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He looks at me plainly.
“I’ve killed people,” he says.
A cord of panic runs through me.
“Who? Why?”
“Rapists, pedophiles, evil men … I’ve killed bastards like that, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. The rest – the men who owe the Family money, the men who step out of line – they’re either blackmailed or exiled.”
“And if they still don’t stop?” I murmur, my voice like a shadow, raspy, croaky.
“Then I’d be forced to kill them,” Arturo sighs. “But that hasn’t happened yet. The Amato name holds too much weight for that. Our network is too vast. We work with politicians, law enforcement, everybody. Usually, the dirt we have on people is far too bad for them to risk crossing us. Those who are exiled count themselves lucky to escape with their lives. We seed fear through the city by spreading rumors about the men we’ve killed—lies, but effective lies. We keep the streets clean. If we’re attacked, we fight back, and sometimes when bullets are flying, men die. But we don’t go out of our way to kill people. That’s one of the things I made sure of when I started this family.”
“How?” I ask, voice sharper than I meant it to be.
He cocks his head at me. “You don’t believe me?”
“I’m curious,” I say.
He takes a bite of his burger and washes it down with some non-alcoholic champagne.
“When I started my Family, I put the word out there that any bastard who had a problem with me could challenge me to a one-on-one fight down in the Pits. The Pits are these old fighting networks that used to operate down at the Docks. In the first month, I fought and beat a dozen men. The second month, I beat three men. Nobody challenged me on the third. I made speeches after every victory, and I had plants in the crowd to get them going. Word spread. Fear spread. It was – it is – effective. And it means I don’t have to resort to blood as often as the men who used to rule this city did.”
I reach across the table and place my hand on his lapel, feeling the firmness of his muscle beneath.
“You wouldn’t lie to me about this, Arturo, would you?” I murmur.
He looks me right in the eye, dead serious.
“You’re going to be the mother of my children, my singing princess,” he says. “I’ll never lie to you about anything.”
I blush and turn my face, gazing down at the sunset-red estate.
“I’m not a singing princess,” I laugh.
“You are,” he growls fiercely. “Self-esteem, Aida, you fucking need it. It’s time you accepted that you’re the sexiest, curviest, most talented woman in the city, in the country, in the world. You’re my woman. You’re an Amato princess. And that means a lot. You’re too fuckable and sexy and beautiful and talented and gorgeous and—hell, and a million other things I lack the vocabulary to articulate, you’re too you not to have confidence in yourself.”
“I always thought I was fat,” I murmur, tears pricking my eyes.
“Fat is an ugly word,” Arturo snarls. “It makes no sense. You’re full figured and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’ll accept you for who you are, always. But you need to listen when I tell you to have self-esteem. I’m getting sick and tired of repeating myself. You belong to me and you need to do what I say.”
“I’ll try,” I whimper, cringing away from the fire that moves through him, every part of him tense and focused.
“Good,” he snaps. “I don’t want to hear any more of that self-hating shit. Are we clear? You’re too beautiful for that.”
“Okay, I’m sorry,” I say.
He nods and we turn back to our food. I take another bite, a tear sliding down my cheek, warm and happy.
After a minute of silent eating, I ask, “Arturo, what about Dad, then?”
“What about him?”
“You don’t kill, but does he? Or does he order people killed?”
Arturo sighs darkly. “I honestly don’t know, Aida,” he says. “Like I said, he refuses to meet with me. I hope he hasn’t crossed that line, though. The men he ordered killed, they were decent men. They never did anything to deserve that fate. They never hurt innocents, women, or children.”
A shiver moves through me.
“Why won’t he meet with you?” I murmur. “We need to know.”
“We?” Arturo says, with a slight smirk. “Aida, as far as he knows, you’re my prisoner. He has no idea what’s happened between us. If I told him—”
“Will you?” I interject.
“I’ll have to at some point,” Arturo says passionately. “You’re probably already carrying my child right now, you dirty little minx.”
I squeeze my legs together under the table at the intensity of his words, my bare lips still sore from the library, and yet more wetness gushes from me and smears my thighs. I’m sure I can still feel his come inside of me, a steady drip-drip of it.
