Page 32 of One Savage Union (Crimson Bonds #1)

LUCIA

M y mother warned that my temper would lead me to make reckless decisions.

She hated wearing any emotion on her sleeve, including anger.

Chrisette Asare took the phrase “never let them see you sweat” to an entirely different level.

Once, she was suspended from the part-time taxi driving service she worked for because she kicked a man who was verbally assaulting her from the back of her cab.

He filed a complaint, and she shared a video of the situation.

I asked her why she wasn’t angry about the injustice of it all.

I wanted to know why she wasn’t raging or plotting her revenge.

She looked at me and said, ‘When any emotion takes you over, your brain takes a back seat.’

In other words, you're just hot and dumb.

I wish I remembered her words before decidingto leave the relative safety of Rocco’s yacht in order to join my father, a stranger.

The anger I had towards Rocco for lying to me was all that I could think about at the time. I was determined to get away from him. I didn’t want to see his face.

Although if I’m honest, that’s not why I left. I wanted him to hurt as much as I did. I left because I knew that would piss him off more than anything else. He’s a control freak and leaving was the ultimate fuck you.

I was so angry that I didn’t stop to think about how I was handing myself over on a silver platter to a man I didn’t know. My father is the head of one of the largest criminal organizations in the world, and I waltzed off that boat with him like he was Mr. Rogers.

Stupid…Stupid…Stupid…

We walked off Rocco’s yacht three days ago, and I haven’t heard anything from my husband since.

I hate to admit it, but I miss him, even if he is a lying sack of shit.

He’s become familiar and comforting in a sick sort of way.

In the last few weeks, he has been my entire world, and there was some peace in knowing that.

But all it takes is the memory of walking up on him and my father to make me see red.

I get so upset that I feel my heart boil from anger.

How could a man whom I allowed to tear down my walls of distrust look me in the eye day after day and lie?

I gave him access to my body and opened my heart up to him.

I shared my dreams and desires, things I’ve never shared with anyone.

I talked to him about how much I missed having a father in my life.

He held me while I cried, knowing the whole time that my father was looking for me.

If I ever needed proof that the Mafia will always come before me and our marriage, that was it.

When we left the boat and entered my father's armored SUV, it didn't hit me that I was walking into another minefield until I was sitting next to him on the back seat. His whole demeanor shifted.

On the boat, he engaged me. He implored me to come, but before we got in the car, one of his men roughly took Rocco's mother’s gun from me.

In the car, he moved to his side of the seat and left me alone.

His attention was on his phone. What oozed off him was a desire to be left alone and not questioned.

But that was too fucking bad for him. I had twenty-four years’ worth of questions to ask, but I started small.

“Where are we going? “I asked.

“The hotel I'm staying at,” he mumbled, never looking up from his phone. “You will stay in the room I have for you there until we fly back to New York tomorrow.”

My head snapped to the side. “What about Leo and all the danger there? Rocco brought me to Italy to keep me safe.”

The look on my father's face could have smelled iron. “No, that piece of shit brought you to Italy to keep you away from me. To take what’s mine.” The last line was growled more than spoken.

I opened my mouth to say something in response. I wanted to tell him that I belonged to no one, least of all him. A man who abandoned me while I was still in utero. But the look he gave me advised me that I should probably remain quiet.

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 ribeye up 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 can hardly 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 in that 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.