Emma
“Our church isn’t quite as big as this one,” Affonso said from beside Emma in the pew.
Emma didn’t know how to respond to that. For the last two hours, Affonso had been dropping hints and information about New York during the drive to the church and during Mass. He spoke about his two daughters from his dead wife. Michelle was the youngest at fourteen and Cynthia was the oldest at sixteen.
Emma was sure the man had said he had a “handful” of daughters. Apparently, the ones born from his mistresses weren’t important enough for him to talk about. She didn’t press him about the children he might have made outside of his first marriage. Even the two children he did talk about were quickly discussed and then dropped before he moved onto something else. Emma did learn that the two girls spent most of their year away at boarding school.
The two girls would likely hate her.
Jesus.
She was only four years older than the oldest one.
Holidays would be awkward, if nothing else.
“I know your uncle hasn’t attended church since his divorce from his first wife,” Affonso said.
“He hasn’t, no,” Emma agreed quietly.
“But you do, yes?”
“Every Sunday.”
When she had been home to go, that was. While she was away at boarding school, church hadn’t been a very important thing. Emma didn’t add that information in. It’d been two years since she graduated high school, anyway. She’d messed around with some college courses but never settled on one particular area of study.
Now, she wouldn’t get the chance at all.
“Good. Then explaining to you why you’ll continue to attend in New York is pointless. You already know.”
Emma glanced up at him. “I enjoy church. I think it’s peaceful, in a way.”
Affonso’s lips flattened into a grim line. “I find it boring, but it’s a necessary evil. Confession is even worse.”
Maybe if the man didn’t have a lot to confess, his confessions wouldn’t be so daunting. It wasn’t Emma’s place to point that out to her future husband, so she stayed quiet.
“You won’t have to worry about convincing me to go,” Emma said.
“Wonderful.”
The progression of Mass continued. Emma, like she usually did on Sundays, watched her family and the familiar faces surrounding her in other pews. Her gaze caught the rays of early January sunlight filtering in through the stained glass windows. Prisms of light danced across the altar, down the aisle, and over the congregation. Shuffling clothes and the squeak of shoes echoed throughout the building as the people stood, prayed, and sat back down, over and over.
It was familiar.
Almost comforting.
Peaceful, Emma repeated silently.
“How do you feel about a private lunch after Mass?” Affonso asked.
It wasn’t really a question.
Emma smiled falsely. “That would be nice.”
“Your uncle has some kind of dinner party planned later, as far as I know. The arrangement for the marriage will be announced then and I will hand over your ring. I’m sure you’ll like the piece. Your father said you have a taste for anything that’s princess cut, an interesting color, and more than a couple of carats. Was he telling me the truth?”
Shame rested heavily on the back of Emma’s tongue. It tasted a hell of a lot like disgust and anger. She wasn’t feeling those things for Affonso, but for herself.
She hadn’t minded the life of a spoiled mafia principessa. Being respected and adored by la famiglia, simply because she was someone’s daughter and had a good last name had lulled Emma into a false sense of security. Her sheltered life and foolishness had put her in this position.
A position where she woke up one day to the rug being ripped out from under her.
Emma wondered if she deserved this. She had rows and rows of beautiful clothes, shoes, and bags at home, bought for her by her mother and father. She had jewelry galore, a penthouse apartment in a Casino hotel, and a Benz with her name on the license plate.
She had always been stupid.
Spoiled into submission.
Tricked like an idiot.
And now she was the one being used.
“Emma?” Affonso asked again.
Drawing in a slow breath, Emma said, “My father didn’t lie. He’s been spoiling me with diamonds for years, Affonso.”
Emma was only now realizing the game her father played.
And she had lost.
“What’s wrong, bella?”
Emma blinked down at her hands clasped in her lap. She knew from her earlier discussion with Affonso that he didn’t like it when others questioned him. He certainly didn’t seem to like it when a much younger woman, one he essentially considered to be a child, questioned him.
Even so, the words still spilled out.
She couldn’t stop them.
“Is that what you want?” Emma asked.
“Pardon?”
Emma caught Affonso’s eye from the side. He was watching her with a hint of amusement in his otherwise cold gaze, but the ghost of a smile shadowed the edge of his mouth.
“Am I what you want, Affonso?”
“I would say so, considering you’re the woman I chose.”
“A silly, young wife,” Emma said, not bothering to hide her contempt or bitterness. “A stupid, spoiled, and easily placated wife. One that will brush off the awfulness around her when you buy her a new car. One that will overlook your whores when you fill her closets with new dresses and furs. Am I supposed to hide the unhappiness with all the jewelry and makeup, too?”
Affonso smiled slowly. “Well, well.”
Emma didn’t wish for a second that she could take her words back. She’d meant every single one of them. Frankly, her father, uncle, and Affonso were lucky that she had made it to the church without spilling her true feelings.
Up on the altar, the priest asked the congregation to stand once more for another song and yet another blessing. Emma stood like she was supposed to. Affonso quickly followed beside her. She placed her hands on the rounded edge of the back of the pew in front of her.
One of Affonso’s hands covered hers.
She felt the heat of his palm, but it did nothing. The weight of his fingers and the gold bands he wore rubbed against her skin.
Again, nothing.
“You’re exactly what I want,” Affonso murmured.
He never once took his eyes off the altar.
“I married for love once. In twenty-five years of marriage, she gave me two daughters, a well-kept home, and a warm bed. She was neither spoiled, stupid, nor easily placated, as you said. But like you will, Emma, she learned her place in the hierarchy of la famiglia and took her seat like all good wives of bosses do. The quicker you take yours, the easier this will all be.”
“I don’t want to be married,” Emma said, harsher than she first realized.
Affonso chuckled. “You mean to say that you don’t want to be married to me.”
Was there a fucking difference?
Emma didn’t see one.
“Nonetheless, you will be my wife in a month’s time,” Affonso added. “You’ll have another few weeks here with your family before you fly down to New York, and settle into a new life with a much better status than you have now.”
“I don’t care about status.”
But she had.
Once.
The truth choked her.
Emma despised herself for even knowing that at one time, she had soaked in the attention as a boss’s only niece, reveled in her family’s position, power, and wealth, and at the same time, ignored what it would mean for her in the end.
Stupid girl.
“I wondered how long it would take,” Affonso said, more to himself than her.
Emma watched him from the corner of her eye, wary and unsettled in her heart. “Take for what?”
“For your anger and fight to show. A tiger can’t change or hide its stripes, after all. Your father and uncle did a damn good job this morning of dressing you up, prettying your face, and prepping you for the first meeting. But it was when you were alone and without them that I knew you wouldn’t be able to hold up the mask. And it’s fine, really. Better for me to see it than them.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I know that no matter what you feel or believe, you’re still going to be my wife. Your father and uncle want you to take the easy road down the altar with no muss or fuss.”
Emma swallowed hard. “So?”
“Honestly, bella, I don’t give a good goddamn if you fight your way down it.”
Great.
“I’ve hired a moving company for your penthouse apartment,” Affonso informed her.
He had done it at the right time, considering Emma had her mouth full of steak and couldn’t respond. In just the few hours she had spent with the man, Emma had quickly learned that Affonso Donati was shady and sly.
It left behind an icky feeling. Like the man couldn’t be trusted.
Swallowing the bit of meat, Emma said, “I can take care of packing my own things, Affonso.”
“Perhaps, but you won’t be bringing much down to New York at the end of the month. Most of your things will be given away or donated. I’m sure you have a few knickknacks or treasures that mean something. You can keep those, of course. And your clothes, shoes, and whatever else you females enjoy dressing up in. As long as it’s appropriate, a good name, and stylish enough for the wife of a boss, then you are more than welcome to pack it up and have it sent to the mansion. One of the maids will sign for it and I’ll let them know which room to put it all in. You can go through it again with me when you’re home.”
Emma’s frustration made her drum her nails on the tabletop. “You’re not staying here?”
Her words had come out as irritated and sharp as she felt. She wished the nervousness and unease from earlier in the day would return for long enough for her to do what she needed until Affonso left Las Vegas.
Then maybe she could plan.
Something …
At that moment, Emma didn’t know if there was anything she could do to get herself out of this situation and arranged marriage.
Affonso’s brow lifted. “No. I’m flying out tomorrow afternoon.”
“Huh.”
“You don’t look disappointed.”
Emma didn’t even try to placate or lie to the man. “You’re upending my life. You’re making rules, taking away my things, and forcing me into compliance because you know I have nothing to fight against you with. I’ll get a month without you looking over my shoulder before I have to stare at you every day for the rest of my life. Do you really think I’m going to be disappointed that you’re leaving without me?”
Dry, deep chuckles echoed from Affonso before he lifted his glass to take a drink of white wine. Emma wondered if the Don had a taste for alcohol. It was only noon, after all, and that was his fourth glass.
Affonso’s gold pinky ring hit his glass as he tapped his finger along the side. Sitting across from her at the small, cozy table, Affonso radiated an aura that churned with his aloof attitude and cold demeanor. The few lines at the edges of his eyes deepened when he was annoyed, but that was his only show.
Turning his head slightly, Affonso watched Emma from the side. Silently, unmoving, and calculating. A shiver raced down her spine.
Affonso wasn’t exactly old, but he wasn’t young, either. Emma had a feeling that Affonso’s age made him more susceptible to people’s bullshit and lies. His profession, on the other hand, taught him how to deal with those kinds of people.
Emma didn’t want to be one of them.
“Are you quite finished?” he asked.
The deadly calm tenor of his tone reminded Emma of a slow-moving river. It looked safe enough, but once a person caught the undertow, they were dead and gone.
Emma quickly decided not to irritate the man more than she already had. Affonso had been promised something from her—a proper, young wife who knew how to behave. One that could give him exactly what he wanted in his personal and professional life. She could be the perfect public image of a housewife, while also being the respectable persona of a Cosa Nostra Don’s wife.
He clearly expected her to understand that, too.
“You’re quite a combative little thing, aren’t you?” Affonso asked, smiling slowly.
“I—”
“Don’t argue the point, bella. It’s clear to me that your spoiled nature occasionally bleeds into your personality more than you realize. I can only chalk that up to age for so long before that is no longer an acceptable excuse.”
“I wasn’t going to argue it,” Emma said.
“Oh?”
The genuine surprise on Affonso’s face almost made her laugh.
Almost.
Emma held it back, somehow.
“No, I wasn’t,” she said. “My father regularly tells me to cut the attitude. I’m aware that I can sometimes be …”
“I think bratty is the word you’re looking for.”
Ouch.
His words felt like a slap cracking across her cheek.
Emma let out a quiet breath, and put her rudeness in check. The last thing she wanted to do was anger Affonso and end up in a worse position than she already was by having to marry the man. “My apologies, Affonso.”
“That’s better,” he murmured. “As for your things and the movers, I’m sure you will have no problems.”
“I thought you were leaving. How am I supposed to know what you consider appropriate for me to keep or wear, without your input?”
“Just because I’m leaving doesn’t mean you will be left alone, Emma. I may be a couple of decades older than you, but that doesn’t make me a fool. And I certainly won’t give you the chance to make me look like one, either.”
What?
Emma’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”
Affonso tipped his glass in the direction behind Emma. Turning slightly in her seat, she caught sight of a familiar presence. Calisto sat two tables away with his head down and cup of coffee in his hands. He raised the cup high enough to take a sip. The curve of his mouth, tipping into a smirk that felt laced with something unknown, said that he knew she was watching. The strong lines of Calisto’s face were darkened by the corner he sat in.
Tilting his head up, Calisto’s dark eyes found Emma’s green ones almost instantly. His expression was passive, uncaring even, but his gaze burned straight through her.
Instantly, she wondered who he was beyond Affonso Donati’s nephew. She knew better than to let her curiosity climb higher than it already was. Calisto lifted his cup to take another sip, and he cocked an eyebrow at her. Something wicked twisted in her gut.
Sexy came to mind.
So did sinful.
Her interest was undeniable.
And unobtainable.
Jesus.
Emma turned back around in her seat. “Is he my bodyguard?”
Affonso barked out a laugh. “God, no.”
“Oh.”
“My nephew will stay behind and keep an eye on you, but once we get back to New York, he’ll go back to working as my consigliere,” Affonso said. “God knows I could use a break from him for a month. Believe it or not, but Cal can sometimes be even more difficult than your bratty attitude, Emma. He’s made his place abundantly clear to me—unfortunately—but I’m sure he won’t mind the break, either.”
“And what is that?”
“Hmm?”
“His place. What it is?” she asked.
Affonso set his glass to the table, and rested back in the chair. “As I said earlier, if my nephew would do what I wanted for him to do, then I wouldn’t need you at all. Despite your age, you’re a smart girl, Emma. I’m sure you can figure it out.”