Mila: The Godfather (Unholy Trinity Book 7)

RIAGAN

“This love is worth it all.” – R

A sweet smell wafts through the air as I make my way down the stairs toward the kitchen. The delicious smell is compelling and has my mouth watering and my stomach grumbling. I also hurry my pace in search of Mila. She wasn’t in her room when I went to check on her.

It’s early in the morning, and my body feels tired, as if I didn’t get much sleep last night. I didn’t.

A certain little tease, blonde bombshell kept roaming through my mind, successfully ruining every attempt of sleep. Fuck, how things change in a blink of an eye. How one day you can be traveling through life alone and only existing, not truly living, and the next well, Mila happens.

Now I’m here.

Not only did I propose a marriage of convenience to the girl, but on the same night, my fiancé friend-zones me. A sane man would feel annoyed at being denied, but the thrill of the challenge buzzes through me.

I was sure this wouldn’t be easy.

She wouldn’t be the one if she were easy.

And there’s no denying that she is the one.

My one.

Fuck tradition.

Fuck “normal” courting.

I’ve always followed the beat of my own fucking drum. Never cared to follow social norms.

I wanted her, I found a way into her little world, and now I don’t plan on ever leaving.

Stalker much? Yes.

Is it too fast? For her, perhaps, but I’ve been waiting a long fucking time.

This need for her has been bubbling inside of me for years.

Sure, I’d lusted after women before. But nothing had been quite like this. Women fell on my lap the same way dollar bills did. Easy.

Without much effort.

If I wanted a woman, I typically asked her out, took her home. I “got her out of my system,” as much as I hated that turn of phrase, and that was it.

Life went on, and I moved on.

But life didn’t move on after my first encounter with the little Parisi princess. No, it certainly didn’t.

It was innocent at first, then she grew up, and I crossed the fucking line.

Now it’s too late.

I’m obsessed.

Poor girl.

Finding my way to the kitchen, I stop when I take in the scene in front of me.

Red.

No, fuck that. Green.

So much green.

Jealousy.

My little butterfly is behind the kitchen counter, dressed in nothing but an oversized cream shirt and no fucking bra on. I would appreciate the perfect sight of her round tits straining under the shirt if it weren’t for the fact that my clan chief, my soon-to-be fish food clan chief, is sitting opposite of her with a grin on his fucking face and a plate of waffles — her fucking waffles.

I don’t know what pisses me off more. That he probably got a good look at the impressive rack and sweet little poking nipples or that he gets to eat something she made.

Both.

I’ve never been good at sharing, and I never will be.

Kelly, the pig, doesn’t finish a bite before he shoves more in his mouth as if he was raised on a fucking barn.

But what really makes my blood pressure rise is the way Mila beams while she watches him eat. As if the way the asshole chews the waffle and licks his fingers after each bite gives her joy.

Fuck, her smile.

That perfect smile makes a shitty day better.

She’s mine, and so are her smiles.

“Kelly.” I bark, startling Mila. Shit. I do my best to control the jealous beast that wants to climb outside my body and throttle one of my most loyal men and friend. A friend, who is grinning from ear to ear as if he could read my mind and is taking pleasure in pissing me off. “The plants need watering.” I say through gritted teeth.

“And you, my friend, need to be medicated and perhaps committed.” He laughs, rising from his seat and looking at Mila while she looks away from him, concentrating intently on the waffle maker. “Thank you for the delicious waffles, sweetness. Never have I tasted anything sweeter, and I don’t think I ever will.” He says, working his charm on her, damn well knowing it will get him killed if he takes it any further than that. Clenching my jaw, I fight the urge to choke him with the damn waffles.

Then I notice how Mila’s smile widens at the same time as her cheeks flush pink. “You’re welcome.” She responds shily and so sweetly, it’s hard to not get caught up in all that sweetness.

Pure fucking sunshine.

Turning away from where Mila is whispering something about white walls and no colors, I turn to Kelly. I wait for him to reach me, and when he’s close enough, I take the damn plate from him. He doesn’t get to eat them. “You keep that corny ass charm to yourself, fucker.” I warn, but he just laughs. Never taking anything seriously. I don’t joke about Mila.

I also don’t play when it comes to her.

I’m so fucked.

“How the fuck you ended up with a sweet little thing like that, I don’t know…” He taunts me as he leaves the room. I swear I hear him say: ’Good fucking luck’ under his breath.

Yeah, fucker, fate works in mysterious ways.

“Do you want some? They’re my favorites, but I didn’t take into account that others might not like them. Do you like waffles? If so, what flavor? Also do you have any allergies?” She rambles adorably, while cutting strawberries into tiny pieces and placing them on the white ceramic plate with a small amount of whipped cream. She’s excited, I can tell. She is all bouncy, blonde hair pulled into two high pigtails. Never has a woman damn near knocked the wind out of me until her. That is what happens every time right she looks up at me with those big fucking eyes the color of the sky. I am left trying to find my next breath.

“These are perfect, sweetheart.” I look down at the plate in front of me. Chocolate chip waffles with bits of bacon as a topping. My favorite. Her favorite, as well.

I shouldn’t know these things about her. I feel guilty that I do, and that’s a fucking first. Never in my life have I felt guilty about anything apart from my mother.

Nothing else.

Didn’t care about anything or anyone else enough to feel guilty, but I do now.

“They’re my favorite. It’s the perfect blend of sweet and salty.” She mumbles softly. I watch her vivid blue eyes. Her eyes are always moving, always darting, and her hands are never still. One is holding onto a spatula as she unsticks the waffles from the waffle maker, and the other is tapping the counter. “Here. Have as many as you want.” She serves me four big-ass waffles, and I don’t mind one bit.

Taking a seat, I grab a fork and dive in, and when the first taste hits my taste buds, I can’t hold back the moan of pleasure that slips from my mouth. I have had these almost every morning since I grew teeth, and not once have I ever tasted waffles better than these.

“I wanted to show you my gratitude for helping me and bringing me to this paradise.” She says while continuing to tap on the counter.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Three times.

She stops.

A long second passes before she does it again.

“You don’t need to thank me, sweetheart.” I bite down on a strawberry while staring her way.

“Oh, but I do. My nonna used to say that we should always show our gratitude when someone does something nice for us, either with words or with food, and since sometimes, I’m not very good with words, so I chose food. Eat.”

Well, when she puts it like that.

I do as she says.

I eat.

I ate every waffle on my plate and then asked for seconds, and even when I was full and I knew I couldn’t take another one, I asked for more anyway because that smile on her face now? A smile that lights up her entire goddamn face? That’s the reason why I’m doing all of this.

The lying.

The secrets.

All of it.

Because there’s always an endgame, and mine was always her.

Not the three families of Detroit, no.

Not their business.

Her. Sᴇaʀ*ᴄh the (F)indNƟvᴇl.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

Always her.

Then a sick satisfying feeling courses through my veins, knowing that she didn’t smile at Kelly as she did me.

Baby steps.

“Mila?” Setting the plate aside, I speak up while she munches on a waffle. I try my best to divert the dirty thoughts that flash through my brain as I watch her lick the whipped cream off the corner of her pink lips.

She has no idea. No idea at all how fucking irresistible she is. My little forbidden fruit.

Her eyes fall on my face for a rare second, and that’s all it takes for my heart to beat faster. How does she do that shit? I don’t know. “Yes?”

“I need your help again.” Lies. Little white lies.

“My help?” She narrows her eyes, making her look adorable as fuck. “With that?”

“My father has a bucket list that he’s not able to complete right now. I offered to do it for him, and I need help crossing things off it.”

“A bucket list.” She gaps excitedly. “I love bucket lists. I have one, too.” She ducks her head shily, as if she’s embarrassed to share that with me.

There’s no need to be embarrassed. Not with me. Bucket lists are to Mila what cage fighting is for me.

“I was thinking we could help each other then.”

“How?” She lifts her head, and her excited gaze meets mine.

“You help me cross my father’s wishes off his list, and I’ll help you with yours. How does that sound?”

She doesn’t answer for almost a minute. I already imagine the wheels on her head spinning, trying to figure all of this out. After what feels like an eternity, she offers me a small smile.

“I would love to help you with your father’s bucket list, Riagan.”

Little does my butterfly know that every single wish on that list is for her.

Wishes I know will make her heart happy.

In turn, it’ll get me closer to said heart.

No one said I had to play fair.

Playing dirty for a man like me has always and will always be the only way.

Mila

Paradise, plants, books, and bucket lists.

I’m starting to think the man walking next to me is a mind reader or a mythical creature. Because how else would a rational person explain this situation? There is no logic. No reason. It all went out the window when I not only fled the country with this beautiful stranger but also accepted his fake marriage proposal. I’ve been in a haze since  yesterday. Marriage. A fake marriage. To an older man I barely know. I’ve seen movies about this—fake marriages of convenience. On-paper-only marriages. In books, it turns out romantic, with the main characters falling in love and living happily ever after.

But that’s not a possibility for us.

How would that even work?

He can’t stand my sisters, and they’re the most important people in my life. He also is a crime lord who needs a fearless queen to stand by his side, and sadly that’s just not me. I’ll be more of a burden. He might not see it now, but he eventually will. But I’m still in awe of this man and how he has managed to leave me speechless more than once with his kind words and his suspicious knowledge of the things that make me smile. There is no explaining how someone I met only once before knows so much about me. You know that sweet blissful feeling you get when you’re doing something you love?

For me, it’s when I re-read a comfort book or when I am surrounded by my plants.

Peace.

I feel that here.

Here with him, walking down a colorful street while eating a refreshing treat made of shaped ice and fruit syrup. It’s so good. I was curious about the delicious treat like I am about most things I’ve never tried before, so I asked the man who was selling them out of his bright, colorful pushcart how he made them. The man was kind enough to show me his process, and Riagan stood by and watched with me, and not once did he look annoyed or exasperated.

When I looked up, I found him looking down at me with a soft smile. The same smile that makes my stomach feel funny.

He does that to me a lot.

All my life, I programmed myself to blend in with my surroundings, to not attract attention, and keep myself out of people’s way, yet here, with Riagan, I can’t help but ask questions and speak my mind. Riagan seems intent on pushing me into the spotlight, which is also new to me. New, and at times, scary.

Now, as we walk through a small street where there are various local vendors that not only sell treats but handmade tropical clothing and pretty jewelry made of seashells and colorful rocks, I keep stealing glances at his face that looks contempt.

I can’t also stop looking his way because he’s never looked more wild than he does today. He is wearing black swim trunks and his white tank, which he discarded and is now thrown over his shoulder. He also wears a black baseball hat backward. He looks like most heroes do in romance novels these days.

I also notice how he never looks the part of the rich and ruthless gangster dressed to the nines in expensive suits like most men that work for my sister do. Perhaps, it’s only an Italian mafioso custom? I do not know.

He looks carefree, and like he’s actually enjoying this adventure.

I keep stealing glances, watching him eat his ice cone while walking side by side.

I chose the coconut one, while Riagan chose the guava flavor. He even got his guard, who’s been standing back watching his surroundings like a hawk– one.

I noticed the two men really enjoy treats.

Which is interesting since he doesn’t look like a man who likes to eat the way I saw him this morning. The look on his face while he took the first bite of my waffles will remain in my memory long after this arrangement is over. Gus and Carlotta are the only people who are always willing to try anything I bake. Kadra doesn’t eat sugar, so it was just us, and although I know my friends enjoy what I make them, no one has ever requested to eat as many waffles as Riagan did.

Which delighted me.

“Mila.” Riagan’s voice breaks through the confusing thoughts. I’ve been so deep in my head that I didn’t realize he stopped next to a kiosk where a lady in colorful clothing and a crazy hairstyle is selling hats. Noticing Riagan has extended an arm my way, I see he is holding a pretty aqua-colored hat with a baby turtle on it.

“Another hat?” I blurt out and instantly cringe. Do I sound ungrateful? I didn’t mean to. “I– I, it’s just that you don’t need to get me anything.” I look away, feeling embarrassed that my mouth got in the way of what I really wanted to say.

“You like hats.”

“I do.” He gently places the hat on my head. That’s when I realized that I left without my comfort cap, and not once have I felt the compulsion to reach for it.

“I like your smile when I give you shit.” He shrugs.

“You like my smile?”

“I do.”

“I like your smile, too.” I whisper, playing with the texture of the turtle logo on the hat.

Riagan laughs. A laugh that touches me the same way the sea breeze does my face.

It’s soothing. “Well… look at that. My future wife likes my smile. Shit.” His smile grows wider. So big that all his teeth are visible.

Future wife.

The prospect of being his wife shouldn’t cause my heartbeat to raise or my skin to feel hot, but it does.

I don’t know how to respond. I’m at a loss for words, so instead of opening my mouth and saying something that might make him lose that smile, I just smile right back and do my best to look him in the eyes, and when I do, something happens. Something that’s never happened before.

I get this strange sense that this man in front of me with the soulful eyes and melodic laugh is someone that I was destined to find.

Out of the blue, a girl in a baby pink bicycle races by, stealing my attention. The joyful and jovial look on the girl’s face as she rides her bike makes me smile wider than I was before.

She looks so happy and free.

How can such a simple activity like moving pedals and steering a wheel make someone look that happy?

“Do you want one?”

Riagan’s says from behind me, and without looking away from the girl who is now riding her bike faster while the wind blows her copper hair in all directions, I say. “I don’t know how.” I confess, still looking at the jovial girl. Then I wonder if he’ll mock me for it, but he doesn’t. Instead, he nods and jogs to the other side of the street, where there is a bicycle stand with a few of them. I frown when I see him talking to a man and hands him a wad of cash before grabbing one of the bikes and returning to where I am standing. The biggest smile spreads on my face. “You got a bike!”

“No, butterfly. You do.”

Shaking my head, I look down at the bicycle nervously. “I don’t know how. I–”

“I’ll teach you.” Then he offers me his hand, the one that’s not holding onto the bike.

“I don’t know…” I look up at his face, concentrating on his bearded cheek. “What if I fall?” I whisper vulnerably. The civilians will witness me making a fool of myself if I crash and fall.

And as if Riagan read my mind, he leans closer and takes my hand in his, causing those tingles to spread all over my skin again. Electricity. That’s how it feels when he touches me. It doesn’t feel like bugs crawling up my body like it usually does. “I won’t let you fall, sweetheart, and no one will laugh. I promise you, and if they do, they’ll lose their lives,  so it wouldn’t matter if they laugh because they’ll be dead.” He says nonchalantly.

It takes me a second to understand what he is saying.

He is not joking.

There was not a smile on his face, so he didn’t make a joke.

He is being serious.

“You can’t kill someone for laughing.” I point out.

“I sure as fuck can kill someone that is being unkind to you.”

His words hit me like a rush of wind.

“You’re not like everyone else.” I point out, noticing he still hasn’t let go of my hand, and why don’t I want him to?

That’s the question, and right now, I don’t have an answer, at least not one that I’m willing to admit right now.

“Likewise, sweetheart. I have never met someone quite like you.”

“I’m just me. There’s nothing special about me. The only unique trait I have is my–” He interrupts me when I proceed to remind him of what makes me think differently and sometimes not be like others.

“Nah, it has nothing to do with that.” He pulls me gently until I’m straddling the bike. I hold my breath as he stands behind me with both tattooed arms around me. Then he places my hands on top of the handlebars. “You shine, Mila. So. Fucking. Bright.” he whispers, and I can feel the little hairs on the back of my neck rise.

So do you, Riagan.

Like all the stars in the sky at once.

I think to myself.

And there he goes again, stealing my breath and making my head spin with a multitude of questions. I move my head toward him and the words get stuck in my throat when I realize how close we are. Our lips are a breath away from each other. My eyes clash with his, and I smile. I smile with not only my mouth but with my eyes to let him know without words how grateful I am that he looks at me that way. That he doesn’t see a disability or quirky behavior when he looks at me like most people tend to do. He sees me for… me.

“Now, with your feet, move the pedals. I won’t let go.” He promises. “Remember to use the breaks to halt the bike.”

Nodding once, I turn away from him and look down at the pedals and do as he says and then we’re moving, and he doesn’t let go of me.

Not once.

Not even when I successfully get the hang off it.

It’s not that complicated.

You just need to find a balance while moving the pedals and try your best not to crash. That would be very, very bad.

I rode with Riagan holding onto the seat four more times until I got the confidence to ride without him. Then I ride with the wind in my hair and Riagan watching from the sidelines with a smile on his face. Where did you come from? Where were you all this time? I wonder as I keep riding while still stealing glances at him.

“I did it.” I sing-song happily a few minutes later as I bring the bicycle to a halt right in front of Riagan.

Looking at his chest, I smile. “I learned how to ride a bicycle.” I say in awe, thinking that maybe this might seem insignificant to other people my age, but to me, it means everything and I have him to thank. He then helps me off the bicycle, and I’m standing in front of him, still holding onto the handles. “You did, sweetheart.” He winks at me, and my heart does a strange, baby-goatish gallop. Just looking at him makes my heart pound and my stomach flutter.

“I like you, Riagan. I know it is very premature of me to say this without us really knowing each other, but I have this gut feeling that tells me you’re one of the good ones. You’re a good friend, and my nonna used to say I should always trust my gut feeling. I am trusting my instinct. Please don’t prove me wrong.” I blurt vulnerability.

“I won’t, baby.”

Baby…

A moment of silence passes between us as the breeze picks up, and I think I somehow said something that he did not like. Why did he suddenly go quiet? Looking up at his face, I find him staring down at me with a look that I can’t comprehend. He doesn’t look happy, nor does he look sad.

It only lasted a second because, before I knew it, his face turned soft like before. “How about we ride your new bike back home.” He taps my hat once, and my heart beats faster at the same time as my grin takes over my entire face. I think I’ve never, in my nineteen years on this earth, smiled as big as I do here.

“What about the car?”

“Kelly will handle it.” He shrugs like he could care less about his very expensive and very over-the-top sports car.

And that’s how I end up sitting on the handlebars while Riagan rides us all the way home.

I laugh out loud and smile through the entire bicycle ride, and I wonder if it would be too much for me to ask that this moment last for a long time.

This moment.

This feeling.

This…man.

Riagan

Friend.

That fucking word.

If only she knew that calling me friend felt like she was shoving a knife in my chest.