Owned by the mafia boss

CARMELA

Michael offered me a big, calloused hand. I did not want to touch him, but I had little choice. His fingers clasped mine, ironing me with heat. Then he pulled me outside, and we headed downstairs. As I struggled to match his pace, I took in more of the mansion.

Spending my life in this colorless place seemed like torture enough without Michael prowling its interior. As we passed the kitchen, I glanced at the backyard. An English garden surrounded a full, green lawn. A lonely tree house fashioned from the same wood as the mansion stood in the house’s shadow. A blue ball sat in the sandbox, which didn’t even have a shovel.

God, it was sad.

The house reflected this family’s downward spiral because the cottage he’d lived in months ago didn’t have this depressing vibe. Wall-mounted photos glowed with Serena’s wide grin-his late wife. She’d died in rehab, chasing the same high that put her there.

I hoped the kids were okay.

Staring at their faces pitted my belly with sadness. What happened to them was so unfair. Matteo had been only three years old. I focused on his cherubic face, and a shock jolted my heart when I glanced at Michael. It was hard to connect the grinning man with the dark presence beside me. Michael turned his menace at the family portrait, communicating more with a stare than he could in words.

“They’re only up for the kids’ sakes.”

In the kitchen, a nanny scattered as though ordered to leave once he was in the room. Michael detached from me to greet his children, who sat at the granite countertop.

He beamed at them and shouted, “Who wants pancakes?”

“Me!”

I marveled at his transformation from broody asshole to wholesome daddy. “Morning.”

The kids crowed a greeting. I joined Michael near the stove as he mixed pancake batter from scratch and dropped blueberries into smiley faces. “Need help? I can start the bacon or cook some eggs.”

“Thanks.” Michael cleared his throat, softening. “That sounds great.”

I grabbed a package of bacon and a carton of eggs. Michael watched my every move, not even letting me cook scrambled eggs in peace.

Once the food was ready, I set the table, and Michael made everyone’s plates. I sat beside Matteo, my head pounding as my fiancé served the kids, and then me. Mariette’s judgmental blue gaze pierced me as I sat beside her father, who kissed my cheek. I forced a smile as his face glowed with happiness that didn’t meet his eyes.

“Kids, we need to talk. Do you remember Carmela?”

Matteo beamed. “Carmel!”

“Carmela.” Michael’s baritone softened. “Carmel is a city in California.”Property of Nô)(velDr(a)ma.Org.

“Her name is Caramel,” boasted Mariette. “Like candy!”

“No. Car-mel-ah. She’s Daddy’s fiancée. She’s staying with us from now on.”

Mariette’s blonde head snapped up, her lips forming a pout. “Why?”

“Because we’re getting married.”

“Why?”

“Because we love each other so much.” Michael teased his fingers across my shoulders and planted the softest kiss on my temple. “And we couldn’t wait another second to get engaged.”

Mariette darkened. She gave her father the stink-eye, and then her haughty disapproval flicked to me.

Believe me, honey. I’m not thrilled about this either.

The four-year-old, however, glowed. “What about Mommy?”

Michael sobered. “Mommy’s dead.”

Ouch.

I felt that one in the stomach.

It was awful to hear Michael’s matter-of-fact delivery, and even worse to see their confusion. How many times had Matteo asked that question, and how did it feel to give that devastating answer?

Mariette frowned at her plate. “Why can’t she come back?”

“She’s gone. People who die don’t come back.”

Matteo shrugged and returned to his scrambled eggs. Mariette flushed beet-red, her forehead creased in a deep scowl.

I braced for the outburst.

“I hate you.” Mariette stood, her tiny frame vibrating with a fury that seemed to match her father’s. “Why are you marrying her? What about Mommy?”

A lump lodged in my throat.

“Mommy’s dead, and it’s your fault!” Mariette seized her glass and hurled it to the floor. It shattered across the marble in hundreds of pieces, and suddenly I wished I didn’t have a heart.

Good God.

A horrible silence filled the air, broken by Michael’s hammer-like command. “Go to your room.”

Mariette howled as she raced upstairs. Michael stared ahead, his expression vacant of all pain, but it poured over me like molasses.

“Do you mind if I talk to her? Michael?”

He sighed deeply. “Go ahead.”

I slid off the stool and climbed the staircase, following the sound of her crying into a room shimmering with gold. She lay in her bed, wrapped in her comforter, and her face streamed with tears.

“I don’t like you. Go away.”

Ouch. “I just want to talk.”

“No. Go away.”

“Five minutes, and then I’ll leave you alone. Promise.”

Mariette rolled over, sniffling.

I sank onto the mattress.

How the hell should I approach this? Was there a manual on how to talk to a seven-year-old about their mother’s death?

“I know this must be confusing. I’m a stranger, and all of a sudden, I’m in your home, eating breakfast with you, doing things your mommy used to do. I’m not trying to replace her, honey. She’ll always be your mom.”

Mariette turned toward me, crying. “I miss her.”

“I’m sorry, honey.” I wiped the hair clinging to her wet cheeks. “I know you’re upset, but so is your dad. He misses your mom, too.”

“He doesn’t. He hates Mommy.”

Probably true. “Why would you think that?”

“Daddy hates me.”

“Your daddy loves you more than anything in the world.” That wasn’t a lie, at least. “It’s his job to keep you safe and happy.”

Mariette fell silent and chewed her lip.

I pulled a random children’s book from her nightstand. “Can I read you a story?”

“Okay.”

I opened the watercolored pages and read until her lashes fluttered. When her body sagged, I undid her ponytail and smoothed her curls on the pillow. Then I replaced the book and stood. I headed for the door.

Michael was at the threshold.

My pulse galloped ahead at the sight of him blocking my exit. His impassive gaze zeroed in on his sleeping daughter. When it swept over me, his lips parted. Raw emotion pulsed from him, dragging me forward like light spiraling into a black hole.

I felt sorry for him.

I didn’t think that was possible

“Michael, she didn’t mean it. She misses her mother, and she’s lashing out. She doesn’t understand what she’s saying.”

“You said a lot on my behalf.”

I followed him into the hall and closed the door. “What was I supposed to say?”

“The truth.” His features were twisted in the shadows, his smile bestial. “I never loved her. I hated that junkie, waste-of-space bitch. I’m glad she’s gone.”

“Michael.”

“Don’t.” Michael turned away, as though he couldn’t bear the sight of my pity. “Just leave me alone.”

“You need to lighten up. They lost their mom. They need laughter and silliness, not the cold, hard truth.”

“Jesus Christ, Carmela. Go away.”

“What is your problem?”

He wheeled around. “They’re my kids, not yours!”

I jumped, my heart wrapped in barbed wire. A plea stuck in my throat as his overwhelming rage blackened the hallway. My back struck the wall, and he loomed over me.

Suddenly, I was yanked to a different time. My senses filled with clove smoke, scarred fingers groping where they had no right, and bright lashes of pain on my thighs-and I could not pull from Nick. In my mind, my ex-boyfriend stood in a leather cut, his fist raised to strike.

“Please, don’t. Please.”

His burning palm touched my cheek.

“Get the fuck off!” I flinched and smacked him away. “Don’t touch me!”

“Fine,” the horrible voice exploded. “Pick a room and stay there.”

I ran down the hall and dove into a study, shaking as I slid the lock. Then I dragged a chair under the handle and hid under the desk. I watched the door and waited for it to tremble.

So I braced myself.