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There have been times I question it. Whenever we had gone to the park and I saw a little boy playing ball with his dad. Or when we went to his friend’s birthday party and her aunts and uncles had surrounded her. Sometimes I cried, wishing for help. I felt so alone and clung to the small baby in my arms. There was no one but the two of us. They say it takes a village to raise a child, but we didn’t have that. So I had to be the village instead.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Enzo rubbing at his head like I’m giving him a headache. I roll my eyes. If he thinks this is infuriating, then maybe he should have someone call him and lie to him, sending him into a panic that his father has been put into the hospital.
“It doesn’t matter now. The both of you are here so we can marry and…”
“Excuse you?” My head whips to him, my eyes bugging straight out of their socket. The words coming out of his mouth are as unbelievable as the situation I’ve found myself in.
“I would appreciate if you would please let me finish my sentences.”
“And I’d appreciate if you would please not make comments about us getting married.” My jerky movements startle Matteo. Not enough to wake him, but enough that he readjusts his position in his sleep. I force myself to relax and run my fingers through his hair. It’s for the best he stays asleep right now.
“I’m not making comments. I’m making plans.”
He says it with such nonchalance that I struggle to catch up. Instead, I openly gape at him.
“I’m not…”
“You are,” he tells me breezily. My brows pull together in irritation, and I open my mouth to speak again, but he beat me to it. “Now you can see how infuriating it is to be cut off when you’re trying to say something.”
Despite the nature of our conversation, the edges of my lips tip up into an amused smile. Dammit. His charm is infuriating. It’s another trait of his he passed along to Matteo. Or maybe I’m just a pushover. The kid knows how to get out of trouble using sweet words and those sparing gestures of affection. It’s not just me. He charms his teachers. The grocery store clerks always give him extra samples. Even our grumpy neighbor comes out to play with him when I’m too busy.
When I realize what he's doing, acting like a chameleon to get him what he wants, I ponder the question of genetics again. I hadn’t taught him manipulation. It’s a skill I’ve never had. His ability to slip into whatever persona would suit his goals came naturally. It nags at the corners of my mind that I can’t stop the mafia’s blood from coursing through his veins.
“You can’t force me to marry you."
“You underestimate what I can do.”
I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. As if I can sit in this massive mansion surrounded by armed men and forget for a second who I am dealing with.
“Marriage is a two yes, one no type of situation. Here I am, saying no.”
If I had thought Enzo had been menacing before, it has nothing on the way his face darkens. Any lightness that might have been there is forced out in an instant. He turns to me with a scowl on his face.
“Is that a concept you understand? I’ve been told that applies to parenting as well. Two yeses, and one no on moving my child several states away from me. Yet I never got to chance to say no. What about the other things that are supposed to be discussions? Like haircuts, preschools, and sleepovers. I didn’t know any of those things were happening. You’ve gotten the unanimous decision-making for too long. Now, I get to make some decisions.”
I scowl at him before pressing myself back onto the couch. The soft cushions envelop me. Maybe if I had met this man at the wedding instead of the charming man he can be, this situation wouldn’t exist.
Except that isn’t true. Despite the brutish attitude, I can still feel wetness pooling between my legs. Hell, maybe because of the brutish attitude. The authoritative way he speaks to me, the way he’s me without a choice. The domineering attitude isn’t something I should find attractive, but my body disagrees.
My therapist should send him a thank-you note for keeping her in business.
“You can’t bully me into marrying you because you think I have wronged you,” I tell him. Matteo makes a little noise and both our attention flickers to him immediately. After a moment, when I’m sure he won’t wake, I look up at Enzo. He has a wicked grin on his face. One filled with lots of dirty promises.
“I’m not marrying you because I’ve been wronged. I’m marrying you because you’re mine. I have much more creative punishments to make up for the ways you have wronged me.”
My breath catches in my throat. I briefly ponder what must be wrong with me for me to be entertaining the idea of falling into this man’s trap again. He misses nothing. His eyes follow the bob of my throat and his smile becomes down-right sinister.
“You like that idea,” he observes. I shoot him the nastiest glare I can muster, even as I readjust myself to put some pressure on the piece of me that is demanding attention. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt anything close to desire. I have toys, but masturbation has become an annoying piece of self-maintenance instead of chasing desire. In the early days, I could only get myself off to thoughts of Enzo, and that felt wrong. I banished him from my dirty thoughts, but it has been lackluster since.
“Tell me, how often do you fantasize about me spanking your ass until it’s bright red? How many times have you gotten off to the idea of me punishing you for your act of rebellion?”
Never, I think to myself, but that might be subject to change after he plants the idea in my head. “You couldn’t be more brutish if you tried.”
“Make no mistake, the only reason you aren’t over my lap right now is because Matteo is here, and I know better than to move him and risk disturbing his nap.”
My cheeks turn a fiery shade of red as the image appears vividly in my head. I ignore him. My eyes are trained on the screen in front of me. I know the storyline by heart, but the plot is lost to me as I imagine his dirty words repeatedly. With the images in my head, his leer feels voyeuristic. Like he can see inside my head.
In Kansas, I had avoided thinking about Enzo like the plague. It was for the best. I never looked him up, stopped trying to find social media profiles, and never searched the news for his name. The only thing I knew for sure was he was alive. If he died, my father might have allowed me to come home.
