Brutal Power: An Arranged Marriage Mafia Romance (Bianco Crime Family)

Brody decorated, but I feel like it doesn’t count.

The place looks like it’s straight out of a magazine. Honestly, it’s beautiful, but it’s beautiful like a museum. There’s a freaking ceramic duck in his kitchen, and I can’t imagine he’d ever want something like that around while he cooks. I even tell him that, which only makes him laugh. Everything’s stale, too new, too stiff. Even the couch feels like it’s not meant for a human. There are no personal touches, no indications that there’s a man inside that shell he wears.

But the more I’m around him, the more I catch glimpses. He’s repressing himself, holding himself back, and I haven’t fully figured out why yet. I get he’s worried that if we start going hard on each other and fucking like we very obviously want to that he’s going to get distracted and bad stuff might happen. Fine, I can understand it. But he’s also hiding himself from me, and I don’t like that.

We’re supposed to be partners. Except I feel like I don’t know him at all.

I make it my mission to get to know him, even though it becomes very clear that he’s not interested.

“Come on, you have to like a movie,” I say as he sits behind the desk in his home office, looking annoyed. I pace back and forth across the room, picking up books that have clearly never been read, putting them back down, flopping onto his reading chair, throwing myself back to my feet, and starting the process over again.

“I like Trainspotting,” he says reluctantly.

“Wow, the man has an opinion.” I put my hand to my chest. “It’s incredible. Someone call the papers.”

“You’re absolutely impossible,” he grumbles, looking annoyed as he pretends to work. “Maybe living together is a bad idea.”

“No, no, this was what you wanted, and now you have me all to yourself.” I bat my eyelashes at him and sit on the edge of his desk. “What’s your favorite cold dessert?”

He buries his face in his hands and groans. “Ice cream. Vanilla ice cream.”

I snort. “Vanilla. Yeah, that sounds right.” I lean toward him. “I’m more of a chocolate girl myself.”

“I’ll buy you an entire ice cream parlor right now if you’ll let me get some work done.”

“I’m rich, remember?” I hop down and go back to pacing. “I didn’t marry you for your money.”

“You do know that I’m an actual lawyer, right?” He leans back in his chair.

“Hey, there’s something I haven’t asked about. What sort of law do you practice?”

“If I tell you, will you promise to give me a half hour to myself?”

I put my hands on my hips and prepare to give him a very snarky response, but it dies on my lips.

The truth is, I don’t want to be alone right now.

I know about the big operation going down. I talked with Stefania and she heard all about it from Davide, so even though Simon tried to hide it from me, I still got all the gory details. It’s not a small thing, and I hate it when the guys go out to do dangerous shit like break into Santoro safe houses and kill everyone inside.

I understand this is how the mafia works. I’ve been around violence my whole life. I don’t even begrudge them a little murder, Santoro sure as hell deserves it.

It’s just that I don’t want anyone to get hurt.

I worry. I really freaking worry. And if I’m alone with no outlet, I’m going to drive myself crazy.

I could tell Brody all that. He might even understand. Or he might roll his eyes at me and tell me that I’m being a little bit too much or whatever he likes to say, and that’ll only piss me off and make everything worse.

“A half hour, but absolutely no more,” I say finally.

He leans back in his chair. “I’m a tax lawyer.”

I let that sink in. I pictured him defending hardened criminals, making intricate arguments about ballistics and witness statements and whatever.

Not doing freaking taxes.

“I’m going to be honest here and say that I didn’t see that one coming.”

He’s clearly trying not to smile. “Dad was a criminal defense lawyer, and when I went to law school, we decided that it was more prudent for me to specialize in something else. I figured tax law would be worthwhile for an organization like ours, and I was mostly right.”

I put my face in my hands. “Oh my god. My husband is boring.”

“Not boring. I’m still a litigator. I just litigate tax stuff.”

“That’s not better,” I say, groaning, being a little dramatic because it’s funny. “What about your brothers? What are they?”

“Seamus is a defense lawyer. Nolan does employment. Molly does intellectual property for the most part. Declan does personal injury. Caitlin hasn’t decided, but I’m tempting her over to the dark side.”

“The dark side… of taxes.”

“Exactly.” He puts his hands behind his head. This man. This freaking man. He has to be the sexiest tax lawyer in the entire country. Taxes. My god. “Have I earned my half hour yet?”

“You have,” I say grudgingly. “I guess I can get unpacked.”

“Wonderful. Make yourself as home.” He leans forward, already pulling out a new file and tapping at his laptop.

I don’t move. I already know what’ll happen out there. The second I don’t have Brody to distract me, all the intrusive thoughts and worries will start piling up. But I promised him, and he does need to work, so I force myself to leave him alone for a while.

“This is fine,” I whisper to myself as I start to arrange the guest room to my liking. “Everyone will be fine. Davide won’t get shot again. Nobody’s going to die. It’ll be fine.” I hum to myself the way my mom used to when she was doing chores when we were growing up, but that doesn’t help.

Eventually, I call Stefania and chatter at her, and because she knows all about my anxieties, she sticks on the phone for way longer than she should. I feel guilty, taking up her time, since she’s always so busy and she has a husband to worry about too, but she’s a good friend and I love her, and besides, I’d do this for her a thousand times over.

I cobble together distractions like that for the remainder of the day. Brody wants to kill me but I have a feeling he doesn’t want to ruin our first day of matrimonial bliss and so he tolerates my constant interruptions. I cook a big, elaborate dinner, and make an absolute mess, but at least my husband seems happy with the situation when I sit him down and pour him a drink.

“Enjoy,” I say, gesturing at the variety of dishes, mostly Italian, but I did some baked potatoes so he’d feel at home. On account of the Irish and all. Which I happily tell him, and he does not think that’s funny.

I talk all through the meal. He makes appreciative noises and has seconds of everything. I barely eat, and if he notices, he doesn’t comment.

Afterwards, we watch a movie together. We sit on the couch and my feet brush against his thighs. I keep jostling, and he has to put a hand on my ankle to keep my still. He glances at me, and I wonder what he’s thinking. But he still doesn’t comment.

I’m tempted to beg him not to go to bed, but I feel like an idiot and pretend like everything’s fine. I linger in the hall for too long and ask him what kind of shampoo he uses, like that’s a normal question. He gives me a long look. And still says nothing.

I can’t sleep.

Every time I close my eyes, I can see my brothers driving in big black trucks and getting shot at, their bodies torn to pieces. I can hear sirens. I can smell the interior of a prison as they’re paraded to their cells. It’s all sweat and antiseptic.

I last an hour in bed before I’m back downstairs. I pour a glass of wine and pace around the living room, resisting the urge to check in with Stefania, but she’s going through her own shit right now. Probably just as worried as I am.

“When are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” Brody’s voice makes me jump. I turn on him, one hand at my throat, the other gripping the wine glass.

“You scared me.”

He comes over wearing a pair of tight black joggers and a simple black t-shirt that hugs his muscular chest. “You’ve been on edge all day. I keep waiting for you to say something, but you don’t. What’s going on?”

I take a deep breath⁠—

And collapse into an easy chair.

“You always talk about how I have so much energy, and you’re right. Normally it’s a good thing. But there’s another side of me I don’t like to show people.” I close my eyes and take a long drink. It’s fine if I tell him how I’m feeling—he’s my husband. It’s not a burden. Even if I hate making people take care of me, when I’m the one that’s supposed to shoulder everyone else’s problems, it’s not the end of the world if I talk.

It’ll be fine, sharing this little bit of myself.

“You’re worried about the attack tonight,” he says very softly, staring at me with those handsome green eyes.

“Remember when you stormed over and acted like a jealous teenager earlier? When I was talking to Matty? Well, I was trying to get information about what’s happening. I only know about it because Stefania told me, and you mentioned making calls for Simon.”

He nods his head. “You’re anxious.”

“Yes, I’m anxious. I’m always anxious.” I get to my feet, unable to stay sitting. “I know this shouldn’t bother me, but my head runs a million miles per hour and I can’t calm it down. Every worst-case scenario plays through my skull on a loop, over and over. I wish it would stop, but it won’t.”

“Elena,” he says quietly.

“It’s fine, okay? You can go back to bed. There’s really nothing you can do about it. I know I’ve been kind of annoying and selfish all day bugging you while you were trying to work, but I was just distracting myself, you know? And now it’s happening, but everyone’s asleep, and I don’t know what to do with myself.”

“Elena,” he says again and gets to his feet. “Come here.”

I look at him. “I’m not sure I like the look in your eyes.”

His smile is frightening. “Good. You need a distraction. So come here.”

I chew on my lip. My hand trembles slightly. He’s right, I do need something to take my mind off what’s happening, but I don’t know if using sex for that is exactly healthy. Especially when it would be our first time together.

“You don’t have to.” I don’t move. But I also don’t tell him no.

“I never told you what Omar said to me.” He tilts his head and holds out a hand. “Sit with me.”

I let out a shaky laugh. “Oh my god, that’s right. I completely forgot. What with you kissing me and all.” I walk over and we sit on the couch together.

“We both know you’re the one who kissed me.” His hand is on my thigh. It’s warm and comforting.

“Please, you practically choked me with your tongue.”

“You liked it.”

“I never said I didn’t.”

He lets out a low chuckle. “Good girl. Now are you going to let me talk?”

I chew my lip. Good girl? What the fuck? Coming from any other guy, I’d probably slap him and tell him off, but instead a little excited tingle runs down my spine. I think of how possessive he can be, with Matty, with his brothers, and how good it felt for his mouth to crush mine.

“Yeah, okay, fine. Go ahead and talk.”

He tells me about his conversation with Omar. How Omar thinks he’s corrupt. “The guy hates me. No matter what you do, that won’t change.”

I touch his cheek. I shouldn’t do it. If I were smart, I’d keep my hands to myself. “Why? I mean, what happened between you two?”

“We went to high school together,” he admits.

“Seriously?” My eyebrows raise. “I guess it works. You two are around the same age.”

“He graduated a year ahead of me. Public school, in case you were wondering.”

I pretend to gag. “Horrifying.”

He takes my hand from his face and laces his fingers through mine. “Omar holds some stupid kid shit against me, and at this point I don’t think that’ll ever change.”

I want to make him elaborate. He’s so damn stubborn sometimes and likes his little secrets. But he pulls me close and brushes his knuckles across my cheek, and he’s giving me that look again.

The hungry look. The bottomless, intense look. The stare of a starving man that’s too afraid to feast.