Page 62 of Runaway in the Mafia (The shadows of Cosa Nostra Chronicles #3)

ONE YEAR LATER.

VITALE

T he hot stuffiness of the city itched along the nape of my neck.

The sunshine-yellow wooden bench heated beneath me.

The soles of my loafers burned on top of the sharply trimmed grass.

In front of me, the driveway contested with a runway, spread out, outlined by palm trees and little round hedges in fluorescent green.

Outside of the high parapet walls, Delhi awaited.

Huge, congested, with a grey smog draped over it.

What I would have given to have a fresh breath of air.

It definitely wasn’t Sicily, but for the second time we were here, I could have adapted to it.

But I couldn’t say I was unhappy that my wife preferred her new home to her old.

Regrettably, that had everything to do with her mother’s condescending attitude, rather than the weather forecast or environmental policies.

We’d met with the rest of the family a few hours ago.

Her sister and brothers had been warm enough.

Welcoming, even. Especially her sister. Her mother, not so much.

Disapproval poured out of every pore in her body like a foul-smelling oil.

I wouldn’t have cared either way. Didn’t care for her approval.

Didn’t need it. But something snagged within my cold, dark chest when I saw my wife crumbling beneath the nastiness of her sharp words.

She’d warned me not to intervene. Threatened me with abstinence for a week. She’d put down ground rules. Two, to be exact. I wasn’t allowed to intervene with her mother, and I wasn’t allowed to make a public display. No kissing. No touching. Definitely no fucking.

I’d thought I’d have a problem with the latter, but not the former. After all, I’d found the strength to let her go rather than interfering between her and her father.

But one vicious glance from my mother-in-law at my wife and two snide remarks in ten minutes, and I found myself outside, my hands jiggling with anger as the Zippo flickered at the end of my cigar.

Fuck.

There was a third ground rule. No smoking.

Fuck it. I couldn’t do all of them.

She’d come a long way. My wife. She spoke my language as well as I did.

Only better. Sexier. That made me fuck her against a wall.

Every single time. She wasn’t a sole proprietor anymore.

She had a fucking company with employees.

I was damn proud of her, and she’d done all of that without my help.

Well, except for the dirty Sicilian. That she’d learned from me.

The point was, it took years off my life to rein in my homicidal thoughts when dimwits insulted my wife.

I puffed like who she called me. A lunatic. The hundred per cent nicotine sliding down my throat did nothing to soothe the acid in my lungs.

I guessed my subconscious knew me well. This was the exact reason I’d left my gun back in the hotel. But next time, if there was one, I would bring it along with me. Armed and clipped on with a silencer.

My phone pinged in my pocket, and I already knew who it was before I pulled it out. There was only one person as worried about my wife as I was.

Come sta andando?

How could she be alright when her own mother was a fucking bitch? I punched the call button. It didn’t even ring before she picked it up. Mamma’s voice was laced with worry. “What’s happening?”

I stifled a sigh. Pinched my nose, and my shoulders hit the boiling heat of the bench. I didn’t even notice it anymore. “She’s a fucking bitch,” I muttered.

Mamma’s sigh was heartfelt. Heavy. “Where are you?”

I turned to catch the painted white cement walls behind me. “Outside.”

“You listened to her,” she said softly.

“She asked me not to intervene. So I won’t.”

“Of course you won’t.” Her faith in me made something tangible clog my throat. “You always do what’s best for her.” Two beats passed before she spoke again, her tone full of insinuation. “But maybe sometimes it’s best not to listen to her.”

I frowned. “What exactly are you telling me now?”

“You never listened to me about your papa. I needed protection. I just didn’t know it myself. Maybe you should listen to your instincts again?”

Well, fuck me. Was she saying what I thought she was saying?

“Be the man you are to her, figlio mio. Don’t do anything rash. But show them she’s not to be disrespected.”

The change in the wind’s direction and a familiar whiff of a scent drifted up my nostrils. I turned to find my wife watching me, leaning against a palm tree. My fucking gorgeous wife. How anyone could think of, let alone actually disrespect her, was beyond me. I scowled. She was fucking precious.

“I’ve got to go, Mamma.” I hung up as she pushed off the tree with a sad smile and strolled up to me. She was wearing a green saree. It made me want to fuck her. Ahh… who am I kidding? What she wore or didn’t wear never affected my desire to bury my dick balls-deep inside her.

I spread my legs, and she walked in between them. I trapped her gorgeous frame within my thighs. My free hand grabbed hers. Our fingers entangled.

“Come on, lunch is ready.”

My thumb traced her skin, up and down her hand. How was she so soft? So perfect. “How about I fuck you instead?”

She shook her head. “Behave.” But she bit her lip to hide her smile.

“I am,” I growled. “Your mother’s still alive, isn’t she?”

She shook her head indulgently and tried to pull me up. I yanked her down on my lap instead. “Vitale!”

“Promise me one thing?”

“What?”

I cupped her chin and gazed into her eyes. “Don’t let her get to you?”

She pulled away and rolled her gaze to the driveway. “I’ll try.”

Fuck. She never could lie to me.

I was a saint. I lasted an entire fucking meal. Well, almost all of it. With the final round of biryani on her plate, Ahana commented on how delicious it was. That she could never make it like the masterpiece it was.

“Well, what can you do then?”

The aggravation I’d been holding inside me burst into an instant rage.

Outside, my hand gripped the table leg. My muscles shifted and strained from the effort it took not to lift it off the tiled floor and smash it into her sour face.

Under the table, Ahana’s hand found my thigh and squeezed.

Imploringly. I’ll try. For her. A part of me thought I could do it.

My brother-in-law, Ayaan, cleared his throat with unease. Nice. But not fucking enough.

“Bas kaaphee hai,” her father said tightly, his voice strained. Tired.

That’s enough indeed. My Hindi wasn’t as great as my wife’s Italian, but I understood that.

“But you can do something,” her mother sneered, poison shielded behind her sharp teeth, eager to release.

The grip I had on the table tightened. My vision blurred. My heart ached for the gun I’d left behind. My gaze cut to my wife, and I counted the amount of little glitter shit on her saree.

“Being the scandal of Delhi is one thing.”

Jesus Christ. I’d only got to five. Was this woman even serious?

One balled fist smashed on the table. Mine. Fuck. Cutlery clattered and someone’s glass spilt and rolled on the table. “Do you run your own company?” I asked, my voice practically vibrating with rage.

Sharp nails cut into my skin on my thigh. Did she really think that was going to stop me?

Confusion replaced her mother’s tight face.

“It’s a simple enough question. I’ll take a yes or no.”

“I don’t know wh—”

“Yes. Or. A. Fucking. No.”

She stared at me across the table. Confusion fell apart to embarrassment. She looked at her husband. Vad had his open gaze on us. “No,” she said tightly, bringing her sour gaze back to mine.

I leaned away from the table. Visually putting a few feet between her on the other side of it.

“That’s what I thought. You know who does?

My wife. Your daughter. She runs a company.

Not only that,” I couldn’t stop the pride I felt flowing out, “She has women from India and Italy working for her. Women who’ve run away from their abusive husbands.

Like she’d done once. From the man you forced her to marry.

Do you even understand the amount of guts it takes to walk out of that? ”

Her face was acid. Scrunched in disapproval. I struggled to fathom how a woman could bring down her own daughter. No wonder Ahana came alive under Mamma’s obsessive care.

“Vitale, stop,” Ahana pleaded.

“I’ll stop. For now.” I pointed my knife at her mother. “Don’t fucking test my patience again.”

The table hummed with anxiety. I couldn’t give a shit about it anymore.

Keeping up appearances, my ass. If they were family, they’d better get to know me fast. I dipped my finger into my wife’s saree-clad waist and pulled her to me, the chair scraping on the floor as she came to me.

My hand graced her heated cheek softly before I brought my arm to rest on the back of her chair. Shielding her. Protecting her.

If I was going to break the rules, I was going to do it with style.

And of course, my wife read my intentions. Suddenly, she was in a hurry. She couldn’t get us out of the door fast enough. Skipping dessert because she was full. I had another type of dessert in mind, anyway. The one that could only be served on top of a bed or in the back of a car.

“Let’s go,” she pulled at my hand insistently at the threshold of her parents’ door frame.

“Let me just hug your mum goodbye.”

“We don’t—” I strode past her and lifted her mother off the floor.

Her breath left her in a sharp gasp as I squeezed her tightly in my arms. “You’re fucking lucky.

The last man who disrespected my wife ended up with a knife in his windpipe.

” I stepped back and glared at her gob-smacked face.

“I don’t like to see her unhappy. That’s the only reason you’re not joining him. Do me a favour and remember.”