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But years of discipline pay off, and I smile coolly and nod out a thanks to the boss. Moments later I’m out in the hallway again, those oakwood office doors closing behind me.
Perfect.
Quick glance to make sure nobody’s watching and then I’m out on the balcony, standing above where Amelia was just sitting. The cushion on her wicker chair is dimpled in the shape of her beautiful round ass, and I groan under my breath as my cock strains. I briefly consider stealing the cushion, taking it to my car, locking the doors and sealing the tinted windows before fisting my cock and jerking off into the outline of her buttcrack like a deranged savage. But that’s not part of the plan.
This is.
Her book sits on the table, a home-made bookmark sticking out of it.
I slide out her bookmark.
Replace it with one of the VIP passes.
A thrill of excitement goes through me. This isn’t as risky as telling Amelia point-blank that she’s mine, but it carries some risk. It’s clearly an invitation, and I can’t know for sure how Amelia will react.
Most likely she’ll be insulted at the suggestion. She might tell the boss, in which case I’d be out of a job at best, on the run with a price on my head at the worst.
I can live with that risk.
Because there was something in that brief interaction with Amelia today.
Something that tells me she feels time running out just like I do, the window of opportunity closing, the sand running low in the hourglass of our fate.
Now the ball is in her curvy little court.
She can ignore the invitation.
She can snitch on me and take it to her father.
Or she can find a way to make it to New York this weekend.
What will you choose, sweet Amelia?
3
AMELIA
“So I have no choice?”
Father sighs and rubs his eyes, motions for Carlo to leave the office, waits until the doors open and close, then huffs out a breath and directs his weathered gaze up at me.
“Ralph Romero is a good match,” he says softly even though there is a hardness in his eyes, a look which means this isn’t a negotiation. “The Romero Family is a dominant power in Atlanta. They own Georgia, bordering our Florida territory, so it’s a perfect alliance. Old man Romero is bed-ridden, on his way out of this world. Ralph isn’t in line to take over, but already runs many of the operations along with his older brother. The older brother is in line to be the next Don Romero, of course. But Ralph has a reputation for ruthless ambition. It’s possible Ralph will rise to the top of his organization someday. It’s a good move for our Family. A good move for you.” He tents his fingers, narrows those eyes. “Besides, it’s not like the offers have been rolling in for your hand in marriage. Most arrangements are made when the girl is sixteen, wedding vows taken the day after her eighteenth birthday. You’re almost twenty-one, Amelia. This is the world you were born into. With it comes privileges. But there is always a price to pay.”
I close my eyes tight, slump down in the hand-carved chair facing Father’s looming dark desk which feels like a sacrificial altar right now, me as the virgin lamb. “And my price is a lifetime with a man I don't even know, let alone love?”
Father snorts. “Love is a luxury reserved for Disney princesses, not Mafia brides. Your mother and I did not meet until the day of our engagement. In our world marriage has always been about economics and politics. This crap about love is a recent invention, made up to sell movie tickets and cheap paperback novels. When your younger brother comes of age and returns from Italy to sit by my side on the throne, he will be subject to the same fate.”
A dry chuckle escapes my throat. “My younger brother is banging the housemaids and the olive harvesters and the Italian village whores as we speak. And we both know that keeping mistresses is a long-accepted tradition in the Mafia world. I hardly think the men are subject to the same fate as the women.”
Father shrugs. “It is not my fault that a woman’s virginity is so valued, her reputation so easily destroyed. Yes, it is a double standard. But not one that I have created.”
“Doesn’t mean you have to perpetuate the double-standard,” I grumble, crossing my arms over my boobs and scowling up at Father. Of course, none of this is a surprise. Before she died Mother explained it all to me, told me in her gentle but firm voice that the tradition of arranged marriages is old as the hills, showed me statistics that implied arranged marriages resulted in fewer divorces than so-called “love” marriages. Finally, she made it damn clear that privilege such as ours does not come without a price.
I’ve always known this was going to be my fate.
And I’ve always been mostly fine with it.
Until about ten minutes ago.
