Claudio: A Dark Mafia Hate Story (Chicago Crime Family Book 2) Page 8

  I slide my jacket off and wrap it around her shoulders. Then I leave her to pour a glass of brandy. When I hold it out to her, she looks at me with big liquid eyes and shakes her head.

  My voice cracks like a whip, slashing her. “Did you just say no to me?”

  Her eyes widen in fear, and she grabs the glass and takes a deep, burning sip. That’s more like it. She shouldn’t get in the habit of thinking she can refuse me.

  She sips it slowly, and when she’s done, sets the empty glass down carefully on the table. I pick it up and carry it to the sink in the kitchen immediately. I’m too stressed out right now to tolerate the least little bit of clutter.

  She’s on the couch hugging herself, when I return.

  “Tell me everything,” I order her.

  As she speaks, I get angrier and angrier.

  When she tells me what Maria said to her before she waxed her, she looks at me questioningly. She wants reassurance. My wife wants to know that I wasn’t turned off by her. And I like that.

  “I never said any such thing,” I say. “I did tell her to wax you, but I didn’t say that about your pussy. Maria’s always been a snipey little bitch. I only brought you there because it’s the salon is owned by the Family, and it’s the one we always use.”

  What I don’t add – what she doesn’t need to know – is that if we’re giving a woman as a gift to someone, and the woman might try to escape, that’s where we’ll bring her to be prettied up. If any of the women tell the beauticians that they’re being held prisoner, and beg for help, or try to leave, the salon has security who will stop them, and notify us.

  The Russians have a salon like that too, from what I understand.

  “Go on,” I prod her impatiently. “Tell me the rest.”

  She swallows hard. “After she waxed me, I was strapped down, and Grigorio...” she looks away and tries to mumble the words.

  I grab her by the chin and force her to look up at me.

  “I need to know everything,” I growl at her.

  “Please. I’d rather not.”

  “I know, and I don’t care. I’m going to count down from five. Five, four...”

  “Fine!” she cries out.

  Humiliated, trembling, she tells me about Grigorio fingering her.

  That man touched my wife’s pussy. He’s going to fucking die.

  She looks up at me, eyes brimming with tears. “It was horrible. Since when it is okay for someone to take a made man’s bride for a gift?”

  “Never. Nobody knew that you were my wife.”

  Heather shakes her head, with a look of bafflement. “I thought...I thought you’d planned it out. Why did you even marry me?”

  All of my rage and fear bubbles up inside me. I’m never afraid, but when Carmelo called me to tell me that Grigorio had snatched Heather up, I was fucking terrified. I hate that weakness in myself, so I lash out at her.

  “Because Diego fucking told me to pick a wife, and there you were.”

  I didn’t expect the look of shock and hurt on her face. Why does she even care why I married her? What the fuck did she think this was? I didn’t exactly go down on one knee and promise her hearts and flowers. I kidnapped her and told her if she didn’t marry me, I’d reduce her brother to spare parts.

  And now I should be some kind of fucking Prince Charming?

  She leaps to her feet with tears streaming down her cheeks, and hurries out of the room, shoulders shaking as she cries. It gives me a sick, queasy feeling in my stomach. I think it feels like guilt, an unfamiliar and ugly emotion. To quell it, I grab myself a whiskey.

  I don’t go after her; whatever it is that she needs from me, I can’t give her. I turn on the TV and put on a movie, and wait to hear from Diego. He’s going to be fucking mad as hell.

  An hour later Diego sends me a text, summoning me to his house.

  I grab my coat. “I’ll be gone for a couple of hours. Do not even think of leaving the house while I’m gone,” I tell her.

  “Fine.” She bites out the word. Then her gaze slides my way, full of worry. “What if those guys come back for me?” she asks.

  “They would never come to my home, and they won’t touch you now that they know you’re mine, but I have people watching the house all the time anyway.”

  I’m at Diego’s townhome in half an hour. Grigorio and Carmelo are a sitting in the parlor. Grigorio leaps to his feet.

  “I’m sorry, man! I had no idea she was your wife!” he squawks, sounding terrified. He should be.

  “You didn’t notice the wedding ring on her finger, dumb fuck?” I don’t yell, I just use the tone of voice that makes grown men shit themselves.

  He shakes his head. “No, wasn’t paying attention,” he mumbles. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I thought I was doing Diego a favor, and...” his voice trails off and he stares at the ground, huddling in on himself.

  Grigorio’s a low-level street thug. It wouldn’t surprise me if he really didn’t notice. His bicep size is bigger than his i.q.

  But he touched my wife, and he’ll pay for it one day. And that day won’t be far off in the future.

  Diego looks at him in disgust. “Grigorio, you’ve apologized. I know you were trying to help me out, but you should have checked with me first. Now get the fuck out of the house. You’re being reassigned to the south side, you’ll be working under Marco. You’d better be careful that you don’t cross paths with Claudio again.”

  Grigorio practically leaves scorch marks behind him as he shoots out the door.

  Won’t help. I’ll get him sooner or later.

  Carmelo stands up. “Claudio, I’m so fucking sorry. You want to beat the shit out of me? Go ahead.” He means it, too. And he knows how hard I hit. “I went next door to grab a sandwich, Maria promised that Heather wasn’t going anywhere...”

  I scowl at him. “It’s okay, you called me the minute you found out what happened.”

  “Well, I had to break two of Maria’s fingers before she talked.” He looks sour. “Turns out the dumb bitch was banging Grigorio, and she called him up and started gossiping about this girl Heather, who you’d sent to her. Grigorio knew her brother owed us money, and he knew that I was planning on using her as a welcome gift. He thought he’d score points with me if he snatched her up and brought her to my meeting with Kostya.”

  Then Diego’s eyes drill into Carmelo. “You should have told me that he’d married Heather.”

  Carmelo winces. “I’m sorry, Diego, I assumed that he’d told you. You guys usually talk about everything.”

  Diego waves his hand at him in a gesture of disgust. “Just leave. I’m not in a good fucking mood right now.”

  Carmelo shoots me a regretful look, and hurries out.

  "Are you motherfucking kidding me with this bullshit?"

  "The painting was a much better present," I point out reasonably. “Sex slaves are a dime a dozen.”

  He punches me in the jaw, and I stagger back. I taste blood. He’s got a fist like a cement block.

  I don't try to defend myself. I more than deserved that.

  “You just made me look like an idiot! I'd already told Kostya about Heather, you fucking moron! I’d showed him a picture, he had a buyer lined up for her!”

  A buyer? Fuck no. "You didn't tell me that," I point out, rubbing my jaw.

  "Well, I didn't know that you were going to go and fucking marry her!” He shakes his head in disbelief.

  Yeah. My bad. I definitely should have told him. Even now, though, I don’t like talking about it, because it feels like talking about her is sharing her. And the girl is one hundred percent mine.

  He walks over to the bar and pours us two whiskeys. I drain half of it in one swallow, savoring the sting from where my teeth cut the inside of my lip.

  Diego shakes his head at me, leaning against the bar. "What the fuck were you thinking? If you ever pull anything that stupid again..."

  "You did tell me to get married."

  "Yeah,
to someone I picked!” he shouts. “Not some random ho who owes us money. Marriage is for life, you dumb prick!”

  I nod. "I know. That's why it was important for me to make the selection. It had to be someone I could live with. You know me, I’ve got an inner psycho who’s always clawing to get out. If I picked the wrong woman, it would be a disaster.”

  He grimaces. "You should have consulted with me first, and you know it. Furthermore, even though Kostya loved the painting you boosted, he wasn’t fooled. He thinks that you lied about marrying her because you wanted to keep her for your own little fuck-toy.”

  I smile grimly. “I am in fact keeping her for my own little fuck-toy, but I’m married to the fuck-toy. I could show him the paperwork."

  Diego shakes his head, scowling, and drains half his glass of whiskey. "I’ll do that myself. He wants to come to your house for dinner in two hours. He’ll be bringing two of his men.”

  That asshole in my house, looking at my wife? And it doesn’t give me much time to prepare. “You could have led with that,” I grumble.

  He scowls at me. “And you could have fucking told me you married her, douche-wipe. Can she cook?”

  “Of course she can cook.” I think. I don’t actually know. Yet another thing I don’t know about my wife. Women cook for their men, don’t they? I mean, Donata cooks for Diego, and for me, and for Carmelo and Rocco and everyone who comes over to Diego’s house.

  I quickly send Heather a text, telling her to cook dinner for seven, and saying “tell me you got this text.” A minute later, I get a text in return – a terse “yes.” I know I’ve got plenty of fresh food in the fridge; I have a chef who comes over sometimes when Donata’s too busy to cook. And I’ve got a bookshelf full of cookbooks in the kitchen.

  “Now, we need to go over some business. And by the way, you’re not killing Grigorio. He didn’t know she was your wife, and that’s on you.”

  “Grigorio stuck his fingers in my wife’s pussy. Even if he didn’t know she was my wife, he knew she was supposed to be a gift for Kostya. He shouldn’t have laid a hand on her without getting permission first. And honestly, Diego, if someone had done that to Donata...”

  Diego’s response is to throw his glass of whiskey against the wall so hard it shatters.

  “Do not even fucking suggest that!” he barks at me, his face flushing a dull red. It takes him a minute to get himself back under control

  Finally, he sighs. “You’re right. He shouldn’t have touched her, knowing she was meant to be given to the Russians. Do what you have to.”

  We head to his home office, and I catch him up on what’s going on in my territory. Which business owners are cooperating, who might be pretending their earnings are down so they don’t have to give us our percentage.

  When I’m done, he goes to collect Donata, and I head out to my car.

  I send Heather a text message. “How long until dinner’s ready?” I wait a minute for a response, and I don’t get one. I start driving, and call as I drive. The phone goes straight to voicemail.

  The girl shouldn’t try me like this, because she’ll find out I have zero tolerance for screwups. My cock hardens at the thought of punishing my wife for her disobedience.

  Then my phone sends me a message.

  The alarm has gone off – someone broke one of the rear windows. The house is locked up tight, that’s the only way that someone could get out – or in. To grab Heather, to take her away from me.

  It’s got to be someone going after her. She wouldn’t be so foolish as to try to escape, would she? And in such an obvious way, one that she surely knows would alert me instantly?

  I step on the gas, and hope like hell that the neighborhood guys are doing their jobs. I roar past Diego and Donata, and the car full of bodyguards that follows them everywhere. The car full of bodyguards speeds up, staying right on my tail, while Diego and Donata slow down.

  If Diego were alone, he’d be right behind me, but with Donata, he’ll be cautious. If there’s a problem, he’ll take her somewhere safe first.

  A minute later, one of my men calls me. “Your girl tried to bolt,” he said. “We got her. There was a cop car driving by, he saw Paolo throw her over his shoulder, but he was on our payroll, so we’re good there.”

  Is she fucking kidding me, with this?

  I slow down, and call Diego. “False alarm,” I tell him. “My alarm went off, but I just talked to one of my guys, everything’s fine.”

  When I get to my house, Heather is in the living room with Paolo. She’s standing there hugging herself, and there’s a bandage wrapped around her hand. She must have cut herself breaking the window.

  The air smells like smoke. What the hell? Did she try to burn the house down?

  Diego and Donata walk up the steps. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I do not need Diego to be any angrier at me than he already is.

  Heather looks at me in panic as they enter the living room. “I’m sorry!” she blurts out. “I burned dinner and I was afraid to tell you, so I just...ran.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Heather

  I stand there in the middle of the living room, frozen in fear.

  His boss and his boss’s wife are here. And I embarrassed him in front of them. And I tried to escape. I’ve broken two of his rules already.

  I am so, so dead. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to fix this.

  Fortunately, Diego’s beautiful wife, Donata, speaks up.

  “Are we all going to just stand around here?” she says in a tone of mild amusement, as if this is just some minor inconvenience. “Guys, open the windows and turn on a fan to get rid of the smell of smoke. We’ve got half an hour until Kostya gets here, we’re fine.”

  Wait, Kostya’s coming? The man who I was almost handed over to as a sex slave?

  To my surprise, Diego and Claudio hurry off to do as she says. I guess mafia wives do have some power.

  Donata grabs my arm and hurries me into the kitchen.

  Once the door shuts, she’s talking and moving at the same time. There’s a pan of smoking filet mignon sitting on the burners. “Toss that in the garbage, and then put the garbage out back so everything doesn’t smell burned. Garbage bags are under the sink.”

  I move fast, and as I do, she’s yanking stuff out of the fridge.

  When I come back in, she’s sliding some frozen glass dishes into the enormous microwave. She’s already turned the oven on. While I stand there like an idiot, she shoves some tinfoil wrapped loaves of bread into the oven.

  “How did you...” my voice trails off, as she pulls a bowl out of the fridge. There’s fresh salad in there. She quickly fetches glass bottles of oil and vinegar from a cupboard.

  “I cook stuff for Claudio and freeze it, because he likes home-made meals.”

  “Oh,” I say. I struggle to keep the hurt from my voice. “Are you here a lot? You know where everything is.” Why should I even care?

  She shrugs. “Claudio’s got an awesome kitchen. I designed it myself. When my husband comes here, I cook us dinner.” As she pulls more dishes from the freezer, she flashes me an amused smile over her shoulder. “I assure you, there’s nothing going on with me and your husband.”

  My cheeks heat in embarrassment. “I didn’t think that,” I say quickly. “Anyway, our marriage is...” I trail off. I better not say anything. She’ll be loyal to the family, and even if I tell her that I’m hear against my will, she won’t help me.

  She’s silent for a minute as she expertly tosses the salad. I watch, feeling stupid and useless and very, very afraid of what’s going to happen when dinner is over and Claudio and I are alone.

  Then she looks up at me. “Did you burn dinner on purpose?”

  “Good God, no! I wouldn’t dare.”

  She looks at me, and when she speaks, there’s a hint of steel in her voice. Steel wrapped in velvet. This isn’t a woman you’d ever want to mess with. “You seem like a nice girl, but my husband and this outfit are everything
to me, and no matter how upset you are with Claudio, I hope you’d be smart enough never to do something like that. To deliberately embarrass him in front of others.”

  “I would never do that,” I say fervently. Thinking of it makes me feel queasy. Try to embarrass him on purpose? I wouldn’t dare. I’m bloody terrified of him.

  She relaxes, and when she speaks again, she’s back to Sweet Kind Donata. “So what happened? Why were you trying to pan-fry filet mignon? How did you turn it into charcoal?”

  “He told me to make dinner, but I don’t know how to cook much of anything,” I say miserably. “I mean, I can make macaroni and cheese from a box, you know, with the powdered cheese, but...” I stop at the look of horror on Donata’s face. She actually crosses herself.

  “No, no, no,” she says. “Didn’t your mother teach you some basic dishes?”

  “My mother was a drunk who ran off with some trucker when I was five years old.” I say it lightly, and shrug, as if pretending that it’s no big deal will make it true.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, grimacing in sympathy. “But in this family, you need to know how to cook. I’m going to come over here and give you lessons. I can teach you the basics, and show you how to make half a dozen dishes that I know Claudio likes. That’ll get you started.”

  I ignore the prickle of anger burns me at the thought that she is more familiar with my husband’s desires than I am. It makes me feel like even more of a failure.

  “Do you think he’ll allow it?” I ask.

  She smiles. “I have a way of getting what I want.”

  I help her put food in serving dishes. “Do you have any idea why Diego would order Claudio to get married to me?” I murmur. It’s a risk, asking for any information at all, but I’m desperate to understand. Any knowledge at all might be useful to me somehow.

  She hesitates. “I think he wanted him to get married as a way to settle him down.” Then she gives me a reassuring smile. “But Diego told Claudio to get married ages ago, and Claudio ignored him, until you,” she says kindly. “He refused lots of women. He chose you.”