Page 18 of Mafia King: Matteo (Borrelli Mafia #1)

ALENA

When Dima pulls into my parents’ driveway, the house is lit up like a Christmas tree.

“That’s odd. They usually sit in the doom and gloom,” I say. “Like a Russian gulag in winter.”

“Sarcasm? Already?” Dima tries not to laugh.

“Haven’t you heard? Sarcasm is just an insult delivered as a joke. You have to admit my parents have been acting weird lately. What’s going on with them? You must know something. I don’t want to walk into an ambush or spend all night getting waterboarded with personal questions.”

“I can’t help you. What about Kirill? Have you asked him?”

“He would have texted me if it was news that I needed to know.”

“True.”

“I wonder if Dad’s business is in trouble.” His entire life is wrapped up in the family business—and he’s not even the Don!”

“Be mindful of what you say, Alena. I’d hate for you to piss off your father.”

“As if he couldn’t be in a pissier mood than last week when he found out I was working at a hotel owned by the Borelli family.”

“Why does he care? He okayed you finding a job.”

“Apparently, he doesn’t like the Borellis. Who are they?”

“Their name has been around for years. They are another well-connected family.”

“Wait, I work for a company owned by the mob? Why didn’t you tell me?” No wonder Dad is pissed.

There has to be bad blood with the Borellis for Dad to get so riled up.

“I have no clue. The design company, Indigo, is owned by a shell company, but the hotel is legit and in the Borelli name.”

“I’ve never heard of them. I thought the Morellis were the feared Italians. That old man is bonkers if you ask me.”

I mostly hang out with Kirill rather than other girls my age from other syndicates because it’s too easy to become involved with the wrong person.

Besides, I rarely travel to Brooklyn. I never mingle with young adults from other syndicates because it’s too easy to get involved with the wrong person.

Izzy is from the Moretti family, and when her mother fell for a Russian, her family was all pissy about it. They forbade Izzy’s mother from seeing her boyfriend. It all ended tragically when they got caught in the crossfire between the Russians and the Italians.

I don’t want the same thing to happen to me.

It’s bad enough that someday, I will be forced to marry some stranger who controls my every move for the rest of my life.

I can’t understand why people bother to flee oppression and move to the United States only to impose their restrictive customs on their children.

I’m lucky Dad let me attend college, and it bought me some time for myself before I was married off in a barbaric tradition. I don’t know why my parents bothered coming to the United States if they are still committed to maintaining the good old ways of repression.

“Prearranged marriages between our families are meant to build trust and form alliances that prevent conflicts. There hasn’t been a mafia war in years.” I am quick to point out this fact.

“The problem is it’s too easy to offend everyone nowadays. Territory lines get blurred. One never knows when there’s a beef until someone ends up in the hospital or the morgue. Then a meeting is called,” he says. “These things happen all the time, and you never hear about them.”

I take his words to heart and will study them later. I need to learn more about the world before I get married. If no one will tell me what’s going on, I’ll investigate it myself.

“I’d better be going.” I resign myself to the fact that my parents are probably entertaining friends and want to show me off. I hope tonight’s worst-case scenario is that their friends are shopping for a new car, not a wife.

Double yuck.

I was prepared for that life until Mr. Grey showed up.

Now, I’m not so sure. I’ve never had my toes curl during an orgasm.

I’ve never had a man’s voice make me wet between the legs.

I’ve never been so excited to see his face as his lips hover dangerously over mine, to the point I’m panting with anticipation.

Who is this stranger, who fucks the hell out of me and leaves me wanting more?

The hand necklace he gave me was my first, leaving me wanting to know what else he had in his sexual toolbox.

No, I can’t settle for the average Joe. I won’t go down without a fight. Mr. Grey has taken me to new heights. Fucking with him all over the city is exciting. I’m not sure another man will ever measure up to him. I wonder what he’s like in real life.

I tug my coat around me to make the long walk up the sidewalk. I’m early as usual when I open the unlocked door and step into the warm foyer. I can hear voices in the kitchen. I hang my coat on the rack and walk past the formal dining room.

The antique chandelier over my head is beautiful, but one bulb is burned out.

I roll my eyes and question why I’m even surprised.

At least the table is set with my grandmother’s bone china, silver utensils, and crystal glasses.

There are also bottles of vodka, bourbon, and white wine.

Strange, as Russians, we drink vodka. Who’s drinking the bourbon?

“Mom, Dad? What’s going on?” I ask, interrupting their conversation. They are huddled together. Mom is still wearing her apron. From the look of casseroles, side dishes, and appetizers, she’s been cooking all day. Mom rushes to greet me.

“There you are,” she says as she hugs me. A hug—after all these years?

She’s wearing a new dress, a pearl necklace, and matching earrings that dangle as she moves. Why is she dressed up? This is not a casual dinner with friends.

“Dad?” I ask as I pull away from her and find a lasagna on the counter. Dad is pouring a shot of vodka. I doubt it’s his first.

“I like your outfit,” Dad says.

This is peculiar. My father never notices me or compliments me on anything I wear.

“Thanks,” I reply, stunned. “Can you tell me who’s coming to dinner?”

“Someone special,” he says as he turns to the counter and downs a shot of vodka. I’m irritable. Just when I think this night will never end, the doorbell chimes.

“I’ll get it,” Mom exclaims, making a beeline for the front door.

I don’t even recognize my parents. I’m perplexed, but concern takes over. Oh God, I hope Kirill and I aren’t being matched. We’re friends.

What the hell is going on?

If something happened to the Don, Izzy would have told me. It must not be him, so why are they fussing so much?

I follow Mom to the door but try to hang in the shadows, but it’s difficult to hide when every damn light in the house is on! I’m eager to find out who our guest is.

Dad only jumps for the Don. And he’s paid to do that! My curiosity was piqued as the door opened, and there stood a handsome Italian with a perfect complexion and dark eyes.

I know those eyes, that face, and that muscular body under his expensive suit. My breath catches in my throat.

The man I know only as Mr. Grey. He acknowledges my mother and glances in my direction as if he knows I’ll be here.

Fuck.

He’s noticed me already. It’s as if our bodies seek each other out without us being cognizant of it.

His presence turns me on.

I casually wipe my sweaty palms on my outfit before I step out of the shadows and confidently walk toward him.

He shakes my father’s hand, but his eyes remain transfixed on mine.

“You must be Alena,” he says with an air of confidence that I find polite, if somewhat condescending. He knows damn well who I am.

It wouldn’t be difficult for him to use his contacts to track me down. It dawns on me that all of our sexual encounters were meticulously planned. How did he know I’d be at the sex club that night?

I’ve been manipulated and deceived. Or was I just lost in the allure of his colossal cock and a thirst to have my sexual needs satiated?

He’s used the information he gained to his advantage.

Shit, Dima said the Borrelli’s are connected.

Am I being married off to the Italian? He said they are mobbed up, and holy fuck, I work in his hotel.

Dad was furious when he discovered the news.

Something is going on, and I want to know what it is.

I thought I had a clear understanding of my world and my future.

How is it that I’m the last to know Mr. Borrelli has entered our lives?

I should have learned the ruthlessness of others from that business class, where the girls manipulated the class events to make themselves look superior.

But what is Matteo gaining through his connection to my father?

Is it a business deal? What could be their reason for becoming so chummy overnight?

He’s never mentioned the Italians except for the older retired ones he runs into at the liquor store.

They are harmless, but he believes they talk behind his back.

Behind Mr. Grey is a tall man in his forties who remains inside the foyer with his back to the front door.

“This is Gio. He’ll wait outside in the car now that we’ve all met.” He turns his strong neck, which I’ve bitten, and nods for Gio to excuse himself.

This is too formal. I’m flustered. This is out of control. I’m vulnerable. I enter a flight-or-fight survival mode. I have to get out of here before the room caves in.

I’m about to escape when Mr. Grey grabs my hand and passes the roughness of his grip off as an introduction.

“I’m Matteo Borrelli. Call me Matteo.” He announces this as if he’s the newest king in the city. Maybe he is. My father is already kissing his ass. What has my father done? He’s a wolf father let into our home.

Matteo and I lock eyes.

This is war.

He used me to get to my father. Does Dad have something Matteo wants?

My mother claps her hands to get everyone’s attention. “Let’s have a drink.”

Father grabs the bottles from the adjoining dining room. Mom collects the glasses. She pads behind him like he has her on a leash. It’s as if they’ve rehearsed tonight.

I’m worried about the arrogance displayed on Matteo’s stern face. His features softened when he looked at me.

What does he want from us? Is this a doomsday movie I recently watched where all the electric cars drive themselves into dumps as if they are possessed?

It was a surreal movie experience I didn’t care for, but I found myself in my own altered reality, unfolding before my eyes in real-time.

Matteo extends his arm, indicating that I should go first.

How chivalrous. It’s the least he can do, I suppose. All I want to do is mutter obscenities at him to protest his presence. I know now is not the time, and I keep my lips sealed.

We adjourn to the formal living room that is only used on holidays when we entertain family and close friends. If Alexsei Sidovo, the Russian Don, were here, this is where we’d sit.

Oddly, Sidovo isn’t here. What are we doing?

I sit cautiously on the edge of a cushioned chair, built for looks rather than function or comfort. The only thing making me more uncomfortable is Matteo’s virile presence.

He makes no secret of the fact that he’s taking in my body. He started with my legs, and now he’s lifting his gaze to my lips. Then our eyes meet. I defy him as I look at my mom and mumble something insignificant about the weather.

The drinks are handed out, and Dad stands and proposes a toast.

I look at my father with veiled eyes. What the fuck is going on?

“Matteo, we want to thank you for your generous offer to marry our daughter. We wish you both a long life of happiness.”

What the fuck?

Matteo stands, and they touch glasses. Dad isn’t smiling.

This isn’t what he envisioned for me. I was supposed to marry a Russian and strengthen the bloodline. I never considered being married off to the enemy.

My jaw drops. My mother’s expression gives nothing away. She’s had a lifetime to perfect her poker face. After years of tolerating her husband’s drunkenness and verbal abuse, she is a shell of the person I remember as a child.

Our men can put a glossy spin on our lives, but it’s not always pretty behind the public eye. Maybe this is why I’m a rebel.

Everything promised has been a lie. I’m hurt that my father did not speak to me first. Mom is broken. Maybe that’s my future. I will be broken, too.

I’m dying to text Izzy for details, but I discover I’m stuck.

My father keeps a watchful eye on me. He would not hesitate to embarrass me if I stepped out of line, and given the fact that his current look could kill a spider, I couldn’t move an inch if I wanted to.

Without my phone, I am helpless. It’s hanging with my coat in the foyer.

And if looks could kill, Matteo would be dead.

“Alena, Matteo has requested that you move into his mansion before the engagement is announced to the public,” Dad says. It’s not a suggestion. “It’s for your protection.”

The orders are starting, and now I will be exiled into the enemy’s territory.

What did I do to be subjected to such torture? I’m angry at Matteo. And at the same time, I hate myself because my body yearns for him. My body aches for him to be inside of me.

“Alena, take a drink,” Mom says as she pours two vodkas, and the men refill their glasses. We all toast, and I knock it back without a blink.

“Where do you live, Matteo?” I ask. “There are a few Italian families in the city, and I wonder where we’ll be living,” she adds a curious undertone to words meant to challenge me.

“I have a home you should find comfortable on Long Island. And, if it’s not to your liking, I can sell it and buy something different. We can also live at the penthouse on the Upper East Side.”

“How will I get to work if we live on the Island?”

“Work? You don’t need to work,” he says, dismissing my concern without any thought about how I feel about it.

“I want to work. I have a job at your hotel,” I say, stressing the word “your.” “I’d like to keep it.”

“Now, now, there is time to iron out the details later,” Dad states, ending the argument before it gains traction.

“Dinner is ready.” Mom stands. “Alena, come help me in the kitchen.” We head into the kitchen while the men move into the dining room.

Mom and I carry plates of food to the table. Dad and Matteo are having a quiet conversation and are waiting for us to join them. Mom passes food to Matteo first. He politely takes some of the dumplings before he passes them to me.

This is going to be a long night.

I need vodka.

* * *