Taken: A Mafia Romance Page 4

  “You're not going to listen to me?”

  “No,” he says. He gives a chin nod to Mr. DeLaurio and they are both gone before I can get another word out.

  We bury my precious mother's body on a rainy and cold, late spring day. As I stand next to my mother’s casket, laying a white rose amidst the mound of flowers on top, my heart turns to ice.

  My eyes meet Mr. DeLaurio’s. The man’s damn face hasn’t left my dreams since the moment I found my mother dead on the floor.

  Despite the rain pouring down in broad gray sheets, he heads in my direction. He sets a hand on my shoulder as I catch sight of Rhiannon turning to leave after the service. I just can’t bring myself to seek her comfort, even though she’s offered. Many times. I know she’s hurting, but my pain is too great and it’s all mine; I don’t want to share it.

  “Son, I know this must be hard on you.”

  I breathe through my nose to control the anger tearing through me.

  “If you need a job…”

  I cut in, “I don't. I’m going to find Rhiannon,” I taunt him.

  Let him try to stop me. But he does. He not only stops me, he destroys me with his words. He tells me things with a meaning that cuts like a double-edged sword and I can barely hear him over the rain chilling my bones. The thud of dirt hits the casket, and I glance to Rhiannon who shares an umbrella with her mother as they race to the car.

  “I don’t believe you,” I say.

  “I understand what you must be feeling.”

  “You don’t understand shit.” And he doesn’t.

  My head spins, and I fight back the urge to smash his head in with the shovel covering my mother with the vile ground he stands on. I stalk away, confused and angry.

  Death changes people. Who I was before died along with my mother that night.

  A few weeks after the funeral, I pack my mother’s belongings, taking one last look around. I will never forget this place, or the lesson learned here, but now it’s time to move on.

  With a life insurance check from the lawyers, access to a hidden account of my mother’s, and a new mission in my heart, I step outside and throw the box in my old pickup.

  Time to leave the garden of evil and look for my own forest to claim.

  7

  Rhiannon

  Two years later- Nineteen years old

  “These are genius,” Delilah, the manager of Worldly Gifts, the gift shop in my father’s luxury hotel, coos.

  “I'm just going to slip a few in the inventory.” Her honey-colored eyes fill with skepticism at my bold attempt to sneak something past my father, so I continue with Operation Get Delilah Onboard. “You do the ordering,” I remind her. “He’ll never know.”

  I need her to agree. This is the perfect place to test out my brand of greeting cards. The fact he won't know I’m using his store to make my own money is even better. And I'm not too worried he’ll find out, because in the year I've worked here, not once has he deigned us with his presence. Even though I've spotted him frequently having lunch meetings or cocktails in the hotel restaurant with all the important people he owns. He should set up another gift shop with all the Mafia must-haves. Need a police chief to hide illegal activity? Five thousand dollars. Politician? Bargain priced at ten thousand dollars.

  It's excruciating waiting for her go ahead, and just when I’m ready to beg, she looks up at me and a conspiratorial grin lifts her glossy red lips. “Let's do it.”

  If I was a squeer, I would squee. Long and loud. Instead, I pull her in for the hug of all hugs and thank her for her loyalty with a kiss on the cheek. Someone like Delilah isn't easy to find, since most people are terrified of my father. I grab a smooth silver rack from under the counter and slide it next to the register. In a few minutes, I have my very own display of Inscription Prescription Rx greeting cards.

  “I'll take this one,” she says, plucking one with colorful lollipops that reads ‘thanks for not sucking’ inside.

  “It's free,” I tell her. I'll never be able to repay the debt I owe to this tiny woman with pink-tipped hair.

  “No way,” she argues, pulling her handbag out from under the counter. “Honey, it's time you do something for yourself.” She slides a five dollar bill on the register. “And now, it's time for me to go to lunch. Keep track of your money,” she calls out over her shoulder. “I'll be back in an hour.”

  After she's gone, I walk to different spots in the swanky rectangular store checking out my cards. They look great from every angle, if I do say so myself.

  It's a little bittersweet seeing the whimsical drawings designed to make someone smile since the driving motivation behind them was utter sadness. Sadness over Hannah. Sadness over Xavier leaving with no warning two weeks later. I lost the two most important people in my life, back-to-back. I have no idea why he left or where he went but, part of me, after all this time, still clings to the hope he's going to contact me.

  “Hey, Princess.” I look over to see Ian, looking very yacht club in his khaki pants and thin black sweater, striding into the store as only someone who thinks the world revolves around them can. “How does it feel to be out of the tower?”

  “Hey, Casper,” I say back, finally dubbing him with the name I've always wanted to. He's too pale—too much of an asshole. His helmet of blonde hair gleams under the lighting as he approaches.

  “Being out of captivity agrees with you,” he says, openly leering at me like I’m a plate of beef carpaccio he scarfs down every time my father has him over for dinner.

  “Wish I could say the same,” I mutter under my breath.

  The future politician that he is, he lets my barbs fly past with a practiced smile that I imagine will be used many times on his campaign trail. A campaign trail that will be privately funded in part by my father. God Bless America.

  “Let's get together and talk about the future,” he suggests, like he's being recorded for a sound bite.

  “Sorry, I’m really busy.” Forever. I move behind the counter, putting the glass case barrier of high priced handbags between us.

  His eyes narrow a bit at my rejection, but the smile doesn't falter.

  “Just stopped in to say I ran into Xavier in the Miami airport not too long ago,” he verbally punches me in the gut. “Said he was going wherever he wanted when I asked where he was headed.” His calculating blue eyes hold mine. “He said to give you this.”

  He slides the final death blow on the counter. I jerk a little, as if he kicked me, and slip my hands in my jeans pockets so he doesn't see them shake.

  The turtle dove.

  The other half of the gold charm I still wear around my neck.

  “You alright? I'm sorry. He was never good enough for you.”

  I'm not dumb enough to believe he’s sorry. This is what’s dangerous about someone like Ian: his blade of cruel intentions is coated with false concern. And as he slides the knife in and guts you, he covers the duplicity with an ‘Are you ok?’

  By some miracle, I hold back the sob welling in my throat. Internally, I weep that Xavier is roaming the world, and I'm waiting for his return. Outward, I smile, fighting the ache in my chest. The last grain of hope I've been holding onto slips through my fingers.

  “You should go.” I give a head nod to the garish marble lobby where his father stands typing on his phone. “We all have our captors, don't we?”

  He gives a little rap on the glass case. “Next time, Princess.”

  There won't be a next time. One way or another, I'm leaving here.

  A few weeks later, I go to the one person who has the power to set me free.

  I drop the acceptance papers to MECA that have been stashed for two years on my mom’s desk.

  “What's this?” she asks, picking up the creased envelope.

  “This is my ticket away from the Mafia,” I answer, finally speaking the word I've held in so long.

  “Rhiannon,” she scolds me, as if the room is wired, “what are you talking about?”

/>   “You think I don't know?” I lean down, brazen with the need to get away, brace my hands on the desk and look straight in her worried eyes. “I've known for years what Dad does. He's a criminal. Just because you keep me a prisoner doesn't mean I’m oblivious to all the things he is.”

  She shakes her head, red tendrils escaping from the loose bun on top of her head. “You're not a prisoner.”

  “We’re all prisoners,” I spit back. “Unless you're lucky enough to disappear.”

  “Listen, I know you're still upset about Hannah and then Xavier leaving,” she stands, with more life in her than I've seen in years, crossing around the beechwood desk, “but you can not say these things.”

  “I think I've been silent for too long.” Bitter tears flood my eyes. “You don't miss your voice? Well, I do.”

  “Rhiannon, there is no normal life in our world.” Empathy etches itself on her face, transforming her into someone who looks like they actually care. “You can run forever, but there is no escaping. Don't fool yourself into believing otherwise.”

  “Please, I'm begging you. If you love me, don't sentence me to the prison you live in,” I whisper.

  For a moment, the mother I remember from so long-ago surfaces. The one who took care of me and loved me before Hannah stepped in as a replacement. “I'll make it happen.”

  8

  Rhiannon

  Four years later- Twenty-Four years old

  MECA College

  I see him, even though he thinks I don't. His black wool coat and beanie do nothing to disguise him. I've named him Maximus in my mind. It’s a good strong name for the brawny man who has lingered in the shadows for years following me everywhere. I’m sure in a different life, we’d be great friends. Maybe grab a coffee or a burger. In this one, no.

  I wave, letting him know I’m aware he's there, and that he is failing at his spy duties, before tossing my coffee cup in the wire trash container.

  Being tailed by one of my father's men is a small price to pay for the semi freedom I have at MECA. I'm not sure what my mother said to loosen the shackles on me, but it worked. The sweet taste of being independent has a sour aftertaste still not knowing where Xavier disappeared to. It's a little like sucking a lemon after a rich piece of chocolate pie. But he clearly put all this behind him, and I've tried to do the same. I've made a few friends, been to parties, and lost my virginity. All while being guarded by Maximus.

  Orange and gold leaves swirl and scatter in the breeze as I weave through the throng of red-cheeked students in colorful coats and scarves trying to ward off the frigid Spring air. My toes feel like blocks of ice inside my black leather boots as I hurry to my apartment building a few blocks from campus. Doesn't matter. Everything about living here is worth a few frostbitten toes.

  Once inside, I switch my jeans and red sweater for yoga pants and a hoodie and pull on my eggplant emoji socks. It's the closest I’ll get to a penis. My phone rings just as I pop a frozen dinner into the microwave, and I mentally curse at the caller ID. My father. Even the trill of his ring sounds demanding. Answer meeeeee. I've sent him to voicemail twice already today. He never calls, and it's inevitable I'm going to have to answer, so I take a deep breath and get it over with.

  “Hello.”

  “I need you to come home this weekend,” he says.

  “I'm great, thanks. My professor says I have an innate talent and thinks my cards will be a huge success. Did you know I hand draw cards and write quirky little sayings in them? Probably not, you're busy with your mob stuff…”

  “Rhi-an-non” he interrupts, stressing each syllable of my name, which means I've really burrowed under his olive skin, “you will come home this weekend. A driver will pick you up tonight at seven o’clock.”

  “Why?”

  The beep of the microwave sounds as he hangs up on me.

  “I've notified the school you won't be returning,” I think I hear my father say.

  Shock does funny things to you. Absurd things. All I can think about was my last meal in Maine was a Lean Cuisine spaghetti. Not lobster, not blueberry pie, or a hearty rich seafood chowder—a Lean Cuisine. I didn't even need to save those calories.

  “You can't do this. I’m a few months away from getting my degree,” I retort, needlessly. I may as well be speaking to the walls here in his office.

  He can and he did. Waves of nausea swell through me. I'm going to vomit all over his navy suit. “Why are you doing this?”

  “I let you go to school and have your independence. Now it’s time for you to settle down, Rhiannon.” My ears aren't working. I tug my lobes, but I can't feel my fingers. “I'm announcing your engagement to Ian.”

  My brow furrows at the lack of remorse in the dark eyes staring at me as if I'm not his flesh and blood. As if I'm some inanimate object he can give away. This isn't the eighteenth century where you get acres of land or a goat for your daughter’s hand. No, in this world, you get government bills passed in your favor.

  His regal office closes in on me. All that's needed is the slamming of a gavel to make it final.

  “You’ll sign a contract agreeing to his terms.” And there it is.

  The large oak desk separating us sways, and I close my eyes to block out the evil sitting across from me. His image, in his expensive suit and blood-red power tie, is seared on the inside of my lids.

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  “I won't do it.”

  “You have no choice. It's your duty.”

  “My duty? To give you a political connection to do your bidding for life?” My voice rises in panic. “I don't even like him.”

  “I'll have your apartment packed up and you will stay here until the marriage.”

  “And when’s the big day?” I grit out.

  His eyes rake me over, not a care of my opinion in the matter. “We want it to coincide with his campaign, so it’ll be a long engagement.”

  “Fuck you,” I whisper.

  Quick like a snake, he darts forward, venom striking me. “You will do what I say, or others will be punished.”

  His poison flows through my veins, immobilizing me in the small leather chair designed to make the occupant feel insignificant.

  I don't doubt for a second, he means what he says. He’s notorious for his lessons. “I will get a car, and I will come and go as I please. Those are my terms.”

  I reach in my handbag and pull out the card I've been holding for him: a picture of an oversized grapefruit and a smaller one beside it, with the inside saying, ‘Thanks, Dad. I’m eternally grapefruit.’

  9

  Xavier

  Two Years Later

  It's time.

  She looks over her shoulder and slings a small black suitcase in the back of her cherry red Tesla. If the situation were different, I'd probably commend her for her car choice. Not because it reminds me of the color of her hair, but because it was so easy for my men to put a tracking device underneath. Too fucking easy. Her father should rethink who he lets in his organization.

  He should rethink everything.

  “Follow her,” I order my driver as she pulls away from Delilah’s house.

  “Yes, sir,” he says, easing out of our spot across from the large brick home.

  Many years have led to this moment.

  I'll find my own form of justice: revenge.

  10

  Rhiannon

  Tires screech, a black car cuts me off on the two-lane road in the middle of nowhere. My seatbelt locks when I slam on the brakes to avoid crashing. Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes away is as far as I got from my doomed future.

  The black car in front of me stops, and I squint to get a better look.

  A tall man exits the back seat, and I grab the pepper spray from my purse.

  My heart slams against my chest as I watch the shadowy figure draw closer. With nowhere to go, or anything to defend myself with, I clutch onto the spray in my hand.

  The door is locked, th
ank God, and I breathe a tiny sigh of relief. Very tiny. The man gets closer, and believe me, if I could run him over, I would. But, there’s no room for it since another car is behind me.

  Tap. Tap. Tap, on my window.

  I look straight forward.

  “Rhiannon,” I hear a man say, and it takes me a moment to recognize the voice calling my name.

  And that’s when I turn toward the sound, glance up, and stare into the glacial blue eyes of a ghost.

  It took me a lifetime to fall in love, and a moment to fall out. Right now, on my knees, in front of my former best friend, is when I fall out. I hate him.

  Red trickles from his knuckle I slammed in the door, down his fingertip, forming a red teardrop that falls on the tip of his designer shoe. It splatters and spreads, oozing like paint across the glossy black leather. Such a shame his five hundred-dollar shoes are ruined.

  I breathe through my nose, trying not to faint at the sight of the crimson red.

  My scalp screams for mercy when he fists my hair tighter and yanks my head back. The handsome face I dreamt about for years is contorted into a mask of rage I don't recognize.

  “You’re coming with me,” he demands.

  “No.”

  He bends down, until his blue eyes are an eyelash width from mine. “Rhi,” he whispers. “I won't show you any mercy.”

  “I don't want your mercy, Xavier,” I whisper back.

  His warm lips brush against my ear. “What if I take you back to Ian?”

  My heart races at the mention of my forced fiancé. For two years, I've endured the impending nuptials, biding my time until I could escape, only to be thwarted by this.

  Like vultures, his suited men watch in the darkened parking lot, waiting to see who comes out the victor.

  “Let me go.”