Page 11 of Marrying the Mobster
“Come stand here so I can watch you send your text,” he says with a little less gravel in his voice than usual. He sounds as tired as he looks, which I find odd. Aren’t mob bosses supposed to live the high life—women, money, cars, and clubs? What’s he been doing all day that has him looking like he’ll fall over in a dead sleep any second?
I don’t care. I wouldn’t spit on Diego Pérez if he were on fire, so I certainly don’t give a shit if he’s had a rough day.Heisn’t the one who woke up this morning with a hangover from being drugged, in a strange house under the threat of execution.
The lockscreen of his phone is a photo of a young woman who is absolutely stunning. Her skin is a lighter olive shade than his—more like mine—and her hair is shiny, black, and cut into a sleek bob. Her eyes are large and hazel, with shades of green and brown mingling together. She has full lips, and a heart-shaped face.
“That your wifey?” I joke as he uses his thumbprint to unlock the phone.
Diego’s only response is a rough grunt. He opens a new text thread and thrusts the phone into my hands. The look on his face says everything his mouth does not: I shouldn’t abuse this privilege. His promise earlier to ‘punish’ me if I get out of line goes through my mind, making the fine hairs on my arms stand on end.
“Keep it short,” he says, standing close to look over my shoulder. His breath is warm and tingle-inducing on the side of my neck. “Don’t make me regret this.”
Biting my lip, I type in one of the few phone numbers I have memorized—the manager of my boutique,Belleza. Tracy has probably been blowing up my phone all day. My small staff know to always expect me there first thing in the morning with coffee, music blaring over the speaker system and a rack of new clothes ready to be displayed.
Bellezais my passion, a dream I’ve had ever since I sat on my mama’s lap to learn how to use her sewing machine. If I can’t contact anyone else, I know Tracy will at least take care of the business for me. If the worst should happen, I can only hope Tracy and the rest of the crew won’t close our doors. The sketchbook I keep in my back office is filled with designs that haven’t yet gone to production.Bellezacould operate for years after I’m gone.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I push aside thoughts of my eminent death and focus on my message. I don’t want Tracy to worry, and Diego is standing too close for me to attempt an SOS.
I type out a quick—and hopefully not alarming—text.
Hey Trace, it’s Elena. Sorry I wasn’t there to open this morning. My abuela is very sick, and I bought a ticket to Los Angeles as soon as I got the news. She’ll need care when she’s released from the hospital, so I could be gone a few weeks. Hold down the fort for me until I get back. I’ll give you a call once I get a new phone … had too many cocktails and dropped mine in the toilet. Oops!
Diego snatches the phone from me before I can press ‘send,’ and gives my message a quick read. Before he can put his phone away, a new message comes through and I hold my breath, thinking it must be a reply from Tracy. My heart sinks when Diego opens the text to reveal a picture that’s a clear invitation from some faceless woman. The selfie was taken at a flattering angle, showing a woman with a full, lush figure wearing cherry red lingerie. Only her lips and chin are showing, but a tendril of black hair hanging to her shoulder makes me think of the woman on his lockscreen.
“Hot date?” I mutter.
Diego darkens the screen, then slips it back into his pocket. Without a word, he turns on his heel to leave.
“You can’t keep me here,” I call after him.
He swivels to face me. “I thought we had already established that I can.”
“No,” I reply with a frustrated sigh. “I mean you can’t keep me here without the people who care about me getting suspicious. How long do you think it would take for police to figure out that my father owed you a lot of money? That connection will lead them right to your door.”
Diego snorts and rolls his eyes. “You still don’t get it. Listen to me very carefully, Elena. The threat of police doesn’t scare me. I have half the force in my pocket. No one is coming to save you. Not daddy, not your friends, not the police. The only thing that will end this is the money your father owes me. If I were you, I’d spend less time telling me what I can and can’t do, and more time praying Santiago manages to scrape up my cash sometime in the next month.”
With that, he storms from the room, slamming and locking the door. I let out an enraged scream like a banshee, picking up one of the paperbacks I was given and hurling it against the closed door. Diego’s laugh comes at me from the other side, low and rasping. It’s really more of a growl, but I can hear the amusement in it.
“Fuck off, you bastard!” I yell at the door, not caring how futile it is. I’d rather scream than cry.
Silence is my response, and I can’t even hear Diego’s footsteps, which means he’s probably long gone. I go to pick up the novel I threw and stare down at its cover. The title isThe Villain, and the cover features a redhead woman wearing a flowing, eighteenth-century ball gown in the arms of a bulky, hot, shirtless man with flowing dark hair.
“You lucky bitch,” I grumble at the swooning cover model.
Turning the book over, I scan the blurb and realize the couple gets together when the hero keeps the heroine prisoner in his Gothic Scottish castle. Apparently, this leads to true and lasting love.
With a snort, I plop on the bed and open it to the first page, deciding it can’t hurt to indulge in a little escapism. At least things will turn out well for the redhead. I’m not so certain what my fate will be, but I know it won’t be anything like what I’ll read between the pages of this novel.
This is no romantic love story. There is no happily ever after.
7
Elena
Ibide my time for three days. Trying to lose myself in books and movies while waiting for my meals is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. Everything inside me screams for freedom, and my thoughts go in circles for a little while before landing on the same outcome: if I don’t run, I’m going to die.
My yoga mat arrives on the second day, but morning and evening practice only distract me for so long. I’m going out of my mind by day four—pacing and biting my fingernails down to ragged stumps. I have to get out of here, and it can’t wait.
Desperation makes my heart pound so hard I can hear the rush of blood in my ears. My hands are shaking as I circle the room, looking for a weapon, or something I can use to pick the lock. I pause at the window and peer through sheer white curtains. I hadn’t taken the time to really study my surroundings outside this room, so I whip the curtain aside and stare out over the area making up the backyard.
