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CHAPTER 8
Mia
He tells me I’m not offended, and he’s right. I honestly don’t know what just came over me. I’ve never sent photos like that. I don’t evenlikethat stuff. I meant it all those times I said I never wanted a man. I wasn’t just talking, but with Dante, it’s different. It’s like there’s this heat inside of me, this burningsomethingthat doesn’t make sense.
Soon, it’s time to get ready for the date. I don’t know if Dante was really joking when he said myhourglassfigure belongs to him. That compliment is winning major brownie points in the emotional lottery. Though I’ve never been called a model, guys have shown interest, and I’ve always pushed them away.
Looks like I won’t be able to push my so-called husband away. I won’t be able to be the person I yearn to be or need to be.Me-Me, as Molly would say. Some would say it’s just toddler babble, but maybe she’s got a point.Me, twice, as a reminder, I should to be the sort of person Iwantto be. That means not being afraid or trapped in the past.
My cell phone vibrates. I grab it quickly, my heart fluttering. Then everything good and positive in me decays and dies. It’s from Dad.Be a good fiancée tonight, my angel…
My skin crawls. I swallow, then go to the mirror and plaster a smile on my face. It’s as fake as fake can be, so I try to make it more convincing. My cell phone rings. It’s Lexi.
“This is some Ralph stuff, Mia,” Lexi snaps.
“Is it?” I say, trying to sound lighthearted.
“Ralph stuff”refers to a killer who also abused Lexi when she was a kid. He’s now on death row for multiple murders. Dealing withthatscumbag was a whole thing. “Something’s going on.”
“Let’s say it is…” It’s so hard to lie to Lexi. Of all the Marino clan, we’ve been through the most. Well, she’s a Walker, not Marino, but she’s part of the Family. “I don’t have to talk about itright now, do I? You understand that.”
Last year, with the Ralph drama, I only found out what he did becausehebragged to me about it, thinking it made him look tough or intimidating or something, whatever the little freak thought.
“Yeah,” Lexi sighs, “but I’m here for you. I want to help.”
“Maybe I don’t need help.”
As Vito drives us into the city, I feel like Idoneed help. I hate being in the car with him, thinking of the conversations he probably had back west, talking about me like I’m a commodity,a mafia princess to be sold. Vito is wearing a fancy suit like this is a real date. He smiles at me.
“Excited for the date?”
In the rearview, a dark car follows us. I can’t see the driver, but I know it’s Dante, my own personal enforcer watching over me.
“Sure,” I tell him.
“Sure,” he echoes, imitating me. “Is that all you’ve got, Mia?”
I clench my hand into a fist in my lap. “What do you want me to say?”
“Something more thansure, maybe,” he says, shaking his head. “I thought you were supposed to be a good time.”
“Oh, did you? Who told you that?”
He looks at me, head tilted, as if the answer should be obvious. He keeps looking, driving, not looking at the road. He wants to me scared. I just stare right back at him, silently telling myself if this is it, fine. At least I don’t have to think about my own personal hell anymore—my own weakness.
He turns to the road, laughing. “Maybe you’re spunkier than I thought.” He glances in the rearview. “Do they have to drive so close? Like I need a babysitter.”
I don’t say anything else for the rest of the drive. I want to take out my phone, text Dante, and ask him to hurt Vito.He tried to…I could say, and Vito would deserve it. Dante knows what’s happening here. He knows I don’t want this.
Vito pulls up outside the restaurant, giving his keys to a valet. He leads me to a table in the corner of some glitzy, gaudy place. Every time he tries to touch me, I subtly move away from him.I smile when I see Dante enter the room, looking out of place in his black leather jacket and pale blue jeans. He sits at the bar, reminding me of the time Lexi sat at another bar, watching me and Ralph.
I look away before Vito notices. He sits down and drums his fingers against the table. “You’d think they’d have a waiter waiting for us,” he snaps.
“Why?” I say.
He looks at me coldly. “Do you have to ask so many questions?”
“I’m sorry,” I say sarcastically. “Should I just throw a continuous string of compliments at you instead? Or maybe sing songs for you? Or paint you pictures, Vito?”
