Page 64 of One Savage Union

As he promised, the next day we left for New York, and he never said another word to me. When we arrived at his Upper East Side home, I was shown to my room and dropped off like a piece of luggage. We eat our meals promptly at 8, 12, and 8. His men are always present, their faces implacable and their guns loaded.

For the past two days, we’ve eaten at a long mahogany dining room table in silence.

The first night, I cried through the first course of dinner, thinking about what took place on Rocco’s Mahogany dining room table, our first night dining together. My father never asked me if I was ok. He continued to carve his bloody red ribeyeup like a carcass. That only made me cry harder. Rocco was an asshole, but he never could stand my tears.

Last night, I heard his silverware crash down onto his plate. “If you can’t make it through dinner without sniveling over a man that lied and betrayed you, then you can just go to bed.” His voice was so low that the hiss made my skin crawl.

Breakfast this morning was no better. After eating in uncomfortable silence for twenty minutes, he spoke. “Tonight, you will tell me everything you learned about Romano's operations while you were in that animal’s house. They will pay for taking you from me.” Then he left.

All the man cares about is that something was taken from him. I’m a piece of property to him. He has no desire to get to know me. I was a fool to go with him.

I hadn’t felt like a prisoner with Rocco once we arrived in Ravello. I wasn’t where I wanted to be, but I didn’t feel captured. With my father, that’s exactly how I feel. My bedroom door locks from the outside and my windows are screwed shut. I have the run of the house, but there’s always a shadow following me.

Tonight, he's called me down to join him for dinner, and if he wants to talk about Rocco, he will be disappointed. I know nothing of Rocco’s plans or operations.

It’s funny, when I was with him, I hated the lack of information. Now I am grateful for it. It was yet another way he protected me. If I had information, I wouldn't share it. Rocco may be on the top of my shit list right now for lying and tricking me into an unnecessary marriage; but I won’t see him hurt. Anything I tell my father about my husband will end in bloodshed.

I think it’s best if I take my dinner in my room tonight. I’m going to run a bath and read the newest book in Serena Akeroyd’s Filthy Series. The irony of loving mafia romances is not lost upon me. But then again, what I have with Rocco canhardly be called a romance. It’s more like an accommodating nightmare.

I’m in no mood to face a confrontation tonight. I want to get to know my father, but I won’t subject myself to duress. He’s not making it easy for me to love him. He’s hard, demanding, and completely self-absorbed. I wonder what my mother ever saw in him. Then again, what they had was a fling and a mistake as far as he’s concerned. Since we’ve gotten back to Chicago, he’s done everything in his power to make me feel like a guest in his house, not a daughter.

When the housekeeper comes to the door to remind me of dinner, I tell her I’m skipping it. Her face betrays the terror she feels at having to deliver that news. She’s scared of my father, but I’m not. If he wants to have dinner with me so bad, then he can just come and get me himself. I don’t think he’s even been on this floor since I came here. He avoids me like the plague.

I walk into my bathroom to start my bathwater when I hear a knock on my door. It must be the housekeeper again. No matter how much she begs, I’m not going down there to meet him for dinner. I sigh and run over to the door, but I’m shocked when I open it and see my father standing there.

He’s a striking man. He’s sixty years old, but he doesn’t look a day over forty-five. His olive skin is wrinkle-free, and his jet-black hair only grays at the temples. I share his straight nose and full lips. We both carry bright brown eyes and a widow’s peak. Matteo Ricci is my father; there’s no denying that.

He doesn’t look happy to be standing at my door. He seems downright pissed. But I don’t give a fuck. He’s been back in my life for all of three days; I don’t have to jump every time he calls.

‘Why are you not downstairs for dinner? I specifically told you we had something to discuss.”

I cross my arms over my chest and look him straight in the eye. “I know what you want to discuss, and I’m not interested inthat conversation. Instead of fighting, I decided it would be best to dine alone tonight.”

My father narrows his eyes, and he speaks in a voice so low I barely hear him. “Get dressed and be downstairs in five minutes. We have company. He came to meet you, so it's rude to stay in your room.”

I scoff. “Who is here to see me? Rocco?”

His eyes darken. “I would never let that dog in my house, and you would do best to forget him. His name shouldn’t even be on your lips. You’re a Ricci, not a Romano whore.”

The heat in my gut rises my neck and I rage. “Fuck you! Rocco is my husband, and he may be a lying bastard, but he’s done more for me than you have at this point in my life! I’m not eating dinner with you or anyone else, so you may as well leave.”

The slap stuns me. It’s quick, hard, and draws blood. I’m not entirely sure he didn’t knock a tooth loose. I’ve never been hit a day in my life, and the violence of his response shakes me to my core. I should never have come here.

I hold my jaw and eye him with tears trickling down my cheek.

I can’t believe this bastard made me cry.

He adjusts his cufflinks and speaks without sparing another glance. “You will be downstairs in five minutes in the dress I left for you in the closet. If you disobey me again, I will lock you in one of my cells downstairs until you come to your senses. Curse me again, and I will end you.”

He turns and leaves without another word, while I’m left stunned, rubbing my cheek. What am I going to do? I thought Rocco was a monster, but he’d never assault me. Sure, he’d spank my ass if I got a little out of line but we both knew that I liked it. He never harmed me, and yet I left the safety of his care to live with this monster. How the hell am I going to escape my father?

I’m going to have to leave here, butnow, I need to play the part of the contrite daughter. Am I still in danger from Leo? Is my father negotiating with Rocco to send me back for a higher price? This is a shit show and I’m the reluctant star.

I slip on the modest red wrap dress that my father left for me in the closet. When I got to New York, casual clothes were ordered for me to lounge around the house in. I asked my father about the possibility of going to my house to retrieve some of my things, but he only grunted and said, “It’s impossible.” Since then, everything I’ve worn has been picked out by him. He made me burn the things I was wearing on the boat because Rocco had given them to me. At the time, I was mad, but I enjoyed the little bonfire. Now, I’d do anything just to be comforted by his scent.

As I walk down the steps, I hear two voices in the dining room. I’m not in the mood to entertain strangers, and I wish my father had warned me that we were having guests. Then again, I know better. I’ve learned over the past two weeks that these mafia men do whatever they want, whenever they want, without considering the interests of any other party, especially if you’re a woman.

Head held high and shoulders back, I make my way down the stairs and enter the dining room. My father doesn’t stop talking or acknowledge me when I enter, but the man with him does. He’s a big man, tall and stocky. He’s not out of shape, but he’s not in shape either. Something about him appears undisciplined. His dirty blonde hair is long but disheveled. His green eyes spark with malice. His clothes are ill-fitting, and he looks like he doesn’t belong in this perfect prison my father calls his home.

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