Chapter 20
I haven’t set foot into L’ultima Cena in years.
It was once my mother’s favorite restaurant.
Their braciole was her favorite dish. That changed when I was eleven.
During her birthday dinner, she made a comment about my father drinking too much.
He stood from his chair and dumped his bowl of spaghetti over her head. After that, she refused to go back.
That was the day I lost the little respect I’d had for Nuncio Lastro.
It was also the day I decided I didn’t care if he died. Deep down, I hoped for it and knew there was a possibility it’d be at my hands.
Today is Gigi’s birthday brunch. I try to opt out of these events as often as I can.
I’ll volunteer to do the worst job if it gets me out of a social situation.
Birthday party or bury a body? Where’s the fucking shovel?
Family dinner or scrub brains off the floor? Pass me the gloves.
Usually, I get away with this. In our line of work, there’s always a job that needs to be done and someone who’d rather socialize than do it. But Antonio made it clear. Today, I had to attend and bring Liliya with me.
Attending a party and spending quality time with my wife? Sounds like my personal hell.
Or that’s what I keep telling myself.
That plan has been unraveling from the start.
I was supposed to keep my distance from my wife, not care, and keep her locked up like a prisoner while I went about my daily business. Sure, I’d check on her every so often, but I had Maggie there for the day-to-day, make sure she doesn’t die bullshit.
Instead, I keep returning to the place I once wanted to burn to the ground. Whether it’s to stitch a man up, to force her to eat, or to stop her from running through the goddamn woods.
One of us men could’ve easily stitched Leo up. It’d have been sloppier work, but we would’ve managed.
I keep putting myself in situations to be near her.
Last night, I took it too far.
We shared a bed. Something I’d never done before.
Have I fucked women and made them come? Yes.
But I always leave after. No cuddling or spending the nights together. I normally tell them thanks and toss a few hundred on the bed.
As I lay in bed beside her, I regretted not giving her time to grab her own body wash. She smelled like my soap, but I wanted her to mark herself on my sheets. I dreamed of her. Another rarity for me.
My wife is getting under my skin.
She’s consuming me in every way.
Liliya’s stomach growling breaks me from my thoughts.
“Maybe if you hadn’t starved yourself these past few days, you wouldn’t be so hangry, as you called it,” I comment, stopping at a red light.
She crosses her arms. “It’s my silent protest to this marriage.”
“Look at how far that’s gotten you. You’re still married, at my mercy, and hungry.” I hit the gas when the light turns green.
She glares at me, turning back to look straight ahead, but her lips morph into a smug smile. “Actually, look at how far it’s gotten me. I’m breaking free of my prison and being fed at one of the nicest restaurants in the city.”
“Trust me, this isn’t out of the kindness of my heart or me caving in to your games.”
She slaps her hand against her thigh. “Of course it isn’t. There’s no kindness inside you. As with all men in this world, any shred of kindness in your heart was eaten up by cruelty—like Pac-Man chomping up every last bit of your humanity.”
I have to fight back a smile at her comment. Another fucking rarity for me.
“Do they teach you how to make terrible analogies in nursing or Russian Bratva school?”
She turns in her seat to glare at me. “This kind of humor can’t be taught. You’re either born with the gift or you’re not.” She waggles her finger in my direction. “You, my forced husband, were not born with that gift.”
“Good thing I was born with plenty of others.” I half smirk.
Her cheeks redden, as if her mind went to the dirtiest thought she could imagine.
Maybe that’ll shut her up.
She stays quiet for the rest of the short drive and perks up in her seat when I veer into L’ultima Cena’s back parking lot. I swerve into the spot between Antonio’s and Damien’s vehicles.
The sun beats down on my back when I step out of the SUV and circle to Liliya’s side to open her door. She takes her sweet time getting out of the vehicle, as if trying to punish me.
“For someone hungry, you sure are moving slow,” I say stupidly, because it only causes her to move slower.
When she’s finally outside, I slam the door and check the time, finding we’re ten minutes late.
I push Liliya forward. “Straight to the door. You run, and I have a room full of people in that building ready to hunt you down.”
She mutters words I can’t make out—most likely talking shit—and shuffles forward.
After a few moments, her walk turns more into a strut. She swings her hips and twirls a strand of hair around her ring finger.
Sometimes, I think this woman actually wants me to strangle her.
I stare at her, my eyes moving with the sway of her hips, like a man who wants to fuck his wife. I tug at my collar, noticing sweat building up there, while not taking my eyes off her until we make it to the door.
Her body has become my new obsession.
The dress clings to her perfect curves and full ass. With each strut, her ass jiggles in my face.
I bite into the corner of my lip, hoping I don’t have to punch a man if they look at my wife with lust in their eyes.
She hesitates when we reach the door, not knowing what to do.
I notice and salute the two-armed guards standing on the roof. My guess, that’s Cristian’s doing, and probably the only man who could get away with having armed men here.
Liliya glances back at me, biting into her lip while waiting for my next move.
Not so bold when you could be entering a slaughterhouse, huh?
I brush around her and hit the bell on the door. The door swings open moments later, and Oliver—the owner’s grandson who was recently promoted from server to general manager—stands in front of us, wearing the L’ultima Cena uniform.
Liliya falls back a few steps, hitting my chest.
Oliver tilts his head, squinting in my direction. “Emilio? Is that you? Cavolo! Long time no see!”
He waves us forward, grinning like we’re old friends.
We’re not.
While we’re the same age, the only time we’ve spoken is when I came here for dinners and he bussed tables for his family.
The smell of fresh-baked bread, Parmesan, and garlic lingers in the air. A thunder of memories of my family hits me.
“And who’s this lovely lady?” Oliver asks as the door shuts behind us.
“My wife,” I reply, completely emotionless.
“Does your wife have a name?”
“Liliya,” she answers for me, offering her hand to him. “Don’t mind my husband. He forgets I exist sometimes. Matter of fact, this is the first time I’ll have eaten in days.” She drops his hand, turning to look at me smugly. “He prefers to keep his hostage hungry.”
Oliver glances from her to me before raising a bushy brow. “Newlyweds, I take it?”
I nod while grabbing Liliya’s half ponytail and jerking it back.
She hisses in pain.
“Explains it.” He tips his head, half bowing toward Liliya. “It’s nice to meet you, Liliya. I hope your husband brings you here for plenty of date nights. The rest of the party is in the burgundy room. You two enjoy your meals.” He smiles at Liliya, then me, before walking down the hall.
Oliver knows how this world works.
His family isn’t in the Mafia, but they cater to us.
For decades, the restaurant has provided us with a place to talk business with other families or the privacy to kill another man who’s crossed us. I was fourteen when my father told me they charge extra for cleaning blood off walls and any cold bodies must be removed within the hour.
Liliya winces while tugging away from me.
I wait three seconds before I release her hair. A punishment for her little attitude.
She rubs at her scalp while turning to glance at me. “Burgundy room?”
“That way.” I motion toward the hallway lined with photos and doors that lead to private rooms. “Third room on the right.”
The same room where I killed my first man.
I slit his throat with my dinner knife and sat next to him, eating dessert while he bled out. He held his neck, begging me for a bullet to the head, a quick death of mercy. I stabbed my fork through his eye for asking such a disrespectful question.
My father said I’d never made him prouder.
All Liliya’s confidence is gone as she takes slow steps toward the room. As we grow closer, I hear commotion on the other side of the door.
Ignazio, one of our foot soldiers, stands guard at the door.
“Emilio,” he greets, stepping to the side before nodding toward Liliya. “Liliya.”
She smiles at him nervously, staying behind me as I push open the door into chaos.
We’re barely inside when I hear her mutter, “Holy shit. I’m in Mafia hell.”
She has no damn clue what’s coming.