’s still clothed in, and the bottoms of her ass cheeks peek out as she twists on the mattress, causing the shift’s silky material to hitch.
A shock of something glittery draws my attention away from her body to the sandals—the best my men could find for the ceremony in the time they were given—still strapped to her feet.
I close my eyes and send a prayer to the skies before I reach for the shoes and deftly undo the straps.
Once they’re off, I toss them on top of the dress and head back into the kitchen.
Spotting Alonzo’s note, I grab a pen from the holder on the counter and write a few extra details.
Then I carry both the note and her keys back into the bedroom and leave them on the bedside stand.
Looking down into the pale heart-shaped face of Daisy Turner, I trace her gentle, slightly rounded features with my eyes. What kind of woman falls asleep cuddled up to a man she was just forced to marry?
After a moment’s hesitation, I reach into my pocket and pull a few more items out, laying them alongside the note on her nightstand.
Whoever Daisy Turner is, she’s mine now. My wife and my responsibility, and I always take care of what belongs to me.