Arranged Mafia Marriage

Elsa

“Did you know the enemies-to-lovers trope is superior to the rivals-to-lovers trope?” The woman in front of me turns to her friend.

“It is?” The friend leans forward.

“In enemies-to-lovers, two people on opposite sides of a feud fall in love and work together to put an end to the conflict, while in rivals-to-lovers, there’s no battle or feud. And even if there is, they’re on the same side; they just hate each other. Know what I mean?” The first girl angles her body so their shoulders touch.

“Nope, but thank you for the information I can do without.” Her friend scrunches up her face.

The door of the nightclub opens and the music pours over us, drowning out the rest of their conversation.

When was the last time I went to a nightclub? I stopped going out at night in order to avoid temptation. But when my best friend Theresa called me up and asked me to accompany her, I couldn’t refuse.

When I lived in London, I supported myself by working in a supermarket while I studied to become a pianist; I had been so hopeful for the future. And then, everything changed. I only have myself to blame. The pressure builds behind my eyes. Do not cry. Do. Not. Cry. How many tears are you going to shed about the past, eh? You can’t alter what happened. All you can do is stay in the moment. Stay in control. You can do this. You can get through the evening without giving in to the need which wants to split you in half and rip its way out.Content is property © NôvelDrama.Org.

A black Maserati with tinted windows rolls up. The door on the driver’s side opens and a man steps out. Polished black shoes, black pants which encompass powerful thighs, and a black jacket which is tailor-made and clings to his broad shoulders. He’s wearing a tie in-you guessed it-black, against a black shirt. He tugs on his cuffs, and glances up and down the street. Tattoos peek out from under his collar, a vibrant splash of color against his skin. In contrast to the perfection of his suit, his hair is unruly. A thick curl flops onto his forehead and he pushes it away. Alertness clings to every muscle in his body, and he has that whole ‘don’t mess with me vibe’ going for him. Either he’s a cop or-nah-can’t be. No cop would be dressed in such an impeccable fashion. In fact, he wouldn’t seem out of place in a boardroom. Except, this man does not work in an office. Confidence oozes from his pores. The light from the overhead street lamp highlights his body, but casts his face in shadow. I crane my neck to see his features, but he turns and walks around to the passenger door. He pulls it open and a girl steps out. Dark hair, slim figure, about the same height as me. I know her. What’s he doing with her?”Theresa.” I walk toward her, only to come to a stop when the black-jacket guy from earlier plants himself in front of me.

I tilt my head back, and further back, to meet his gaze-golden-brown eyes, flares of fire, the sunlight shining straight at me. I blink, and when I open my eyes again, I find him staring down that patrician nose at me. I catalog his features-full lower lip, thin upper lip, thick eyelashes, and a scar that runs up from the edge of his eyebrow in an inverted comma toward his temple. Aren’t scars supposed to be a badge of honor in some cultures? And don’t they indicate high levels of testosterone and good genetic qualities that can be passed onto offspring or something? Hold on, why am I thinking along these lines?

The behemoth crosses his arms across that massive chest, and his biceps stretch the sleeves. His gaze narrows, and he glares down at me like I am a piece of chewing gum stuck to the bottom of his over-priced, black leather shoe. Jeez, what climbed up his butt?

Except for the fact he resembles Keanu Reeves-a much more muscular and angrier Keanu, with eyes the color of sunlight-I wouldn’t have given him a second look. Ha, who am I kidding? The man has the kind of presence which absorbs all of the oxygen in his vicinity, leaving us mere mortals gasping for air.

The muscles of his shoulders bunch, stretching the suit jacket he wears. He must work out every day. Either that, or he has the kind of job that demands he is at peak fitness. Come to think of it, if Keanu Reeves and Henry Cavill had a lovechild, he would look like this guy. Only, while I love their intensity and smoldering good looks, not to mention the don’t-give-a-damn attitude of the characters they portray, I prefer my alphaholes on screen or between the pages of a book. This man, though, has all of the tell-tale makings of one in real life. Which means I need to give him a wide berth. Besides, he’s too good-looking. Too mouthwateringly gorgeous. Definitely not a guy to be trusted.

“Who’re you?” I scowl up at Mr. Grumpy Grumphole.

“This is my uh, my bodyguard for the evening,” Theresa explains as she draws abreast with him.

“Bodyguard?” I shoot her a sideways glance. “You have a bodyguard?”

“Yeah, um…” She moves closer to me and lowers her voice, “The Sovranos insisted I get ferried about for my own safety.” She’s referring to the family at the head of the Cosa Nostra, the clan which rule this part of the country. The clan she’s marrying into in less than a week.

“Hmm…” I look Mr. Bodyguard up and down. “We don’t need you this evening.” I wave my hand in the air, dismissing him. “Why don’t you go off and do whatever it is bodyguards do on their time off?”

Seb glares back. Next to me, Theresa chokes.

“Jeez, you are crotchety, aren’t you?” I flutter my eyelashes. “Maybe you should come along with us and have a few drinks to loosen up?”

Mr. Bodyguard’s features harden. He turns to Theresa. “I assume you know her?”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry. I forgot to introduce her. Seb, meet my friend Elsa.” Theresa glances between us. “Elsa, this is Seb.”

“Pleased to meet you.” I hold out my hand.

He ignores it, then spins around and prowls toward the entrance of the nightclub. The crowd parts in front of him and we follow in his wake.

“He’s rude.” I glower at his broad back.

“He’s a Sovrano.” She shrugs.

“There seem to be more of them than the Baldwins,” I grouse.

“What?” Theresa blinks. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing; just a film reference joke. It’s from one of my classmates in England-Summer West, was her name. She was so into movies, all of her conversations were peppered with movie trivia. Some of it rubbed off on me.”

“You moved to Italy to be close to your daughter, didn’t you?” she asks.

“It was the only way I could see her.” My lips firm.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to upset you.”

“No, it’s fine.” I shoot her a smile so patently fake, Theresa winces. She opens her mouth, no doubt, to ask me what’s wrong, but I shake my head. “Let’s have some fun, shall we?”

I hook my arm through hers, and we follow Seb into the nightclub.

A wave of noise hits us as we walk down the short flight of steps and into the large room. The beats echo throughout the space, sink into my blood, and sync with my heartbeat. The scent of perfume, sweat, and sex hang in the air like a heavy cloud that’s going to burst at any moment. The space is crammed with men and women, from the bar to the dance floor and across it. It resembles a mass of humanity all welded together by their common desire to dance and fuck.

“Umm, I’m not sure I want to be here.” Theresa begins to turn away.

I grab her arm and pull her along with me.

“Elsa, please,” she begins to protest.

I turn on her. “Do you want to stay home moping for your Sovrano?”

“N-no…” She hunches her shoulders.

“This was your idea. Clearly, you want to prove a point to yourself. Let’s loosen up a little and have some fun, okay?”

She sighs and I drag her into the sweltering hot cavern.

That’s when I realize I haven’t seen Mr. Alphahole Bodyguard for a while. For a big man, he sure seems to disappear with ease. Well, that’s good. At least, I don’t have to worry about his glowering looks. Or hiding the attraction I feel toward him, which is surely a mistake. Why should I feel so drawn to a man who clearly hated me on sight?

The strobe lights dance over us as I elbow my way through the crowd. I keep a firm grip on her, until I reach the very center of the dance floor. Bodies push in on us from all sides. Sweat beads my brow and trickles down my temple. My dress clings to my back. I grip Theresa’s arms and we sway in tandem to the music. The beat ricochets around my head and I close my eyes, letting the rhythm overpower me. Releasing her, I turn around, then lean forward and jut out my hips as I squat down. With a snap of my lower body, I push out my butt and straighten. For a few seconds, I am one with the cadence of the beats. I shimmy my upper body, long-forgotten dance steps that I picked up through my university years flowing back to me.

When was the last time I allowed myself to flow with the music with such abandon? I cut it all out of my life. Abstained from anything that could be fire up my urges. Yet here I am, back in the eye of the storm, and… The feeling is so heady. A ripple of awareness flutters under my skin, I pop open my eyelids. The crowd in front of me shifts and I spot Seb at the bar.

His gaze clashes with mine, intensifies, and for a second, it’s just me and him. All other sounds fade away. I try to breathe, but all of the oxygen seems to have been sucked out of the room. My lungs burn, my scalp tingles, a throb of heat swells my core. My lips part and those golden eyes of his seem to flare… With rage? I’m a sucker for punishment, for a shiver zings down my spine. My thighs clench and my core dampens.

Then the crowd moves again, and I lose sight of him.

“Elsa,” I hear Theresa call my name above the music, “Elsa.”

I turn to find her watching me with a disagreeable expression on her face.

“Come on, babe.” I throw my arms about her. “You need to loosen up a little.” I grind my hips into hers with an exaggerated flourish.

“What are you doing?” She laughs as I pull back, then twirl her around and back in. Then I turn my back on her and do another bump and a grind.

“Elsa, I need to get off the dance floor.” She grips my shoulder.

“Aww, and I was just beginning to have fun,” I gripe. And really, I am. For the first time in a very long time, I finally feel so close to the edge.

“Well, I’m not.” She scowls.

I take in her flushed features, the sweat on her brow. “Hmm, I know what you need.” I grab her hand, and we push through the crowd, until we burst out of the throng.

“Phew, it’s hot in here.” She pushes the hair off of her neck.

“I know how to cool off.” I head for the bar, and she follows me. I get the attention of the bartender. “Two tequilas, please.” Within minutes, he places two shots in front of us then slides over a plate with salt and lime.

I pick up the glass, and she eyes hers with distrust. “Um, I’m not sure I should-”

“You absolutely should,” I lick the skin between my thumb and forefinger, sprinkle it with salt, and pick up a slice of lime. “You know the drill, lick, shoot, suck.”

“Is that a euphemism?” she snickers.

“You bet.” I pick up the other shot glass and thrust it at her. “Bottoms up!”

She copies my action with the salt and lime, then holds up her own glass.

“That’s the spirit. On the count of one-two-three.” I clink glasses with her, then lick the salt, throw back the liquor in the shot glass, and bite the lime. The alcohol slides down my throat, hits my stomach and tendrils of heat radiate out to my extremities.

“Whoa…” She shakes her head. “That was-”

“Excellent,” I gesture to the bartender. “Two more, please.”

“Oh, no.” She backs away. “I am not drinking more.”

“Oh, yes, you are.” I shove one of the freshly-filled shot glasses into her hand. “Come on, keep me company.”

She begins to protest, and I scowl. “Come on, Theresa, we need to celebrate.” I refer to her upcoming nuptials to Axel, one of the-you guessed it-Sovrano brothers.

“Right…” She tosses her hair over her shoulder. “But you don’t need to get drunk to celebrate.”

“Maybe not, but it helps,” especially when you want to forget what a mess you have made of your life. I raise my glass, “Come on!”

After downing the glass, she plants it upside down on the bar and backs away. “No more for me. I’m going to the bathroom.”

“I’ll come with you.” I begin to follow her, but she waves me off.

“You go ahead and get another drink; I’ll just head to the bathroom and back.”

“Let me come with-”

She cuts me off, “I’ll be fine. I just need a minute to cool off.” She brushes past me and heads for the hallway that lead to the restroom.

O-k-a-y… I didn’t piss her off, did I? Theresa is, literally, my only friend in Palermo. She hired me to work at her flower shop, The Tilting Tulip, which helped me find my feet quickly in this place. I often wish I could confide more in her, but if I revealed the fractured side of me it’d likely only put her off. No, I need to figure out how to hide the side of me that got me into trouble in the first place. I shouldn’t have come here today, really. It’s taking me too close to the edge, where it would be so easy to fall over and lose myself.

For that matter, I shouldn’t have had the alcohol or indulged myself with the dancing. Especially the dancing. But gosh, did it feel good to be there in the crush of the bodies, with the music pounding down on me and drawing out all of the worries in my head. Just one more drink couldn’t hurt, right? I turn to the bartender and gesture for another shot of tequila.

A shiver spirals through me, up the hair on the nape of my neck, and pours down the valley between my breasts. My nipples swell. The heat of his body envelops me, and a second later the bartender glances over my shoulder.

“Grappa Quater.” His low growl thrums in my ear, “She’ll have the same.”