Page 55 of Marrying the Mobster
The more freedoms and privileges Diego allows me, the harder it is to think of escape. The more he takes me to bed and worships my body without restraint, or makes those sly, sarcastic jokes that make me smile, or shows me just a little bit more of who he is … the more I begin to think I don’t really hate him at all.
I think I might actually like him.
However, it occurs to me on a quiet night after work that I don’t reallyknowhim—not as well as he knows me. Most of my background he found out through Jaime, who’s a valuable source of information. Anything he can’t find with a few keystrokes eventually gets dug up as he hacks and pilfers data. Everything else Diego has learned through random questions and close observation. But no matter how much I watch my husband, no matter how many questions I ask, he still remains an enigma.
I set aside my wineglass and push away my empty plate. We ordered Thai takeout for dinner and chose to stay in rather than go to the club. Diego’s been busy lately, leaving me alone most nights to oversee shipments at the docks meet with men from other mafia families. Being this close to the operation shows me how similar running a cartel is to owning a corporation. It’s not as hard to reconcile my life as a mafia boss’s wife when he seems more like a CEO … that is, if I ignore the guns and the occasional bloody soldier who needs tending by Diego’s personal doctor.
“Tell me about your parents,” I ask before I can lose my nerve.
Meals between us are usually filled with light conversation. It’s rare for me to poke and prod beyond surface level questions, but I can’t take it anymore. I submitted to this marriage under duress, so I figure I’m owed something.
Diego glances up from his own wineglass and raises and eyebrow at me. “Why the sudden interest in my parents,gatita?They’re dead. You should be glad not to have them for in-laws.”
His voice doesn’t hold any anger or annoyance, but I can see the resistance in his eyes. The dark depths are as hard and impenetrable as ever, showing me nothing. It’s all I can do not to hurl my glass in frustration. Why is he so difficult to know?
“I don’t know,” I say with a sigh and shake of my head. “Maybe because I’m your wife now, and I’d like to know something about you other than your favorite Scotch, or your favorite guns.”
Diego smiles, something I’m still having to get used to. It seems to come easier to him when we’re alone now, and it’s so beautiful I can hardly look away. His teeth are white and straight, the grin slightly crooked and boyish. It makes him look younger and softer, less intimidating. The fear that used to rule our relationship has dissipated, and I’ve come to see him more as a wounded, moody panther as opposed to a hungry, feral one. At least, he seems that way when it comes to me. I’ve seen him chew out one of his men for slipping up, or threatening an enemy over the phone. I haven’t forgotten what it’s like to be on the other end of that rage.
“My father was an asshole,” he says without a bit of inflection in his voice. It’s as if he’s talking about the weather. “He was cruel, uncompromising, and distant. You wouldn’t have liked him.”
I can’t help a teasing smile. “Sounds like the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”
Diego laughs, slouching and loosening the top buttons of his shirt. “He was far worse than I am,gatita. He only took an interest in me because I was the heir to the throne. Marcella was only a baby when he … died, but he treated her like a ghost. She would have grown up without a real father if he’d survived.”
My curiosity spikes at the weight of his words and the look on his face when he delivers them. His casual tone has turned harsh, and I can see the clear disdain Diego has for his dead father.
“And your mother?” I prod, leaning closer over the table. I feel like I’m going down a dangerous road, but I can’t seem to stop.
Diego’s expression darkens like a thundercloud has passed over his face. “She presented herself like the typical mafia wife. She was born into this world. Her father was one of myabuelo’sclosest lieutenants. Her marriage to my father wasn’t arranged, but it might as well have been. She was groomed for life on the arm of a powerful man and taught that it was her only purpose.”
I wrinkle my nose in distaste. “That sounds like something out of the 1800s.”
Diego’s lips twitch in amusement, but his smile doesn’t reappear. “Like those novels you love to read? The one in your nightstand drawer seems to be a favorite.”
My face goes warm as I think of the worn copy ofThe VillainI’ve read at least four times in the past few months. I’ve become slightly obsessed with the twisted story—namely the rough and dominant hero, who reminds me so much of Diego. It’s just more proof that something is seriously wrong with me. “It’s sexy in fiction and makes sense for the time-period. But this day and age? Your mother must have hated being used for an influential marriage.”
“She resented it,” Diego agrees. “In front of others, she pretended to be something she wasn’t—quiet and polished and submissive. In private, she revealed her true self. She was ruthless and calculating—always the smartest person in the room. It ate her alive to witness my father’s mistakes and know she could have runLa Familiaso much better. I think if she had been born into a normal family, she might have grown up to run corporations or be president or some shit. She wanted power more than anything.”
She sounds like my kind of woman, but I don’t voice that thought out loud. Something about Diego’s face when he speaks of his mother makes me think there’s more to the story. It makes me think that Mrs. Pérez wasn’t a good mother, despite her other winning characteristics.
“How did they die?” I ask, my voice low.
Diego meets my gaze, the muscles in his jaw winding tight. “My mother died about five years ago. She hanged herself in her bedroom.”
I nearly choke on my next breath, stunned into silence. As I gape at Diego and the nonchalant way he dropped that bombshell, he stands and goes to the liquor cabinet with his glass.
“She couldn’t live with knowing that everything she’d ever done to gain power had blown up in her face,” he says while pouring a Scotch and adding a twist of lime. “Both her children despised her for being a cruel and controlling mother. Her husband was dead. Her attempts at controlling the cartel through me had failed, because she had forgotten that love is what strengthens loyalty. She took her own life knowing no one would ever love her.”
“Did …” I pause and swallow, revulsion rising in the back of my throat. “Did it happen … in our house?”
Diego’s face is grim when he turns to face me, leaning back against the cabinet. “You don’t want to hear about all this,gatita.”
“Yes, I do,” I insist, even though I feel like I’m going to be sick. “You asked me to try to make this marriage work, but I don’t know anything about you.”
“You know the important things. You know enough.”
“If you don’t trust me with your past, then just say so,” I snap, averting my eyes to the window overlooking the city, lit up for the night.
