Scorned Vows: An Arranged Marriage Romance (Scorned Fate)

It was four-thirty a.m.

The elevator doors slid open, and I stepped onto the floor where my wife and son were resting. Guilt held me motionless. Negotiations with Orlov took another hour and, as expected, Koshkin wanted to celebrate the truce. I had intended to have one drink, but Koshkin insisted on another. I didn’t refuse because they would ask me where I was rushing off to, and I didn’t want to tell those assholes my mind was elsewhere. That my thoughts were with my wife and son. I didn’t want any of them to know that they mattered more to me than the deal I made with them.

Duty and security for my family made me stay.

Ange remained in Chicago while Carmine accompanied me to the hospital. He had walked ahead, but when he realized I was not following, he stopped and pivoted in my direction. “What the hell, man? Your son is waiting!”

I exhaled sharply and forced my lead-weighted feet to move. The fucker was finding humor in my situation. He slapped my back. “Congratulations again.”

Dario headed in our direction the second he saw us. “Congratulations.” He shook my hand. “Big boy. Almost nine pounds.”

I nodded briefly. Tony had already texted me my son’s stats.

Moretti soldiers from the mansion packed the hallways. “Some of you should head back,” I told them. “There’s enough people here to guard the queen.”

“She is your queen.” Tony came forward and extended his hand. “Congratulations, boss.”

It did not escape me that not all the men came forward, and none of the women tried at all. Martha and Nessa, especially, awarded me the kind of glare that left a sunburn.

I brushed that off. “Martha, how is she?”

“She cried for you,” the old woman accused. “She called for you, Luca, while she was giving birth to your son.”

Fuck.

“Not now, Martha,” I snapped and struggled to ignore how those words punctured my insides, depleting me of the effort not to lose it. “How’s my son?”

Nessa made a sound and huffed off. Martha’s eyes followed the younger woman before returning to me and emitted a resigned sigh. A sigh that was full of disappointment that weighed down the guilt even more.

Fuck them.

“Go on in, but don’t expect any welcome there.”

She left me standing at the door.

I gripped the handle and contemplated my hand-crafted Italian shoes for two seconds. They mocked me because it was a reminder of my first failure as a husband. Worrying more about ruining them than making my wife happy. But failing to be here for my son’s birth…I breathed in uncertainty, and exhaled determination. I was going to fix this. I opened the door and walked in.

Natalya was lying on the bed. The lights were dimmed. The crib was on her left side.

I walked up to the bed.

She wasn’t sleeping. Her eyes were partially open but turned away from me, staring at the crib. She must have heard me outside.

“Natalya…”

A tear fell from her cheek.

That single tear almost sent me to my knees, and an uncomfortable pressure formed in my chest. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be here.”

“Go see your son.” Her voice was lifeless.

I leaned over to touch her, but she flinched and inched away from me. My fingers hovered, wanting to tip her face to look at me.

“Go.” Her voice was more forceful. “See your son.”

“Natalya, this is ridiculous,” I said. “You’re not married to just anyone. You married the boss of the Chicago family. You knew how important this evening’s meeting was going to be.” My frustrations of the night were bleeding into my words, and I couldn’t filter them.

Finally, she turned to face me and I wished she hadn’t. Because her eyes were as dead as her voice. It was as though she was not seeing me. Her face was expressionless, and if it wasn’t for the tears that rolled down her cheeks, I would have thought she was catatonic.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“What? I wasn’t asking for an apology.” I threw up my hands. I wasn’t going to win this argument, so I went to see my son.

He was so tiny and helpless, but the sight of him stole my ability to breathe. I swayed, dizziness hitting me. It must be the exhaustion from the power play with the Russians hitting home too. My fingers curled over the crib for support. I glanced over my shoulder. “He’s beautiful, tesoro.”

She didn’t answer, but her expression changed from lifeless to something akin to sadness. I wasn’t sure, but what I was sure of was I didn’t like it either. When this moment was supposed to be one of the happiest of our marriage, despair shrouded the room. I swallowed. “Have you decided on a name? Salvatore? Elias? Enzo?” Elias didn’t have Italian roots, but Natalya was fond of that name and mentioned it the few times we were talking about baby names.

“Elias,” she said. “If you don’t mind.”

“Of course, I don’t mind.”

Finally, she smiled. Again, it wasn’t one of pure happiness but resignation, as if she’d given up all hopes of joy.

The pressure in my chest intensified into a persistent stabbing ache.

Guilt.

Self-loathing.

Unworthiness that I didn’t deserve my beautiful wife and son. “Do you want me to bring him to you?”

“He’s sleeping.”

“Did you breastfeed him?”

“My milk won’t come yet,” she said listlessly.

“Natalya…”

“I’m tired, Luca. I don’t have the energy to hear why you didn’t come sooner.”

I didn’t offer further excuses. She wasn’t receptive. She was lying down, but it looked like she was about to sink into the mattress with the weight of her hopelessness. Still, I tried to muster up a self-righteousness that I had done the right thing by staying in Chicago. What I did was for the good of both of our families, especially the survival of Galluzo.

Why couldn’t she see this?

But at what price? a condemning voice in my head taunted.

I forced a nod. “Okay. We’ll talk later.”

I was halfway across the room when her words stopped me. “Talk about what? Your expectations? I think I can extrapolate from experience.”

Extrapolate? An interesting term coming from my wife. “Get some rest, tesoro.” I cocked my head to our sleeping son. “He will need you.”

I exited the room and closed it gently. Then I leaned against it, closing my eyes and shaking my head. That encounter was more draining than being in a room full of mobsters.

“It’s about time you got here.”

I opened my eyes and glared at Rachel. “I don’t need to hear it from you too.” I walked in the opposite direction from where everyone was gathered because I knew a lecture was coming from the doctor. I had had enough of judgmental people who didn’t know what it took to run the family.

Nessa cast me one last disapproving look before she went into Natalya’s room. Fine. Everyone was closing ranks around my wife. Great. Just fucking great.

“Where were you?” Rachel asked.

I entered the stairwell. The doctor followed as I had expected. She was one of the few people who I let psychoanalyze me because she knew me when I was a pimply faced boy who took in stray cats.

Besides, she was the family shrink.

I leaned against the wall. The itch to light up clawed at me. “The Russians. Koshkin is in town.”

Rachel held a clipboard against her chest. “His timing sucks.”

I rubbed the top of my mouth, still disbelieving at the string of events. “What were the odds of Natalya going into labor at the same time I would be tied up in the most crucial negotiation of the past year.”

“It’s not a secret that Natalya is pregnant,” she said.

I kicked at the steps in front of me, letting them take the brunt of my caged frustration. “She’s going to be okay, right?”

“Physically, she’s fine. Mentally, psychologically…”

My foot stopped kicking, and I braced. “Do you need to talk to her?”

“Oh my God, Luca,” she exclaimed. “She needs you. She and your baby need you.”

“They have me.”

“How many checkups did you attend?”

“A lot,” I snapped. “What is this? An inquisition? You knew exactly what I could give.”

“You take a wife and you treat her like this?”

“I treat her just fine. She’s got everything—more than most wives have. You’re reacting like Natalya. Life as a don’s wife differs from the fairy tales she consumes. I expected her to know better.”

“And you’re using that excuse not to do more,” she retorted. “Don’t you want to see her and the baby healthy?”

“That’s an absurd question. Of course, I do.”

“The way things are going between the two of you, she might be susceptible to postpartum depression.”

My jaw slackened. Fuck. “Junior’s wife had that issue.”

She touched my arm and squeezed, then handed me a pamphlet. “I just want you to be aware of the signs. She’s subdued right now, but at least she’s responding positively to the baby.” She blew out a breath. “Can you stay at home and be with her for the first few weeks?”

“Yes. All sides agreed to concessions. It might be a Band-Aid to the situation, but it gives me some breathing room for a few months at least.”

“Maybe it’ll be good for Natalya’s parents to visit?”

I nodded grimly. “Yes. I’ll call them right now.”