Page 56 of Marrying the Mobster
Diego sighs and slowly approaches me, one hand clutching his Scotch and the other landing on my shoulder. He stands behind me, lightly massaging the tense muscle. I can feel his burning stare on the back of my neck, and the light stroke of his thumb at my nape makes me shiver.
“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” he murmurs. “But my past … my life … these aren’t happy stories, Elena. I am who I am because of my parents and the pain they caused me, and because living through it was the price I had to pay for an inheritance I didn’t always want.”
I turn in the chair to look up at him, resting my hand over his. “If this is going to work, you can’t hide the dark stuff from me. After all that’s happened, I think I’ve proven I’m strong enough to handle it. If your mother was resentful, maybe it’s because the people in her life treated her like a porcelain doll.”
Diego offers his smile again, but it’s strained and slightly sad. “You’re not porcelain. You’re steel—hard and hammered to a beautiful finish. I knew that the first time I saw you.”
He slips his hand from beneath mine and strokes my cheek. Then, he moves toward the window, staring out into the night.
“My mother hanged herself in one of the third-floor rooms,” he says. “She moved herself up there once I made it clear I didn’t want her in my presence. I’d had enough of her manipulation. She’d been dead for two days before Mariana found her.”
I press a hand over my mouth, my stomach twisting and quivering. “Holy shit,” I whisper into my palm.
Diego goes on talking as if I haven’t said anything, his back hard and unmoving, the fabric of his shirt stretched tight over the bulges of muscle.
“In families like ours, it’s the father’s job to mold the son in his image. It’s rare for mafia sons to grow up to be anything other than gangsters. It’s the only life we know. Once I was old enough to understand what it all meant, my father started teaching me about the business side of things. On my tenth birthday, he bought me my first gun. We spent hours at the range practicing. As his son, I had to be of use. I had to put aside my toys and my video games and act like a man. I couldn’t be weak. Tears were the worst sin I could commit, and if I shed a single one he thrashed me with his fists.”
My throat starts to constrict until I can hardly breathe. Tears burn my eyes, but I blink them back. The last thing I want is for Diego to take them for pity. My heart is breaking at the image of a handsome little boy, trying to be brave when a grown man is coming at him with massive fists. I’ve seen the portrait of Diego’s parents in the conference room where he meets with his men. The man had been large like his son—muscular and intimidating. I can’t imagine being so small and helpless in the face of that.
“My mother had other ideas,” Diego says between slow sips of Scotch. “She argued with my father all the time about my training. He wasn’t pushing me hard enough or teaching me the most important lessons … things she insisted I needed to know if I was going to fill his shoes someday. I don’t think they knew I overheard most of their squabbles. When I wasn’t being trained, I was practically invisible to them. Two nannies were responsible for making sure I was fed and clothed and taken to school. The only time our family was together was for Sunday mass, and even then it was like sitting with virtual strangers. I barely knew them.”
“Anyway, Mother finally got sick of waiting for my father to become the man she wanted him to be. He was weak, and his mistakes either lost the cartel millions in cargo or goods, or got his soldiers killed. The Pérez family had more enemies under his reign than any other boss in its history. He was too quick-tempered and impulsive, and everyone knew it. So, one day, my mother came to me and explained that our lives were in danger. At least half my father’s men were planning a coup. They wanted to put someone more competent in his place and were willing to kill him to do it. Once that happened, we would be next. No one could be left behind who could fight to take the family back. My mother, me … Marcella.”
He hangs his head and goes silent, the glass hanging limp in his hand. I can’t stop the tears now, no matter how hard I try. My shoulders are shaking with silent sobs, and I’m overcome with the need to close the space between us and wrap my arms around him. I don’t think he’d take kindly to that, so I force myself to stay in my chair.
“How old were you?” I ask, trying to keep the grief out of my voice and failing.
Diego doesn’t seem to notice. “Eleven,” he mumbles. “Marcella was a baby. She’d just started walking and … she was the only person I loved and who loved me. I would have done anything to protect her. My mother would have thrown her under a bus to save her own ass, but I would have torn out my own spleen for that baby girl. I still would.”
Swiping at my tears, I stand to my feet, my eyes glued to his back. “What did you do, Diego? What did she make you do?”
He turns to face me, not batting an eye at my flushed, damp face. Emotion is still locked away, his face a blank slate. It’s as if he’s telling me about horrific things that happened to someone else.
“She took me into his office … the same office I work out of now. He was pacing back and forth, talking on the phone. He was annoyed with us for interrupting him and waved us off like he always did. He went back to his phone call and turned his back, so he didn’t see her hand me my pistol. I shot him in the back first, even though I’d been taught that was the coward’s way. But Mother said things were different in that situation. We were under attack, and this was about survival. The threat my father had brought on the family had to be eliminated from the top down.”
Diego watches as I brace a hand on the table, not certain I can stay on my feet. This can’t be real life. Mothers don’t coerce their sons into killing their fathers. Fathers don’t beat their sons and force them to become criminals before they’re old enough to know what they want from life. This isn’t how families are supposed to work.
But then I think of how my father was willing to let me die in his place. My mother was a wonderful woman, and he never deserved her. If she were still alive, everything might have been different. I can take comfort from that, but Diego has nothing. No comfort, no rest from an invisible cage keeping him trapped.
“He went down onto his knees,” Diego continues, “and Mother pushed me toward him and told me to finish the job. So, I shot him between the eyes. Then, Mother had all the men who were still loyal round up the ones who had betrayed us. They were forced to kneel, one-by-one in front of me to be executed. Counting my dad, I killed twenty-two men that day. When it was over, she made all the remaining men kneel and take an oath of loyalty to me … their new king.”
“God,” I whisper, sniffling and drying the last of my tears. “No wonder you don’t want children.”
Diego nods, his lips pinched tight. “It’s also why I never wanted a wife.”
I let out a sound that partially a laugh, but also a sob. “Afraid I’ll stab you in the back?”
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m afraid that someone who wants to hurt me would do it through you. I never wanted to be that vulnerable. Being in this position is easier when you have nothing to lose.”
I take a tentative step toward him, then another, and he doesn’t move away. Diego is watching me like I’m a snake he expects to strike—or a woman who will collapse on him and get hysterical.
“Then why did you marry me?” I ask.
He shrugs helplessly. “I didn’t have a choice,gatita. You were too good to be true, and once I had you, I couldn’t let you go. But I won’t lose you … not now, not ever. If you never trust me to do anything else, you can trust me to keep you safe. I would burn the world to ashes for you.”
Something deep inside me fractures, and I lose what’s left of my resistance. I told myself this would never happen—that Diego could never get to me on any level that wasn’t physical. But he’s like a cyclone, swirling and destructive and pulling me into his center.
I go to him and place both hands on his chest. His heart is racing, and it’s the only hint that he’s not as calm as he appears on the outside.
