Page 33 of Mafia and Gold Digger

He shrugs. “I thought you'd be more likely to accept it if it was a done deal. And we can still carry on seeing each other after I’m married. Lots of made men keep a mistress.”

I close my eyes briefly. “So, you’re saying I'm good enough to bang, but I’m not good enough to marry?”

And when Ronnie doesn't reply, I have my answer.

“Great, as well as being called a slut and a gold digger, now I can add ‘idiot’ to the glowing opinion most of the gossips have of me,” I mutter.

“Em, I need to marry someone whose family is important in the organization...” He leaves the words unsaid, but I know that can't be me. Because of what my father did and what my mother does now. Ria’s dad is a captain, however, making her the perfect partner for him.

He still hasn’t actually said the words,I’m sorry. Actually, his apology should’ve come yesterday—when he should’ve given me a heads up about what was going to happen at the party. But he never did that. Instead, he just let me find out along with the rest of the Imperiosi, as if I meant nothing to him.

“Look, Em. Maybe you’re not cut out to be a wife to someone like me.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”

He gestures at me. “Well, you know…”

“Just say what you mean, Ronnie.” I haven’t got a clue what he’s getting at.

“Well, you know, my ma says that mafia wives have to meet certain standards.”

“Like?”

“Come on, Em. You know you’ve let yourself go a bit lately.”

“Let myself go?”

“Yeah, with your…weight and stuff.”

My eyes widen, and my cheeks flush. I’ve gained a few pounds over the last couple of months, and my curves are even fuller than normal. That’s hardly a crime. But I’m so stunned for a second that I can’t get a response out.

“My ma says that it’s a bad sign. Because if you’re like this now, what are you gonna look like after you’ve given me six kids?”

“What makes you think I was ever going to give you six kids, Ronnie?” My voice drips with disbelief.

“But my ma says that it’s important for a man like me to have an heir and plenty of spares.”

“For God’s sake, Ronnie, you and your crazy ma can just go to hell!”

It’s humiliating enough to be treated like this in front of everyone, but for Ronnie to then criticize my body makes a wave of mortification flood through me. Okay, so I’m not a size zero or anywhere near it. So what? I’ve got boobs, hips, full thighs, and an ass, and I don’t starve myself. What’s wrong with that? Why are women always goddamn judged by their looks and weight?

“Look, Em—” he starts to say.

“And just to be clear, we are over.Freaking done. I’m not goddamn being a mistress to you or anyone else. I’m worth a hell of a lot more than that.”

“Aw, Em, don’t be like that.”

“Ronnie, let me tell you one thing. I want to be loved by a man for who I am inside, not on my looks and weight. What if I was in an accident and disfigured or something? I want a man who wouldn’t care because he loves me just the way I am. I want a man who appreciates me for my worth and treats me like his queen. And I definitely don’t want to be with a man who judges me with his shallow and superficial standards.” I can’t talk to him anymore. “Just leave me alone, Ronnie.”

Pulling away from him, I briefly return to the bar and pour myself a double shot of tequila to take with me. I need something to soothe me, and given murder is wrong, I’ll have to settle for alcohol.

Leaning against the wall outside, the events of the last twenty minutes roll through my mind on repeat. Is there something wrong with me? How could I have been so freaking wrong about Ronnie? And how did I not see any of this coming? And it just leaves me feeling so…unlovable. And so worthless.

This doesn’t feel real. Thiscan’tbe real. I’m not sure who I should be mad at—Ronnie for humiliating me or his stupid family for putting him up to this.

And it feels so personal as far as his ma is concerned. Because out of all the Imperiosi establishments his ma could have chosen for tonight’s party, she had to choose the casino I work at. Could any of this be an even bigger slap in the face?

I feel like I’ve had a bucket of frozen water thrown all over me. No, that’s a freaking understatement—not something that I can often be accused of—because I feel like I’m being drowned by a tsunami wave of humiliation, hurt, and unhappiness, unable to reach the surface to suck in a lungful of calm still air to soothe my racing mind.

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