Mafia Mistress by Mila Finelli

Chapter Four

Francesca

I screameduntil my throat ached, raw from the strain. It made no difference. The door remained closed, darkness all around me. I was locked in and no one was coming to save me. Oh God. I couldn’t survive it.

My throat was dry and my lungs burned. This was my worst nightmare. Caged in below ground, where no one would find me. Was there even air down here? Chest burning, I fell to my knees. How long would it take to suffocate? A few hours?

I could feel hysteria edging out the plain old panic in my mind. The therapist I saw for my claustrophobia had said to breathe and to count to one hundred, that remaining calm was the key.

I closed my eyes and began to count.

I tried to focus on the numbers, on the rate of my breathing, but the musty air reminded me of where I was, of who had imprisoned me. How many men had died in these walls? Has Ravazzani killed anyone here?

Of course he has, Frankie. He is the capo of one of the most legendary mafia clans in Italy.

Were there ghosts in this dungeon?

Oh, fuck. I curled my hands into my palms, nails digging deep into the flesh. It stung but I welcomed the pain because it reminded me that I was still alive. I wasn’t dead yet. He would retrieve me eventually. I had to marry his son, after all.

Bitterness filled my mouth. By the time they let me out of here, my mind will probably have snapped. I’ll be stark raving mad by then. I gave a hollow laugh. Maybe then he would send me back to Toronto, declare me too unfit to wed the precious Ravazzani heir.

Or maybe he would just kill me.

I rocked back and forth and tried not to think about that. How has this become my life? Two days ago I was an eighteen-year-old woman with a boyfriend on her way to a prestigious college. I planned to study botany. Something with plants and science where I could be outdoors. Now I was locked in a dungeon in Italy, being forced to marry some mafia prince I didn’t want.

Tiny claws skittered across the stone and I froze. Oh, my God. What was that? A mouse? No, it sounded big, more like a rat. I curled up as tight as I could, holding my shaking knees to my chest. I hoped Ravazzani found my rat-eaten corpse. It would serve him right, the asshole.

My brain must have checked out at that point, because I don’t remember anything else until strong arms lifted me off the ground. A warm muscled chest met the side of my face and I didn’t fight. I couldn’t. I clung to my rescuer, desperate for escape.

“I am so sorry, signorina.”

The voice was new, one I didn’t recognize, but I didn’t care. Someone had come to save me, thank sweet baby Jesus. And it wasn’t Fausto Ravazzani.

He began carrying me up the stairs. “My father can be a real bastard sometimes.” The words were spoken quietly, as if he were speaking to himself.

“You are Giulio.” I hiccuped into the rough skin of his throat, tears still leaking from my eyes.

“I am. You must be Francesca Mancini.”

I nodded and tried to burrow closer into him, desperate to purge the lingering cold from my bones. “Th-thank you for rescuing me.”

“You never should have been down there in the first place. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”

“Your father….”

“Has a temper. And you stabbed him with a pen. Not that I am excusing his behavior.”

We reached the top of the stairs and the wide expanse of stars stretched overhead in the dark sky. The knot in my chest loosened and I dragged in my first real deep breath since getting off the plane. I could smell dirt and grass, a balm to my ragged nerves.

You’re okay. You aren’t locked in any more.

“You can put me down,” I told him through my chattering teeth. “I can walk.”

“Forgive me if I don’t believe you. You were practically catatonic when I found you a few moments ago.”

I was? I sighed and rested my head on my arm. “I don’t do well in small spaces.”

Giulio cursed in Italian. “I apologize, Francesca. I would like to think he wouldn’t have put you there had he known….”

The implication was clear—that Fausto Ravazzani was no stranger to cruelty. That he would gladly use a person’s weakness against them. Jesus, what a prize.

Before I could comment, we entered the castle. A small room led into a kitchen, which was surprisingly modern for a place with an actual dungeon.

“I’ll have Zia bring up hot tea,” Giulio said as he continued into the house. “That’s my aunt. She lives with us and does most of the cooking.”

Calming down, I began to look around—curious about this different type of prison. The contrast with the dungeon was startling. What I could see was light and airy with gleaming wood accents and light plaster walls. Huge oval windows were framed with tasteful draperies and tile covered the floor. It was even nicer than our home in Toronto.

Surprisingly, I didn’t see any security cameras. That was information I stored away for future use.

“This is my wing of the house,” Giulio said. “My father stays on the other side.”

Thank God. I had no desire to see Fausto Ravazzani ever again.

Giulio carried me past several rooms, including a study with shelves of books and a music room. He paused in the middle of the corridor. “That is my room, the large door at the end. This one here is your room.”

The room was bigger than I expected, with a king-sized bed that had an ornate metal headboard. An antique chaise longue and vintage dressing table made up the other side. It was both feminine yet classic and I couldn’t help but admire it.

As much as one can admire a prison.

Giulio continued through the room to a small bathroom. The size of the room quickened my heartbeat again, so I took a deep breath as he set me on the tile countertop. I was out of the dungeon and never, ever going back.

Giulio stepped away and thrust his hands into his pockets. Messy dark brown hair fell across his forehead effortlessly, a look that actors and rock stars probably paid a stylist a shit ton of money for. He had his dad’s jaw and eyes, but his face was longer. More elegant. Whereas Ravazzani was brutally handsome, Giulio was refined and gorgeous. And his body was rangy and thin, not yet filled out with the strength of his father. Various tattoos ran along his forearms. Gia was right—Giulio was a total snack.

“Are you a model?” I blurted, only half-joking.

The side of his mouth hitched. “I could ask you the same, Francesca Mancini. After all, modeling is in your blood and I am told you look like your mother.”

“I tried once,” I said with a shrug. “I sent photos to a modeling agency in Toronto but they told me my boobs were too big.”

Giulio smiled and kept his eyes on my face instead of checking out my chest like most guys. “It is their loss.” He shifted on his feet, looking increasingly uncomfortable. “I should let you shower. You must be exhausted.” He turned for the door.

This couldn’t be it. Wasn’t there more to discuss, like how I didn’t want to marry him? “Giulio, wait!” When he paused, I said, “Are you okay with this? Us, getting married, I mean. Wouldn’t you rather choose your own bride instead of marrying some random?”

His eyes were flat and resigned, hardly the excitement of a man about to be married. “It doesn’t matter what I wish. It only matters what he wishes.”

“That can’t be true. You’re his only son. We could help each other, tell him we don’t suit. You could say that you don’t find me attractive or I’m too bitchy. Anything.”

“He won’t believe me, and furthermore he wouldn’t care. He never changes his mind once he decides something.”

The walls felt like they were closing in on me and my palms began to sweat. Still, I had to try again. “Giulio, I don’t want this. I want to go home, back to Toronto. I’m supposed to go to school in a few weeks.”

“I’m sorry, Francesca.”

I wanted to scream in frustration but my throat was too raw. “Frankie,” I whispered, needing someone to call me by the name I’d heard all my life. I needed a reminder of home, of people who actually cared about me.

“Cosa?”

“Everyone calls me Frankie.”

“Frankie,” he said quietly, his gaze full of pity. “Cheer up. At least we’ll be miserable together.”

After that cryptic statement, he left me alone in the bathroom.

* * *

Fausto

I waitedat the bottom of the stairs as my son came down the steps. “My office. Now.”

Giulio regarded me with a carefully guarded expression, but said nothing as he crossed the marble floor and went toward the other side of the castle. Clamping my jaw tightly, I followed and tried to get a hold of my anger instead of shouting at him.

Once in my office, he went directly to the liquor bottles. Marco was still there, sitting in one of the armchairs from our earlier meeting. No doubt he wanted to make sure I didn’t kill Giulio for interfering tonight. I slammed the door behind me, rage burning every inch of my skin. “Sit the fuck down, Giulio.”

He did, but not until he held almost a full glass of bourbon in his right hand. “You wanted to see me, Papà?”

I poured my own drink and went behind my desk, breathing deeply to keep my head reasonably clear. As the boss, I strove to be level-headed and calm in everything. It didn’t always work, especially around Giulio. And Francesca, apparently. “Who is in charge of this family?”

“You,” my son answered.

“And who is your capo?”

“You.”

“Then will you explain why you went against my orders and released Francesca from the cell?”

He took a drink before answering me. “She is my fiancée. It’s not right for her to be locked up in the dark the minute she arrives.”

“I decide what is right in this family, Giulio. Me—not you.” I held up my injured hand. “She stabbed me with a pen in front of the men. A few hours down there wouldn’t have hurt her.”

He shook his head. “You didn’t see her, Papà. I think she’s afraid of the dark or claustrophobic. She was nearly catatonic when I found her.”

I ignored the pang in my chest that might have been guilt. I had to. I couldn’t afford weakness. So, was this Giulio’s attempt to play the hero? To make me appear the villain?

You are the villain. And she should prefer him to you, stronzo.

I don’t know why that bothered me so much. I wanted them to like each other, to find happiness in their marriage. Perhaps they would have good fortune together, more than Lucia and I ever did. And I needed grandsons. Dio, I was losing my mind.

I downed my drink and let the burn alleviate my anger. “I’m glad you helped her, then. No doubt she was grateful to you, which pleases me.”

Giulio frowned, eyes so like mine turning suspicious. “I didn’t rescue her to earn her gratitude, but now I am wondering if that’s why you put her in the dungeon. So that she’ll not fight me.”

I hadn’t been so crafty, but good he thought me capable of it. “She will not fight you. Still, I’ll give you a few weeks to get to know one another before we host the wedding.”

“I’m surprised you are waiting.”

I cleared my throat, knowing the news must be shared but unsure how he would respond. “She had a boyfriend in Toronto.”

Giulio sipped his drink, not showing any outward reaction to the news. “And?”

“And she’s not a virgin. It would be wise to ensure she isn’t carrying another man’s child before you marry her, no?”

“Are you willing to let me marry a woman who isn’t pure?”

“It’s not ideal, but she is beautiful and spirited. Her mother was one of the most famous women in Italy. Francesca will make you an excellent wife. And this settles the debt with Mancini.”

“And ensures stronger ties between Siderno and Toronto, should the Canadians ever want to break free.”

I smiled at him, pleased. “Correct. The brotherhood first, figlio mio. Always. One day you will sit in this chair and issue the orders, as all the Ravazzani men have done. We serve our ’ndrina brothers above all else.”

“I know, Papà. I know.”

I tapped my fingers on the desk while I studied him. “I’ll tell Gratteri you need lighter responsibilities in the next three weeks. This will allow you to ease Francesca into her new role.”

He sat up straighter. “That’s not necessary. We’re working on opening the new nightclub, so I’ll be out at night but home during the day. I’ll spend time with Frankie then.”

“Frankie?”

“It’s what everyone calls her. I assumed you knew.”

No, she hadn’t told me. Between the drugs, the flight and the stabbing, there hadn’t been much time for conversation. But then she’d somehow found time to tell my son.

I cleared my throat. “Good. You’re excused.” I motioned toward the door.

After he left, I leaned back in my chair. “He took that well, considering.”

“He is loyal,” Marco said. “A dutiful son.”

Yes, he was. I stroked my jaw. “It’s better that she likes him.”

“It sounds as if you are convincing yourself. Are you feeling guilty?”

I was, but I would never admit it. “You are my oldest and closest friend, my family, but even that has its limits.”

“No, it doesn’t. I’m the only one who will put up with your moods. By the way, Mancini has apologized for letting her escape. Said he’s dealt with the security on that part of his wall.”

I grunted and flexed my injured hand. Mancini had underestimated Francesca, something I would never do again, now that I knew what she was capable of. “Good. Maybe he’ll keep better watch over the other two daughters.”

“He also demanded to attend the wedding, whenever it takes place.”

Che palle. Mancini was not the one who made demands in our relationship. “I’ll consider it.”

“He is the girl’s father, Rav. No father would like to be kept from his daughter’s wedding.”

I glared at my cousin. “You have work to do, no?” We had hundreds of operations to oversee, stretching from Siderno to Milan, Sao Paulo to Montreal. We supplied more cocaine and heroin to Europe and the United States than just about anyone else. Marco was instrumental in much of it.

“Not tonight,” he said, rising. “I am staying in to watch a film with Maria.”

Marco’s marriage had been happier than mine, as he’d actually fallen in love with his wife. Their three sons were already powerful members of the Ravazzani ’ndrina. I tried to tell myself I wasn’t envious, but that was a lie. “I keep telling you to find a mantenuta. Less work than a wife.”

“Not necessary. I’ll leave the mistresses to you, cugino.”

“It’s not healthy for a Calabrian man to stay faithful to his wife for so many years. Your balls will shrivel up and fall off.”

He laughed on his way to the door. “Maria would cut them off herself if I ever kept a mantenuta. Good night, Rav.”

I shook my head and looked at my empty glass as I considered the rest of my evening. Anger and guilt roiled in my gut, my body tired but pulled taut, like a wire. Sleep would not come anytime soon.

There was only one thing to do. I picked up my phone and scrolled through my contacts. When I found the name I wanted, I started typing.

Fifteen minutes. Be ready to get fucked hard.