5. Dante
Chapter 5
Dante
S lumping back into my seat as soon as we board the private jet, I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes with a frustrated sigh. This whole situation is giving me a fucking headache, and I’ve been married less than twenty-four hours.
I have enough shit on my plate when I get home, rebuilding my father’s empire from the ground up. That alone is a task that will be anything but easy. On top of that, I now have to deal with an emotional, disgruntled wife.
Arabella hasn’t stopped crying since her tearful goodbye to her sister, who was waiting for us by the car outside Stefano’s house. I’ve never been good with emotional women, but there’s something unnerving about it when it’s your wife.
I somehow feel responsible. I’m the one who’s caused her grief. I only agreed to this charade of a marriage to get Giovanni back, never once thinking about how it would affect her. And for that, I feel like an arsehole.
“Can I get you something to drink before we take off, Mr Mancini?” Maria, the flight attendant, asks.
“I’ll have a scotch on the rocks. Actually, make it a double. ”
It might help me get some sleep, something I haven’t had much of in the past few days.
“And your wife?” she adds, glancing at Arabella.
My wife.
I still can’t believe it. Papa is probably turning in his grave, cursing his two sons from the beyond. He hounded us to settle down and give him an heir for years, never letting up. Not even a year has passed since we buried him, and Alexander and I are both married. Ironically, he didn’t live long enough to see the one thing he wanted most come true.
My brother will more than likely give him his heir. I doubt he’ll get one from me. It’s hard to knock up your wife when she won’t let you touch her.
I glance over at Arabella, who’s sitting on the other side of the plane in the furthest seat from mine, and lift one shoulder. “I don’t know, ask her.” My reply comes out a little more aggressive than intended.
Maria’s eyes widen slightly, but I have no idea if she wants a drink, what she likes to drink, or if she even drinks, which only seems to add to that relentless fucking throbbing in my head.
I watch as Maria tentatively approaches her. “Could I get you something to drink, Mrs Mancini?” she asks in a kind, soft voice.
Arabella shakes her head and returns to looking out the side window. It has me blowing out a long, frustrated breath.
Fuck my life.
I wake with a start when the plane jerks, the sudden movement pulling me from a deep, disoriented sleep. Arching my back, I stretch and work the stiffness from my neck, moving it from side to side .
I hadn’t meant to fall asleep in my seat. I was hoping to make it to the bed before that happened. I guess the two double scotches I drank did the trick, knocking me out faster than I anticipated.
Blinking away the haze, I glance around, trying to get my bearings. The dull throb in my head still lingers at the back of my skull.
My eyes zero in on Arabella and see she’s now curled into a small, tight ball as she lies across both seats. She looks anything but comfortable, and for some reason, that sight tugs at something deep inside me.
Glancing down at my watch, I see we’ve only been in the air a few hours, so we still have a long way to go until we reach Australia.
I unclip my seat belt and stand. My eyes briefly flick to the back of the plane towards the private bedroom before returning to my wife.
I hesitate for a moment before muttering, “Fuck it,” under my breath. I close the distance between us in a few long strides, effortlessly scooping her into my arms.
She’s sleeping so soundly that when I lift her, she only stirs briefly before her body softens in my hold. When she unexpectedly nuzzles the side of her face into my chest with a quiet, breathy sigh, I stand there, frozen, unsure of what to do next. Her warmth and the intimacy it brings are jarring.
As I move towards the rear of the plane, I make the most of my free pass and stare down at her sleeping face. I’m again momentarily struck by her beauty. The warm glow of her skin contrasts with the softness of her features. She has effortless elegance even when asleep.
Her long, dark hair is pulled back from her delicate face, and her thick lashes fan out against her cheek. Her full, slightly parted lips—lips I can’t seem to stop thinking about—call to me in a way I can’t ignore .
Yet again, I have to remind myself that this isn’t real. This is purely a marriage of convenience, nothing more.
I hope my brother appreciates having his son back—which I know he does—because I’m now bound to a woman who can’t stand the sight of me for the rest of my damn life.
After I reach the private bedroom, I kick the door closed with my foot and move towards the bed, gently laying her on top of the mattress.
I slide Arabella’s shoes off her feet, careful not to wake her, then toe out of my own and round the bed. I hoped to come in here alone, but my conscience wouldn’t allow that. Whether I like it or not, I’m responsible for this woman and her well-being.
I’m rudely awoken from my dream—where my wife had my dick buried down the back of her throat—when she starts squirming in my arms.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she shrieks. “Unhand me this instant.”
She thrusts her childbearing hips in my direction—her father’s words, not mine—unintentionally rubbing that perfectly round, full arse of hers against my rock-hard, aching cock.
I’m forced to clench my lips together to stifle my groan. It’s the most action I’ve seen all week, and it’s not lost on me that this is what has become of my life. My dick is now only getting attention in a struggle or my imagination.
Is this my karma for all the one-night stands and broken hearts I’ve left in my wake?
“Oh my God, please don’t tell me that’s your, your … thing digging into my backside.”
“I’m beginning to take offence at you constantly referring to my dick as a thing, Bellezza . And correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe it’s your backside that’s pushing against my dick … not the other way around.”
That has her jutting her pelvis forward, bending her body into the shape of a banana, giving herself the widest berth possible from my anatomy. As offensive as that is, I can’t help but chuckle.
“Why am I in here … in bed with you?”
“You’re my wife … married people sleep in the same bed.”
“If you think I’m sharing a bed with you for the rest of my life, you are sadly mistaken.”
I had intended on setting her up in one of the other rooms when we arrived home … there’s plenty to choose from, but to spite her, I find myself replying, “Sucks to be you then, Arabella, because we’ll be sharing a bed for the foreseeable future.”
“I’d rather sleep on the hard floor than beside you.”
“That can be arranged,” I grumble, removing my hand from her waist and climbing out of bed. I don’t even care what this woman thinks of me, so I don’t understand why her words cut so deep.
I’ve been overlooked and undermined by my father, and unintentionally overshadowed by my brother, my entire life. It’s toughened me and made me develop a thick skin over the years. But for some reason, being so openly despised by this woman cuts deeper than anything I’ve ever felt. It infuriates me to no end, and I find my carefully constructed armour suddenly useless in the face of her disdain.
I sit on the edge of the mattress, giving her my back as I bend to slip on my shoes.
“We should be landing soon,” I grumble as I stand.
When I leave, I slam the bedroom door behind me like a child as I storm back to my seat.
My mother made me believe that marriage was a sacred thing, something to cherish. But it hasn’t even been a full day, and I’m already contemplating a divorce.
I knew my first time back here would be hard, but as we head up the long drive towards the house, I feel physically sick.
My stomach twists, and my eyes flicker, scanning every corner, every shadow as if I’m expecting gunmen to emerge at any moment. The tension in the air is palpable, and the weight of everything that happened the last time I was here hangs heavy on my chest.
Logically, I know the shooting left me with more scars than the ones on my back; my nightmares are a testament to that.
I’ve always been reckless, even as a child, living on the edge, fearless in the face of danger. But the panic rising within me now makes me feel anything but strong. It’s a weakness I can’t shake, and it gnaws at me, reminding me that I’m not as invincible as I once thought.
“Are you okay?” Arabella asks, pulling me out of my inner turmoil.
The fact that she even notices something’s off does nothing to help me right now. If anything, it makes it worse.
When I don’t answer, she reaches out to place her hand on my leg, and without thinking, I push it away.
“Don’t touch me,” I growl, my voice rough and edged with something darker.
She probably thinks that was retaliation for her outburst on the plane, but she’d be wrong. The truth is, I’m teetering on the precipice, balanced on a knife’s edge, and her compassion—her warmth—is the last thing I need right now. It doesn’t soothe me. It unravels me. Makes me feel more fragile … more out of control.
I’m not one to hold grudges unless you’re a Mortelli because then I’ll hate you ’til my dying day. I’m simply having a moment, like everyone does, where I lose my cool. I’ll eventually move on and get the fuck over it. It’s what I do.
The car stops parallel to the house, and my driver gets out and opens the back door. I just sit there, trying to summon the strength to exit the vehicle.
Nothing will be the same once I walk through that door. I won’t see my father lounging in his recliner chair, sipping on his glass of amaro after dinner. That bitter herbal liqueur that is made from a mix of botanicals, roots, and spices tastes like arse if you ask me, but he loved it. He claimed it was a good digestif after a meal, but I’d rather have heartburn than consume that shit.
He’d sit there for hours in the evenings, the sound of Giuseppe Di Stefano, his favourite opera singer, or the old classics from Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin blaring from the record player. If I’m being real, it used to drive me fucking crazy, but right now, I’d give anything to hear it again.
I will also no longer find him sitting behind his desk in his office, where he spent his days making calls or talking shop.
I might have been a thirty-one-year-old man still living at home with his father, but I only stayed because he wanted me there. When Papa wasn’t surrounded by his men, he lived a pretty solitary life, and there was no way I could leave him alone like that.
I was just a kid when I lost my mum, but I remember how much my father loved her. He worshipped the ground she walked on. He was never the same after her death.
“Is there a problem, Mr Mancini?” Dario, my driver, asks, and that’s all it takes to set me in motion. If I’m going to take over where my father left off, I can’t let my men see any weakness. A crack in my resolve would only undermine my authority.
I alight from the car and button up my suit jacket before turning and reaching for Arabella’s hand. She eyes it sceptically but eventually wraps her dainty fingers around mine, which I’m thankful for.
I don’t let go of her hand as we ascend the front stairs. At this moment, she’s my crutch and unaware that with every step, she’s giving me the strength to walk through that door and face what lies on the other side.
I fill my lungs with air as I reach for the door handle and step inside. The first thing that hits me is the dead, oppressive silence. There’s no music, distant chatter, or mouthwatering smells of Lina cooking up a storm in the kitchen.
It doesn’t feel like the home I once loved anymore … it feels hollow and empty. Maybe Alexander was right; I should’ve sold it and started over. At the time, though, it felt like I’d already lost so much, and getting rid of this place seemed like another blow I wasn’t ready to face.
“It’s nice,” Arabella says, squeezing my hand.
I arch a brow as I turn my face in her direction. “Nice?” This place is anything but nice. “It’s gaudy … over the top, just like my father was.”
A sprawling monstrosity of marble floors, gold fixtures, and crystal chandeliers dripping from every ceiling, each room more opulent and ostentatious than the last. It was only the best for him.
Arabella winces, which tells me she was just being polite. “This can be your first job as the lady of the house … to redecorate.”
Her pretty green eyes widen. “You want me to decorate your home?”
“Our home, Bellezza . You are my wife now … what’s mine is yours. ”
“Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack.”
“I can really decorate it?” I don’t miss the hint of excitement in her voice. “However I like?”
“However you like … no expense spared.”
My words have her doing something I didn’t expect. She smiles at me, the first real one I’ve ever seen from her. And it’s genuine, no mask … no pretences. It hits me like a punch to the gut, making my heart tighten in my chest.
“Okay.”
I arch a brow. “Okay,” I repeat the word, solidifying our agreement.
“Is this your mother?” she asks, stepping forward to eye the large painting on the wall.
Papa had it commissioned a few years before we lost her. A marble table is positioned below it. A statue of the Virgin Mary holding Jesus sits in the middle, and candles flank each side.
My father’s shrine to his wife .
He would light those candles and say a prayer for her every morning.
“It is.”
“She was beautiful … you have her eyes.”
I feel the corners of my lips curl at the edges, but when my eyes involuntarily move to the painting on the opposite wall—one I’ve looked at a million times throughout my life—it instantly drops from my face.
It’s a painting of my father, and as soon as my gaze skims over his face, an image flashes through my mind … the moment the first bullet hit.
It entered through the back of his skull and exited via the front. Pieces of his brain matter propelled forward, some even hitting me in the face. I feel the bile rise to my throat as the memory takes hold. Seconds earlier, we’d been sitting around the table enjoying our Christmas lunch and laughing at something one of his men had said.
I drop Arabella’s hand and take a step back. “Excuse me,” I mutter, spinning around and heading for the door we just came through.
I think I’m going to be sick.