Owned by the Italian Mafia Boss: A Dark Mafia Arranged Marriage Romance (Possessive Mafia Kings Book 1)

The sound of a door clicking has me opening my eyes from a deep sleep. I won’t admit to Carmine that it’s been my best night’s sleep in a while. My back doesn’t hurt from an old mattress, and the comforter is thick and warm, cocooning me in peace. I never want to leave this bed.

Sitting up, I stretch my arms above my head. I know I need to get up and face the reality I’ve put myself in, but the silence is nice. There are no questions, tears, or expectations to meet. I’m alone with no one to answer to, and it’s nice.

I have time to consider my decisions and why I made them without asking for anyone else’s opinion.

I sling the blanket off and toss my legs over the edge of the bed, my feet dangling above the floor because the bed’s so high. Rolling my head over my shoulder to stretch my neck, Christy’s words echo in my head.

“You can’t always be the solution for your father’s mistakes, Delilah.”

And while putting himself at Carmine’s mercy was one of my father’s solutions to his problems, it wasn’t the first.

Dad is horrible at managing money.

I never discussed my dad’s irresponsible spending because I never wanted him to feel bad. I knew he did his best with me, especially after mom left and he had to take on both roles. It couldn’t have been easy, so I helped whenever I could.

The shop has been in trouble more than once.

Dad tends to get desperate and wants a solution right away, but it always gets him in trouble. He gambled away the shop’s money reserve for emergencies. He lost every cent.

And I took out a student loan to replenish it.

I knew I didn’t have to pay it back immediately, so deciding to take out the loan was easy. He thanked me profusely and told me he’d pay me back monthly.

He never did.

He spent the money on a new truck—that he totaled because he was drinking and driving.

I had to take out another loan to bail him out of jail.

And then I had pay for another car.

Suddenly, I had racked up thirty thousand dollars of debt, and none of it was for school because I was on an academic scholarship.

It’s not that he isn’t a good father, He is. Never once have I questioned if he loves me. He always lets me know, but Dad has always been a mess. He’s never made great choices; before I cleaned up his messes, it was mom.

Now that I’m older, I understand why she left. She was tired,

exhausted from taking care of Dad.

After this, after agreeing to carry Carmine’s baby and marry him, I am done too. I can’t continue to pay for Dad’s mistakes. There’s nothing left for me to do. There’s nothing left for me to give. I’ve given up my credit, my life, and now my body.

I love my dad so much it hurts, but I realize he isn’t good for me.

Family or not, he is toxic and wearing me down. I’m young. I’m only twenty-one, and I’m already tired of life. I’m tired of fixing him.

Maybe that’s selfish of me, but it’s about time I was selfish.

I deserve that much.

Standing, I notice a note on the nightstand with my name in elegant script on the front. Of course, he had handwriting like this—the kind angled with precision, the loops sharp and to a point. It’s almost romantic, but I knew everything he signed meant death.

I trace my name with my fingers, the letters telling a story with how perfect they are, as if the person writing is daring to be told otherwise. There’s a hidden challenge here, one of a man always in control, and nothing, not even little ole me, can ruffle his feathers.

I can’t wait to be the reason for his downfall.

Delilah,

When you awaken, dinner is in the kitchen, and in the closet are fresh clothes. Please, get comfortable and meet me so we can review the contract.

Your Dearest Future Husband,

Carmine

I scoff, my fingers twitching to crumble the paper and throw it across the room.

Husband.

Out of all the people I thought I’d marry, I never once thought it would be someone like him. So cruel, so calculated, and so necessary.

Sighing, I fold the note and place it on the nightstand beside the bed. The moon’s bright glow shines through the window, giving me enough light to walk to the bathroom. Looking at myself in the mirror, I wince when I see the woman staring back at me.

My hair is a mess from sleeping, and I have indents from the pillow on the left side of my face. My lipstick is smeared, and my mascara has darkened my eyes.

With an annoyed groan, I flip the light in the closet and freeze when I see the clothes he talked about in the note.

One half of the closet is filled his with his pristine suits and Italian leather shoes. Even his plain white T-shirts are hung with care, aligned perfectly on black velvet hangers.

“Of course, you hang T-shirts on velvet,” I mutter.

I double-check to see if I’m alone and touch the deep blue suit jacket, loving how soft it feels. It’s like silk. Feeling bold, I drag my fingers over every suit hanging, ranging from black to blue. There’s even a dark purple blazer.

I bet it looked beautiful against his tanned skin.

I jerk my hand back as if burned. Being a captive shouldn’t look so good. Is he trying to buy my trust by filling the closet with pretty clothes and expensive purses? Everything is here.

Dresses, skirts, blouses, shirts, heels, sandals, belts, jeans, anything I could ever want is here. How did he know my size?

“Oh my God,” I whisper, in awe. I’m completely in love with the emerald green satin gown. I pull off the velvet hanger. There’s a full-body mirror in the corner, and I hurry to it, pressing the dress against my body to see what it would look like without playing dress-up.

The straps are thin, and the neckline plunges low, showing my cleavage. The bottom of the dress hits the floor—nothing a pair of heels wouldn’t fix. Hell, heels lined half the wall. I had an array of Louboutin’s, which red bottoms you’ll know immediately. I have them in every color to ensure I had a pair to go with everything.

After hanging the dress up on a hanger that probably costs more than my cell phone payment, I open the drawers next, only to slam them shut again.

He. Did. Not.

The audacity.

I take a deep breath through my nose and out through my mouth; my cheeks were on fire with what I’ve just seen. There’s no way Carmine bought that because if he did, he assumed I’d be wearing that for him.

How cocky is he to think I would want to wear lingerie for him? When I sign my life away to marry him and have his baby, I plan on lying there and waiting for it to be over.

Surely, I won’t want him.

But as I open the drawer again, taking the fine red lace in my hands, tracing the thick wire lining the cups that will hold my breasts, I know, I’ll want him.

Because I do want him.

I want the evil that cloaks him to darken my body and spiral me to the edge where his madness lives.

“I’m so fucked,” I sing, folding the lingerie in the drawer.

The other drawers contain sleepwear. They match and are made of cozy material, but I didn’t feel like being cozy. I wanted to ruffle his perfect feathers.

I undress, leaving my dirty clothes in the middle of the floor. Snagging his large black shirt off the hanger, I tug it on over my head and let it drop to my knees.

Even his plain shirts are softer than fresh clothes from the dryer.

I bet this shirt cost more money than my student loan payment.

After turning off the closet light, I wash up at the sink, then brush my hair and toss it up in a messy bun before heading to the doors that have kept me prisoner.

Quickly, I grip the knob and yank open the door. I’m almost surprised it opened easily, revealing a long hallway to lead me to my execution.

Or your salvation.

The floor is cold under the pads of my feet as I venture deeper into the mansion. I take my time, staring at the expensive paintings hanging on the wall, each with a light to illuminate the canvas.

Having no idea where to go when I get to the end of the hall, I continue straight to the living room. There I find a black-painted brick fireplace that takes up most of the wall. On most mantels, people usually display pictures of their family to make the place feel more at home, but not Carmine.

Some candles that have never been lit along with a small chest directly in the middle decorate the narrow ledge. The chest isn’t locked. Curious, I lift the lid but can’t see inside. I stand on my tiptoes and see rows of cigars.

I don’t know why I’m disappointed. I expected something darker…bloodier.

“What the fuck do you think you’re wearing?”

I jump when I hear his voice right next to my ear, his breath warm against my cheek. I spin around, my breasts rubbing against his chest. My nipples harden from the friction. His hands fall on my hips, and his fingers grip the shirt as if he wants to rip it off.

“Your shirt is huge. It fits me just fine. It’s like a dress. No one can see anything.”

“I bought you clothes.” His chest heaves, and he steps forward. Somehow, I find myself pinned against the fireplace. One arm is stretched to my right, his hand gripping the mantel as he leans forward.

I need to stop finding myself pinned against surfaces of this house with Carmine. Though, something about him trapping me affects me in ways that would disappoint a normal person. I press my thighs together, fighting the ache growing between my legs.

“I don’t want my brothers or anyone else seeing you in my clothes, Delilah. Go change.” He tilts his head to the side and leans forward. “Now.”

His lips are a ghost over mine, and my skin erupts in goosebumps alarming me of danger.

“No.”

His hand wraps around my throat like a necklace, and I tilt my head back, staring into the void of his eyes.

Except with him being so close, I notice a gold ring around his pupil with flecks of garnet dotting the iris—as if specs of blood have permanently found their home in his vision.

His lashes are long and dark. A man has no business with lashes like that. It’s dangerous for a woman like me because those eyes make it that much harder to fight the lust I deny I have for him.

“No one tells me no, Sweetling.” Wickedness laces his words.

His voice is rough, low and smoky, as if he just smoked a cigar.

“Get used to it. I won’t bow down to you, Carmine.”

His thumb presses against my bottom lip, and a slight smirk tilts his lips. “You’ll bow, eventually.” He kisses my cheek and brings his mouth to my ear. “Eventually, you’ll even get on your knees for me.”

I swallow, not wanting to give into the darkly decadent spell he is casting over me. “I’ll never get on my knees for you, Carmine.”

A soft chuckle grazes my neck as he leans closer. He’ll be able to feel the erratic pulse of my heartbeat if he places his lips against the side of my throat. All I have is the mask I’m wearing, and I can’t have him taking it off.

I can’t let him see how weak he makes me, how terrified he truly makes me feel.

“Want to bet?” he pulls away, a glint in his eyes tells me he knows something I don’t.

“You’ll lose.”

He tucks his hands in his pockets and stares at me with amusement. “There’s one thing you need to know about me, Delilah.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “Let me guess, you never lose?”

My stomach takes that moment to remind me I haven’t eaten, and I stroll by him toward the kitchen open to the living room.

He grips my arm and yanks me back. “I don’t put myself in a position to lose, Delilah. If I am, I deal with it.”

“So you cheat?”

“I don’t fight fair, Sweetling. I fight to get ahead. I fight to get what I want, and I don’t care whom I hurt.” He reaches out to touch my face, and I cringe, closing my eyes so I don’t see what he is about to do. He tucks a piece of my wayward hair behind my ear. “But the last person I will hurt is you.”

I open my eyes and get lost in his, the intense depths having me hold my breath. The contact is unnerving. I’m not sure if I believe him. I know what he is capable of, and if I make him upset, will there be a time when I’m facing the barrel of his gun?

“I will also hurt whomever puts one hand on you. You are mine, Delilah. Your worries, laughter, fears, the air in your lungs, belong to me.”

“They don’t belong to you until I sign that contract,” I remind him, overcoming the loud thump of my racing heart.

Carmine gestures toward the kitchen. “After you, Sweetling.”

His fingers brush my leg when I walk by him, and his footsteps sound behind me.

I don’t need to see him to know he’s watching me. I can feel his gaze roaming my backside, and a flush warms my cheeks from the weight of his stare. What kind of woman does it make me to enjoy the attention of a villain?

In the kitchen, my fingers skim the breakfast bar’s granite countertop. The stools are strategically placed the same width apart. All the appliances are stainless steel, and light bulbs hang in various lengths above a kitchen table that can easily sit twelve people.

A glossy and matte black mural covers the wall facing me. The more I look at it, the more confused I am trying to interpret the random angry, tear-like slashes. It’s emotional, and the longer I stare at it, the more I fall into the abyss of emotion.

“It’s called ‘Oblivion.’” Carmine slides out a chair for me, and I take a seat. The shirt I’m wearing rides up my thighs a few inches.

“It’s haunting,” I say, honestly, folding my hands on the table.

Carmine sits at the head of the table. His chair is different from the others, larger with carvings engraved in the wood. He leans over, slipping one arm behind my chair and gripping the edge of the seat between my legs with the other. He yanks my chair forward, dragging me closer to him.

I yelp, slapping the table with my palms.

His fingers tease my inner knee before drifting up my leg and tracing circles on my thigh, close to where I’ve been hiding how much I burn for him.

“And so are you,” he whispers into my ear, gripping the hem of the shirt before tugging it down to cover more of my legs. “You will test me, I can already tell, but you will not show anyone what is mine. We are not the only ones who live here. Do you understand me? I’d hate to have to blind one of my brothers.”

“You wouldn’t.” But as I search the inky pools of his eyes, I know he’s telling the frightful truth. “They are your brothers. You couldn’t possibly—”

“—It would be hard for me, but I would.” He toys with the collar of my shirt. “They would do the same to me, to anyone who threatened to take advantage of a sight that did not belong to them.”

“That’s barbaric.” The words are strangled in the back of my throat from the terror of his inability to tell lies and the lust clutching my tongue. I don’t know what’s scarier, the fact that I love how afraid I am of him or how much his intensity turns me on.

“It’s the way we are. It’s how we live.” He says it easily, matter-of-factly, as if anyone who doesn’t understand must just accept it as the way things are.

A banging of pots and pans sounds in the kitchen, and I jump.

“It’s only Marie, my private chef,” he explains.

Of course, he has a private chef.

A silver platter is placed in front of me, and I lean back surprised by the presentation. I’m used to either takeout pizza or anything I can pop in the oven to heat. Ramen is good, too. It’s cheap and fast.

“Chicken Alfredo with steamed broccoli with a side of lemon arugula salad.” Marie lifts the lid, and steam billows from the pasta to my nose. As I inhale, my mouth waters from the delicious aromas.

Marie sets down Carmine’s plate next. He gives the older woman a small, genuine smile.

He seems to care for her in his way.

“Thank you, Marie. It looks wonderful, as always.”

“Of course, Mr. Milazzo. I’ll be right back with your drinks. A nice simple sweet tea.”

She hurries away in her apron, vanishing into the kitchen. I pick up my fork, but my appetite has vanished. How am I supposed to eat when my freedom is on a timer? I’m about to be shackled.

“You need to eat everything on your plate.” He points to my food with his fork.

“How do you expect me to eat when we have so much to discuss?”

Marie takes that moment to return with our drinks before disappearing into the kitchen again.

“Don’t worry about Marie overhearing anything. She knows not to say a word. She’s trustworthy,” he explains.

“I’m not worried about her.” I push the pasta around, and with a clatter of his fork, he drags me closer to him, the legs of the chair rubbing against the floor.

Next, he grabs my plate to bring it closer. “If I have to feed you myself, I will, Sweetling.”

“I’ll eat after we sign the contract,” I say, anxiety twisting my stomach. I don’t know what a contract is supposed to look like, or what to expect. How do I know he won’t be asking for more than he’s already asking for?

What else is there to give?

“You’ll eat now.” He stabs a piece of broccoli from his plate and begins to eat.

“Carmine, please, I’m too nervous.” I decide to answer honestly, wanting him to hear just how scared I am.

He swirls the pasta and lifts the fork in the air, bringing it to my lips. “There’s no need to be nervous. I’m going to take care of you. Now, open.”

“You aren’t feeding me.”

“I will if you won’t eat. I won’t have you starve, or worse. Now.” He leans forward; the shadow of his body covering his plate. “Open.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Then stop acting ridiculous and open your fucking mouth.” He doesn’t say it with harshness but with want instead.

I part my lips and sit completely still.

“Good girl,” he praises, pushing the fork between my lips.

The flavor of the perfectly seasoned cream sauce bursts over my tongue. I moan as I chew, my stomach awakening with hunger again and my nerves settling. I reach for my fork, but his hand falls over mine stopping me.

Without a word or explanation, he wraps the pasta around the fork and lifts it to my mouth again.

Confused, I open my mouth. I want to ask him why he’s doing this, but I know he won’t answer.

“You like being taken care of,” he says, staring at me with that familiar hard edge he shows all his enemies.

“Who doesn’t?” I retort and dab my mouth with my napkin. “Everyone likes to be pampered.”

I reach for my glass of tea and take a few sips. The. tea is sweet and refreshing. “Who doesn’t?” I retort and dab my mouth with my napkin. “Everyone likes to be pampered.”

“We’ll have to agree to disagree.” He stabs a piece of broccoli and holds it in the air.

“I’m not the biggest fan of broccoli.”

“That’s too bad. You need your vegetables.”

With a roll of my eyes, I zip my lips and place my hands on my lap. “I’m not twelve, Carmine. I won’t grow if I eat my greens.”

He prods my mouth. “No, but you’ll have nutrients and be strong, which you’ll need for the things I have planned for you.” A promise of something dark drifts over his features. “So, open your mouth, Delilah.”

I shake my head, defying him.

“Eat three pieces of broccoli. That’s all I ask.”

“What do I get if I do?”

He leans back, sets his fork down, and wipes his mouth with a napkin. Pushing his plate to the side, he reaches into his back pocket, and an envelope appears. “We will go over this contract right now, Sweetling, and put your fears to rest.”

I tap the table with my fingernails and stare at the contract that holds the rest of my life in his hands. “I just have to eat the broccoli?”

He flashes an oddly endearing lop-sided grin, showing a hint of dimples. “That’s it. See? I compromise.”

I immediately pop three broccoli pieces in my mouth, now overflowing with nasty trees, and hold my breath while I chew.

Disgusting.

I swallow; one of the branches catches in my throat, and I cough to dislodge it.

The attempt doesn’t work.

I slap my chest, and green sprays from my mouth. Tears brim my eyes as I struggle for breath. A chair clatters to the floor, and hands pull me to my feet. Carmine wraps his arms around my waist, tucking my back against his chest to perform the Heimlich maneuver.

I’m gasping for breath, clawing at my throat, tears drip from my eyes, and my vision blurs. Carmine squeezes me so hard that pain seizes my ribs. Finally, I cough, sending broccoli chunks flying across the kitchen.

Strings of spit drip from my mouth as I struggle to breathe again. My nails dig into Carmine’s hand which is still pressed against my stomach.

I almost died from fucking broccoli.

“I have you. You’re okay. You’re safe.” He spins me around and buries my face in his chest as I cry in relief, the gasps still coming out loud and panicked. His fingers comb through my hair while he shushes me, crooning sweet nothings I can’t understand because I can’t focus on anything beyond my ragged breathing and burning chest.

Gently, he swings me into his arms and sits down on a nearby chair, so I’m curled up on his lap, cheek pressed to his shoulder.

Leaning away from me, his hands fall on either side of my face. “You scared the life out of me.” An hint of anger edges his tone. “If you don’t want to be treated like a child, don’t stuff three pieces of broccoli in your mouth at once, Delilah. I never want to experience fear like that again.” He wipes my mouth clean and brings water to my lips. “Slow,” he warns, fingers still slicing through my hair that’s long since fallen out of my bun.

I didn’t argue. The cold water soothes the rawness of my throat, easing the ache. Carmine takes the cup away from me, setting it next to the golden plate with my half-eaten dinner. Sagging against him, I shut my eyes and take a deep breath while he rubs my back.

The soothing circles are nice, and soon, I’m relaxed and breathing normally. I turn my head on his shoulder until my nose is pressing against the side of his neck, and I inhale the spicy scent of his expensive perfume. “Thank you,” I croak, my throat hoarse from that damn piece of broccoli.

“I said I wouldn’t let anything hurt you. Even wayward broccoli.”

I chuckle and lift my head, wanting to see the humor in his eyes, but there’s none. He’s serious.

“It was only broccoli,” I rasp. “I shouldn’t have put so much in my mouth. I was eager to get to the contract.”

His fingertips are under my chin, and he leans closer to me, irises as dark as a starless sky. “There will be plenty of times where your eagerness will be rewarded and your mouth will be full, but only when I say, okay, Sweetling?”

“There you go, speaking things you know nothing about.” I reach for the water again and take a sip, continuing to sit on his lap.

“I know enough.” He slides the envelope to me and taps the contract with his index finger. “Open it. You’ll find I’ve already signed it.”

“I think it’s best to look this over while I’m not in your lap.” I slide off his thighs and I’m surprised he lets me go. By the way his jaw clenches, he isn’t happy about it.

Still, I appreciate him giving me space to read this. I’ve seen many sides to Carmine Milazzo, depending on his mood, and I never know which side I’ll get.

Opening the letter with shaky hands, I take a deep breath, unfold the paper and read:

This contract is entered into by Carmine Milazzo (First Party) and Delilah June Reynolds (Second Party). The term of this agreement shall begin within one week of Ms. Delilah Reynolds staying in the Milazzo Estate and shall continue through the end of three years.

The specific terms of the Contract are as follows:

Delilah Reynolds has agreed to marry and carry Carmine Milazzo’s child in return for her father’s debt to be paid.

When the two parties have sexual intercourse for the first time, Delilah Reynolds will choose when it happens.

Delilah Reynolds agrees to share Carmine Milazzo’s bed and no other, not even her own.

If/When the two parties have a child together, both parties will raise said child together. Delilah shall be a part of the child’s life always, at all times. The mother will always have access to her child.

Delilah Reynolds will agree to wear engagement and wedding rings provided by Carmine Milazzo , as will Carmine—no exceptions.

Delilah Reynolds will not request a separation or divorce for three years—if she wants one, only when the contract has ended.

Carmine Milazzo will financially support Delilah Reynolds and their child for the duration of their lives. If Mr. Milazzo passes away prior to Ms. Reynolds or their child, his estate will continue to provide for their needs.

This agreement will only be broken should one or both of the parties expire prior to the terms of the agreement being met.

Delilah Reynolds must kiss Carmine Milazzo before the parties go to sleep. The first time is to be initiated by her, but every other time, Carmine Milazzo will not rest until the kiss has happened.

Carmine Milazzo vows to protect Delilah Reynolds and their child at all costs, including with his life, finances, and well-being.

This Contract may not be modified. This Contract is legally binding until either Party amends and/or signs a new agreement.

Carmine’s signature is in red ink, the perfect cursive hugging the black line along with the date. My spot is empty and waiting to be signed.

“Do you have any questions, Sweetling?” he asks, placing the red fountain pen in front of me.

“If I did, would you answer honestly?”

For some reason, he grabs my water glass and hands it to me. “Drink. You need to stay hydrated.”

I do as he says, pausing as I swallow because why am I doing as he says? Do I like not having to think for myself?

“I’ll always be honest with you, Delilah. Lies do not make a good man.”

“But killing does?”

He stands, bending down until his face is close to mine. His hand braces against the chair while his other grips the table’s edge. “There’s a fine line between good and bad. Good men do what it takes to protect themselves; bad men only do what it takes to protect themselves.”

“You consider yourself a good man, then?” I dare to ask.

“Mmm,” he hums, softly, playing with my hair while he considers my question. “I’m a good man with very bad intentions.” He grabs the pen and places it in my palm, curling my fingers around it. “My intentions with you are purely selfish, Ms. Reynolds.”

The hurt in my throat flares to life as I gulp. “Those intentions aren’t listed. They weren’t part of the deal.”

He sits back down slowly, and a smug look crosses his face. “Sign the document, Sweetling. I don’t want to waste another second where you aren’t mine.”

But did I want to be his?

The voice in my head says, ‘hell yes.’

Pen to paper, the red ink reminds me of blood as I sign my life away. As I carve my name into the paper, I glance at the terms again. Every single one of them protects me in some way.

“Why do you want a kiss at the end of every night?” I sign the document and gently set the pen down. “That’s very intimate.”

“That isn’t up for discussion.” He snatches the document from my hands and points it to my plate. “Eat your food, and don’t choke on it this time.”

I sag against the chair and push my plate away. I’m starting to think understanding Carmine’s mind is an impossible task I shouldn’t attempt.

A kiss doesn’t sound that bad, does it?