Chapter 12
Emily
Present day …
“Massimo,” I say as soon as he answers my call. “It’s Emily.”
“Buongiorno, mia bella ragazza (Good morning, my beautiful girl).”
He always says the sweetest things, but never in a creepy way. He’s more like a father figure and, sadly, more present than the one I currently have.
“Do you think you’ll be able to do without me today?” I ask, biting on my thumbnail as I wait for his answer.
He lets out a groan that’s half sigh and half theatrical despair. “Do without you? Impossible! Today is going to be huge. We are catering for over a hundred guests. I’ve been up since 3 am making pastries, and I’m behind. Gino was supposed to be here an hour ago, but he’s having car troubles.”
“Oh.”
“Has something happened, tesoro? Are you sick?”
I glance up at the bathroom mirror and wince as I stare at my reflection. “I … umm—”
“Please don’t tell me you had a fight with the door again.”
Thankfully, the ice I put on my eye last night and again this morning helped with the swelling, and maybe some heavy makeup can cover the nasty bruise under my eye.
Apart from my appearance and mental state, I’m physically okay, so I can’t let him down. This man has been good to me over the years, and he’s counting on me.
I release a long breath, my mind made up. “How about I come to La Riviera now and give you a hand?”
I’d originally planned to go to the restaurant and hitch a ride with him to the rural property, since public transport wasn’t an option. So going in a few hours earlier is no big deal.
The truth is, I’d rather be anywhere than here. I’m done with Mick’s excuses for putting his hands on me. I can’t do this anymore. His empty promises mean nothing because even when the bruise fades, the shame still lingers.
My only issue about working today is that the Christening we are catering is at Romeo De Luca’s house—the underboss of the Cosa Nostra—and that means Dominic will more than likely be in attendance.
The embarrassment I experience when people notice the marks on my skin is nothing compared to what I feel when Dominic sees them. He doesn’t have to say a word; the look in his eyes does enough damage.
His silence and the tightness in his jaw are like he can’t decide whether to be angry, heartbroken, or maybe both.
He’s been cold and distant towards me since the night he gave me his phone number and offered to help. I kept it, too; I just never dared to call him.
“I’d be forever grateful for your help, bella,” Massimo replies.
My shoulders deflate as realisation sets in, I’m going to be at that Christening whether I like it or not. “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I say.
“Sei un angelo (You are an angel).”
Massimo wasn’t lying when he said he was behind. The sheer volume of tasks left unticked on his list when I arrived was enough to make my head spin.
Thankfully, Gino turned up not long after me, and by the time we were ready to transfer everything to the De Luca property, we were pretty much on top of things.
I’m not one to wear a lot of makeup usually; I don’t like how it feels heavy and caked on my skin. But even the concealer I used underneath the foundation wasn’t enough to fully cover the ugly black and purple bruise under my eye.
Massimo noticed the moment I entered the restaurant. “I’m too busy to deal with that right now,” he said, “But mark my words, we’ll be revisiting it later.”
The shame that comes with knowing you allow someone to mistreat you, to put their hands on you, is real. And I’m terrified of what Mick will do if I try to leave. Where would I go? He controls all of my money now and knows where my mother lives.
Even the thought of escaping twists my stomach because I know he’d find me. He has said as much. It’s like being trapped in a cage I built myself, and I’m too afraid of the consequences to even reach for the door.
I’ve heard people say, “Why didn’t she leave?” when someone is in a domestic violence situation. I’ve probably been guilty of saying it myself—or at least thinking it—but the reality is it’s not that simple.
You don’t just decide to leave.
You can’t.
Over time, your aggressor wears you down piece by piece until the fear, the shame, and the exhaustion outweigh your hope. Every insult, every threat, every small act of control chips away at you until it feels impossible to see a way out.
I’m riding shotgun in the refrigerated truck beside Gino, my eyes scanning everywhere as we pull through the front gates of the property where the Christening is being held.
This place is stunning, a sharp contrast to the dive I’m currently living in.
Even when I was young, my parents could never have afforded anything like this.
I grew up in a modest three-bedroom brick house in the suburbs.
Clearly, the local Cosa Nostra live better than the Steel Reapers. Mick could never afford a place this lavish. These days, we can barely make ends meet. His drug habit has gotten so bad that he’s rarely sober. I can only presume that’s where all our money is going.
My attention is locked on the stunning white-weatherboard house with an expansive wraparound veranda, and I can’t help but feel envious.
The view from the rear of the property is just as beautiful, so much so that it almost takes my breath away. Does Dominic live like this, too?
The truck pulls up beside a large mobile kitchen situated behind the expansive white marquee, and once Gino puts it into park and switches off the engine, I reach down for my bag and climb out.
Massimo had to swing past his house and pick up his wife, Maria, who’s going to make sure everything runs like a well-oiled machine while he concentrates on preparing and plating the food.
I’ve worked with her before; she’s a ballbuster but efficient, and she gets the job done.
To be honest, I was relieved not to be riding with him, because there would have been questions about my bruise, ones I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready to answer.
Things have been so busy today, I’ve barely had time to think about Mick, my predicament, or Dominic, but as soon as the guests begin to arrive after church, the nerves settle low in my belly.
“Okay,” Maria chimes, clapping her hands together to get our attention.
The bar staff from one of the Mancini nightclubs have already begun taking around silver trays laden with the best alcohol money can buy—Champagne, aged scotch, and imported beer—offering them to the guests.
I’ll say one thing about the Mafia, they don’t do anything by halves. If you didn’t know who these people really were—a group of gangsters and thugs—you’d think you’d stumbled into some high-society gala.
The event is extravagant, every detail polished to perfection. It’s nothing like the half-hearted barbecues Mick drags me to. I consider myself down to earth, and I’m far from a snob, but when I’m with the Steel Reapers, I feel like I’m surrounded by a bunch of feral Neanderthals.
“Grab a tray of hors d’oeuvres,” she orders. “Be quick and efficient.” Her eyes move to me, pinning me with a look. “And for God’s sake, smile. This is a Christening, not a funeral. It’s a time to rejoice.”
I wonder if Maria bosses poor Massimo around like this at home. He’s such a sweet man, so I feel sorry for him if she does.
Pushing that thought from my mind, I force my feet to move, following the other servers around the side of the marquee and into the swarm of people.
Staying near the edge of the crowd and keeping my head down, and, despite Maria’s warning, I smile only when necessary. My tray empties faster than I expect, and relief floods through me as I slip towards the back for a refill.
No sign of Dominic yet, not that I’ve been looking.
I pass a couple of servers on their way back out, offering them a polite smile. Maria is nowhere to be seen as I set down my empty tray and grab another. That’s two small victories already, and the party’s only been going for ten minutes.
But my luck doesn’t last. Just as I reach the edge of the marquee, a hand shoots out and clamps around my wrist. The sudden grip startles me, and I nearly drop the tray I’m holding, but a second hand steadies it before it falls.
My eyes snap up, and there he is, Dominic, in all his large, imposing glory.
The frown etched into his handsome face tells me exactly how he’s feeling.
He’s wearing a suit today, which is something I’ve never seen him in.
It looks good on him, and I hate that I notice that.
His usual attire consists of jeans, tight T-shirts, and boots.
He’s also had his dark hair cut, buzzed short to the scalp.
It makes him look scarier and more menacing, so it suits him.
Once he’s sure the tray won’t slip from my grasp, his hand shifts from it to my chin, tilting my face upwards. He still hasn’t released my wrist, though.
“What happened to your face?” he asks, his voice low and rough.
“It’s nothing … I-I fell.” The sound he makes isn’t quite a growl, but it vibrates with something darker, something that makes my stomach twist. I force out a smile and accompany it with a lame laugh. “It’s true, I’m clumsy.”
“I don’t believe you.”
I narrow my eyes. “I don’t care if you believe me or not. You don’t get to ask me that. My personal life is none of your business.”
“It is if I make it my business.”
His words have me scoffing. “Why do you even care?”
He chuckles, but not in an amused way. It’s dark and dangerous just like him. “You have no idea, do you. No clue what seeing these bruises on you does to me.”
“Do you care about the bruises you leave on others?” He probably does more than that, but I refuse to let my mind go there. “You’re a hypocrite, you hurt people for a living.”