The Marriage Debt (The Roma Syndicate #2)

1. Lila

1

LILA

I t's cold in here, raining outside. My wool dress is still damp from being near the graveside, in the rain. There is a lot of activity around me, but I sit in a daze. The same hollow, empty-inside feeling I've lived with for four days now.

I loved him, right?

At least I keep telling myself that. I've been telling myself that for six years every time I got the urge to leave.

I don't have to leave anymore.

"We'll all miss him so much," a passing stranger says to me. She wears a mourner's hat, veil folded over the front shielding her eyes and their crows' feet. I don't know her, but no doubt she knew Anton, probably related.

I force a smile, nod at her condolences, and pray she moves on. Accepting mourners is worse than staring at that open coffin and the horrific way the undertaker fixed his face. Didn't even look like him. Lev asked me who he was, where his daddy is…

"I want to go home now," he whines, stretched out across two uncomfortably cushioned chairs next to me. With one leg draped over the back of them, one dangling from the front of the seat, his head lies on my lap as I smooth his dark hair out of his eyes. Eyes that stare up at me pleading for this to be over. He hates it here.

Almost as much as I hate it here.

"Soon, baby," I soothe, and I let the relief wash through my body again. Six years of torment. Six years of bruises and screaming. Six years of fear, of panic and dread. I'm free now, though—unshackled from a life I threw myself into when I was too young to know what I was doing, and I'm still too young to know what the actual fuck I'm doing.

"Your mother sends her condolences," Rafe says, nodding at me as he sets a bouquet of flowers on a stand next to the picture of my dead husband. His face is drawn. I barely acknowledge his words, just a tight nod. I don't know him, really, just that he works for Anton's brother. Anton's men are mostly gone now too, dead right alongside him in that sickening bloodbath.

Good riddance.

"When can we go?" Lev whines again, kicking his feet.

Rafe walks away, a stern expression on his face as I decide to scoop Lev up. We've spent an adequate amount of time lying around pretending we're mourning the dead. Grief is the farthest thing from what I feel. Mother would say it's come full circle, that I've paid the dues for my bad choices. I'm surprised she isn’t here to rub it in, to tell me what a horrible mother I am and how lucky I am Anton is gone now, that I get a second chance to try for a new life.

I was eighteen and stupid. Fuck her for being the bitch she's always been and turning her back on me when I needed her most.

"Let's go," I whisper, pressing a kiss to his forehead as I cradle him and hoist him up. My hands hook under his bottom, his arms wrap around my neck, and he drapes his head over my shoulder. He's heavier than I remember, but five-year-olds don't stop to think how growing up will affect the way their mother can care for them.

"Is Daddy sad, Mommy?" he asks softly. It's a question he asks me sometimes, when Anton doesn't come home.

"No, baby, he's not sad anymore. He'll never be sad again." He'll never be anything again. Three bullets to the chest and one to the head mean he will never be anything but dead. I'm just glad I wasn't there, that I didn't have to see it.

"Is he coming home? Will he shout at us?"

I hate that as I carry my son toward the doors at the back of the church's reception hall, he's thinking of Anton’s anger and violent streak. He never laid a hand on our son—I never let him—but the bruises on my body, mostly covered by this hideous mourning gown, are still fresh, still tender as I weave through the crowd hoping no one stops me.

"He's not going to shout anymore, baby," I soothe, hoping Anton's memory fades from Lev's little mind seamlessly, that my son isn’t tormented by night terrors and anxieties during the day anymore.

My feet carry us both out the door of the hall, away from the suffocating reach of voices. I'm tired. Exhaustion on my face probably resembles the grief I'm supposed to exhibit. Mom would tell me I’m going to get wrinkles from the horrible lines on my face, and it makes me want to scowl harder.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Rossi." The low rumble of a man's voice stops me in my tracks. Another mourner come to pay his respects before I run off, probably. I stop, sighing that I've missed my chance to escape, and turn with Lev in my arms to face the man.

He has a deep scar across his cheek unmasked by makeup or stubble. His eyes brew storms hell-bent on intimidating me. He's not here to pay respects or honor the dead. The teardrop below his right eye reveals his real purpose—to threaten me.

"That's Ms. Varo now, thank you." I'm only twenty-four, and any other woman my age would cower before a man like this. Seven years ago, I'd have pissed myself, been shaking, probably thrown up all over him.

But here, surrounded by Anton's family and men he called family despite not being blood, I stand firm. I've dealt with these types enough times to know how to handle them. Never back down. Never break eye contact, and never—not even for a second—let them see you're afraid.

"Ms. Varo," he says, reaching his hand out to me. In it he holds a business card, black card stock, white letters. I can't see the name, but I don’t have to understand what he's doing here. This isn't a social call, and of all the despicable places to threaten someone…

"You should be ashamed of yourself, showing your face around here." I've never seen him before, but his ink betrays him. Anton is dead because of him and his men. "You have no right."

I should be shaking his hand, thanking him. He broke a tie I was powerless to free myself and my son from, and all over a bit of money. I'd have given my very blood to get Lev away from Anton safely, but I knew no matter where I sent him Anton would've found him, and I'd be dead now. My son would be motherless.

"Your husband had unpaid debts." He nods his head, as if tipping a hat or greeting me fondly. He's disgusting, a vile heathen I loathe, someone who reminds me of the ties I've made in this life that I cannot undo. It's in Lev's blood too—I've doomed him simply by carrying him to term.

I raise my chin, meet his gaze. I'm not intimidated at all. I'm angry. " Vaffanculo ," I hiss, stamping the heel of my foot onto the marble floor.

Lev lifts his head sleepily, looks up at the man, and blinks a few times. "Mommy?" he says, oblivious to the insult I've slung at this sick bastard.

"Shh, baby. We're leaving now," I tell him, but I keep my eyes glued to the monster in front of me. A man much like Anton, scary and dangerous but not my problem anymore. I don't owe him money. Anton did, and Anton is dead.

The man walks away, and when he is gone, I find my car waiting. It's a luxury I'm going to have to cough up soon. The Rossis won't keep paying for me to live in the lap of luxury anymore, and God knows my family won't either. I've drained every one of Anton's accounts that I know of. It's roughly a half-million I'll have to stay comfortable while I find a way to make money for myself. In Rome, that's several years of low-income housing and surviving, but not if I take into account Lev's education. I have to think about that.

The car shuttles us home, and Lev falls asleep in my arms. I stare out the window blankly, much the same way I stared at the guests at the funeral wake. Life is going to change. I'm not sure what it will look like, but I want to put as much distance between the Rossi family and my son as possible. I don't want him sucked into this mess. Anton wanted to train him up to be some sort of replacement or soldier. We argued about it daily. Now Lev can be what he wants.

When the car stops, I slide out, pick Lev up, and head to the door. The small apartment in Trastevere isn't home, but the gift from Anton has kept me company more than one lonely, sleepless night. He gave it to me when I caught him fucking that whore, Bianca. Whenever he wanted her in our bed, he'd suggest I visit "the trast." It was his reminder that I was under his thumb, just another whore he fucked.

"Mommy," Lev whimpers, and I soothe him with kisses on his cheeks.

"We're home, baby," I tell him as I begin the climb up the stairs. I don't see her until I'm already at the door with my driver two steps ahead of me to unlock it for me.

Marcella, my cousin and one of the only members of my family I've kept in touch with over the years, stands with an umbrella, dressed in black, holding a portfolio. As I approach, she pulls a manila folder from it and with a stern expression she thrusts it in my direction.

"What's this?" I say, shaking my head. I'm not accepting anything right now. I'm holding my son.

My driver takes it, nodding at her and smiling as he also takes Lev from my arms and carries him in the house. I hug my arms over my chest and stare at my cousin, who is here for a purpose. But at least her attire is appropriate for the occasion.

"Lila," she starts, and I already hear the tone. I hate that tone, condescending, punitive. "Serafina sends her regards?—"

"And what?"

Her eyes drop. She's ashamed, but she's not backing down. Mother has a death grip on her somehow. "And a summons."

Marcella is a lawyer, the family lawyer. Ten years my senior, she was leaving law school when I was throwing myself at Anton as the escape hatch, hoping to flee my parents' strict ideologies. This was never supposed to happen. Anton just took control, and here I am.

"A summons?" I ask, glancing into the open door. It's cold. I want Lev with me.

"Serafina is seeking custody of Lev, Lila. She says you're an unfit mother." She tightens her lips into a firm line and then continues. "She said to 'get your shit in order' and she told me to serve you." Her eyes drop again. "I'm sorry."

"What do you mean, she's seeking custody? Lev is my son. My son, not hers. She can't take him from me." My heart throws itself against my ribcage. My head spins.

"He's not safe in the life of crime, Lila. She only wants what's best for him."

My hand reaches out and smacks her across the face before I can think. "She's not taking my son." My chest heaves. My vision blurs. "Get off my property." I have no way to fight them. They have no right to do this.

"Just don’t fight this. Maybe they'll take you back…" Marcella walks away with her head hanging under the umbrella, and I stand there shuddering in anger.

Anton is reaching from the grave. It's his doing. He's haunting me, taking everything I have left, the only thing I love.

Well, fuck him.

Because no one is taking my son. Not even my own fucking mother.