Kiss & Control: A Mafia Romance Read online

  She always says this. I hate her for it sometimes. She has all the time in the world to settle down with a man of her choosing, yet she actively looks outside the perimeters in place like a dog testing his brand new electric fence. At least she has a damn choice.

  “He can’t be,” I remind, stepping around a pair of teenage love birds strolling hand in hand. I’ve never got anything like that, either. My relationships are always a secret. They have to be.

  She scowls. “You never wonder if your soulmate isn’t a guy from the neighborhood?”

  The neighborhood in question is my family’s old stomping grounds, a stretch of city blocks lined with brick row homes and Italian charm. Perla’s lived there all her life, but I’ve never known it as home. It’s just a place to visit and a potential pond of friends and suitors to fish in. An annoyingly small one that needs restocking, if I’m being honest.

  I snake a hand into my purse for my keys, grateful I hadn’t had to use a parking garage. The underground ones out here always give me the creeps. “Nope.”

  “What if he’s a fancy-schmancy stockbroker with a six-pack and an English accent?” she asks, smirking devilishly. “With a fat cock and a fatter wallet.”

  “Then he’s not the man for me,” I say with a shrug, checking both ways before crossing the street. A few cars scurry by before I can step onto the asphalt.

  Perla narrows her charcoal-lined eyes as she follows my lead. “Seriously? You’d turn down a rich, hung hottie because he wasn’t Italian?”

  I don’t hesitate. “Of course.”

  I know the rules. She does too. It’s ingrained in us from an early age to marry our kind, have babies, maintain a house, and put a smile on our face.

  She threads her fingers in the onyx rosary dangling from her neck, a gift from her Nona that’s heard more questionable shit than a confessional. “It wouldn’t kill you to open your eyes to other fruit. It’s awfully juicy.”

  “It would.” I focus on my boots padding off the asphalt, tempering the urge to shake an ounce of sense into the doe-eyed ditz. I want to keep her as a friend. I like having one person who I can be myself around, and because she feels the need to push buttons, that could get ripped away if the wrong person overhears.

  She doesn’t hide the dramatic roll of her eyes. “Your daddy wouldn’t touch a hair on your head, Eva. You’re his diamante.” She says Papa’s nickname for me like it’s an insult.

  I turn to face her, stopping dead in the middle of the street. “Diamond or not—he’d crush me, and you know it. Your father would too, or else you’d be parading Chuckie all over town.”

  Carlo Ricci is a lot of things, but he isn’t a pushover. He’ll throw Perlie and her perky tits out of his house faster than she can come up with an excuse. And if he does, I can’t help her. That’s the kiss of death in our world. A shame that leaves a stink you can’t wash out.

  A sports car approaches, and she tugs my arm, ignoring what I said. “Eva, get out of the road!”

  I raise a hand at the car as it revs its engine before meeting my best friend’s amber eyes. “Admit it.”

  The driver blasts his horn, and I ignore it, smiling as Perla squirms. I have all day. The driver can pound sand. I don’t care.

  When the horn sounds again, she snatches her hand from my arm as if I electrocuted her. Her tongue sinks into her cheek before she replies, “Okay, well, maybe I haven’t told him yet. So what? I’m going to.”

  Exactly.

  Perla Ricci is boy crazy, but she isn’t stupid. She knows that stepping outside of the lines is an easy way to end up penniless with a weak husband. And that’s with a kind father. Mine would break a few bones as a parting gift. He might even make my husband-to-be vanish.

  I continue along, allowing the sports car to speed by.

  “I’m really going to…” she insists as we approach my vehicle.

  I meet her eyes over the roof of the Mercedes. “Perla, keep looking, please. I need you to stay alive, so we can grow old together wearing mink and gossiping like our mothers.”

  That’s a stretch, really. Mama wants nothing to do with her mother, Linda, but I still throw the thought out there. Maybe it’ll save her from doing something stupid. Get her thinking about the future rather than what makes her tingle downstairs right now.

  She chews her lip before smiling. “Okay, but only if you go to Minerva’s with me tonight.”

  I open the door with a grin. Just thinking about seeing Enzo without barriers is enough to send the butterflies fluttering in my belly. This might be the night that kicks Dario to the curb for good. “Deal.”

  Sal’s military-style boot holds the front door open when I get home, the man who serves as Papa’s top guard and my godfather resting a hand on his holstered gun, making my heart thunder in my chest as I step over the threshold.

  Sal’s a guy you don’t want to piss off. He’s big, bald, and bitter to the world. I swear he has a limit of smiling twice a month or something. Papa claims it’s because of his old lady, but I know he’s just a grouch. His wife, my godmother, Barbara, isn’t nearly as grumpy. Lumpy, sure, but not grumpy. And she always brings donuts when she visits, much to Mama’s horror, who seems to think even sniffing sugar makes you gain an extra chin.

  “Well, hello to you, too,” I mutter, clutching my purse strap tightly.

  There are many things I’ve gone numb to as the daughter of Antonio Lombardi, but I’ll never get used to the sinking feeling of danger. It isn’t often that it strikes, but when it does, all of Papa’s money and bravado can’t save me from its claws. Sal never greets me. This screams danger.

  My mind immediately goes to Papa and the unspeakable.

  Eyes drill holes in my cheeks once both of my feet touch down on the foyer floor—Papa’s eyes—who leans against the railing at the base of the sweeping split staircase with his handsome face drawn in anguish. His olive skin flushes to the tips of his ears; his Tom Ford suit disheveled and tie undone. “Evangelina, do you not answer your phone anymore? Christ!”

  Thank God. If something happened to him, I don’t know what I’d do. I don’t know what would happen to us all, either. Mama. The house. His men.

  Eyeing the deadly serious duo, I loop my car keys on the hook beside the door. “I was driving Perla home. What’s up?”

  I might’ve raised the radio’s volume and pretended I didn’t hear his ringer on the way. Possibly even taken the long route home, directly into traffic. Anything to avoid the Dario date that he’s tried setting up for weeks.

  Papa crosses the porcelain tile in three strides and pulls me to his chest, his wool suit jacket hot against my cheek. “You scared me.”

  “You gave me money to go shopping!” I choke out, the sharp bite of his citrus cologne stealing my breath. “I looked, but nothing spoke to me enough to buy.”

  He laughs, pressing a stubbled kiss to my forehead. Papa always shaves, so the roughness catches me off guard. “I don’t know how you’re your mother’s daughter.”

  I didn’t know either, sometimes. Mama and Nikki seem like they’re from another galaxy. “Have you been looking for me?”

  If he plans to spring Dario on me, I already have a list of excuses lined up. My period. Diarrhea. A migraine. I’ll keep rotating them every time and hope he doesn’t notice. By the time he does, I should have Enzo ready to go.

  He gestures for Sal to shut the door before his espresso eyes meet mine. “We need to lie low for a few days.”

  I frown. “Lie low? Like bodyguards to classes again?”

  Everyone stares when they accompany me. Not that anyone asks questions. Not even the college. They know better. I hate the extra attention, regardless. School is the one place I can be a number. A nameless face in a crowd. A college kid without the Lombardi last name. Until roll call, at least. Then everyone knows, and call me miss and apologize for every little thing, fearing what I may tell Papa. Like I’d ruin a life over a minor inconvenience.

  He shakes his head.
“No school for a while. We’ll reassess in a few weeks.”

  “A few weeks?” I echo. I push against his chest, gaining freedom from his hold. “No! I’ll fail!”

  I’ve worked too damn hard. I won’t let him take this away from me. He promised to let me prove myself.

  “It’s not safe,” he says stiffly. “You need to stay inside. Mama and Nikki are staying in, too. No shopping. No school.”

  As if the two are comparable.

  “Send me with a guard. Let me borrow a bazooka. I don’t care what you do. I’m going.”

  “I can cancel your enrollment entirely,” he warns, leveling a dangerous look my way. “This isn’t a game. You need to stay in. This is the only place that’s safe right now.”

  Remembering my plans with Perla, my heart sinks more. The party at Minerva’s is my only chance to see Enzo for ages if Papa’s threat rings true. He might find someone else in the meantime. Someone who isn’t locked away like the mafia’s own Rapunzel. “Why? What did you do now?”

  Papa stiffens before looking to Sal, who nods curtly and walks off, leaving us alone. When his eyes meet mine again, I take a step back. Rage burns in them. “Disrespecting me in front of my men?”

  “Papa,” I start, but with a sudden backhand to the face, he cuts me off before I can rephrase my question. It’s brutal and would’ve sent me toppling over if he didn’t catch my elbow.

  “Unacceptable. When I tell you to stay in, that’s more than enough information. You’re not invincible. You have limits. Learn them.”

  Tears spring to my eyes before I can fully process what’s happened. He’s never hit me. Ever. And he struck me hard.

  He pushes me away, brushing his suit jacket as if I left remnants of trash on him. “Go to your room.”

  If Papa hoped to scare me into submission, he failed.

  Miserably.

  I’m his daughter, and like him, I rise to the occasion when faced with an obstacle. I’m not meek like Mama or Nikki. He woke the lion inside. I can't retaliate with a physical strike back, but I can rebel in my own way. I always have.

  The hours alone in my room drag by, and our chef, Diana, brings me supper while I’m in the middle of Tax Accounting homework. I eat the tomato bisque slowly, biding my time. The sun sets while I thumb through a chapter on investments. Night settles as I finish editing an essay.

  Papa hasn’t come to apologize. Not that I expect him to. In fact, he rages by my door screaming at Mama, ranting that she raised a problem, and that problem is me.

  I smile that I⁠—his daughter who barely reaches his shoulder—am enough of a problem that he has to run around shouting like a maniac.

  I wait until after nine to get ready quietly, leaving my long waves down and pairing old pajamas with sneakers for the walk to Perla, who’s meeting me a few blocks away in her car. Makeup covers the red handprint on my cheek, though I add a little extra smoke to my eyelids to pull attention away just in case.

  Heading out dressed in club attire isn’t the best idea, so I stuff heels and a black minidress into a backpack before doing a final twirl in the mirror to ensure I look perfect for Enzo. Like a prize for a prince. Irresistible. Ready, willing, and able to make him happy.

  I scrounge around for the last-minute details, molding a dummy in my bed with a lump of clothes, the cheap extensions Perla insisted I buy at the outlets over summer making a fabulous stand-in for my bedhead in a pinch. Perfect.

  Pulling my jacket close to avoid touching the frame, I ease a window open and slide out onto the copper roof tiles, our Mediterranean-themed home more fitting of Italy than the Philly suburbs. Gently, I lower the window down to leave barely a crack open—just enough wiggle room for reentry later, but not enough for anyone to notice if they peek a head in to check on me.

  The height makes me a little dizzy at first, but as I have countless times before, I inch along the home’s stucco exterior, keeping low to avoid attracting any attention. My toes almost touch the gutters, but I look up at the stars rather than down. It always makes this part a little easier.

  The journey is slow, but once I reach the section of open roof leading to the rear porch, I crouch, bear-crawling toward freedom. My backpack jostles, functioning uncomfortably like a turtle’s shell as it heaves and hos. But it’s a necessary evil unless I plan on wooing Enzo in my pajamas.

  When I near the edge, I reach for the pergola, only to snatch my hand away as Papa’s voice booms from below. “I need more than just hearsay, motherfucker! I need cold, hard facts. Words from Shea’s own mouth. Do you have a recording?”

  Shit.

  Puffs of smoke drift up with the scent of cigar, and though I can’t see him, I know Papa’s lounging in a chair overlooking the backyard. It’s one of his favorite spots to scream into his phone.

  “I don’t give a fuck what you heard. I need more than that.” I’m not sure who he’s talking to, but whoever it is must be shitting a brick.

  Scanning the roof, I crawl to the side, careful to lift my feet and not drag an inch over the tiles to stay silent. If Pop catches me, I’ll have more than a few weeks of lockdown to worry about. I can kiss school and everything else goodbye. I might as well write my vows to Dario too and get ready to have rat-faced babies.

  With a shudder, I venture to the side of the house that’s easiest to navigate. It faces Mama’s gardens, while the opposite drops off by the main gate that’s usually staffed by at least two guards. The choice is obvious.

  Papa’s voice grows more fractured along the way. All I can tell is that he’s furious by his snarls. It isn’t all that out of the ordinary. Papa is always angry at someone. It comes with the territory of ruling a city. Not everyone listens. I’d know.

  Dipping onto the side porch’s roof takes me down another few feet, the veranda outstretching to overlook Mama’s prized flower garden. She loves those plants more than her own family. The only thing she may value more is money.

  I listen for anyone lurking below but hear nothing. I wait another minute and once I’m certain the coast is clear; I search for a way down, feeling blindly around the edge of the roof.

  The only feasible option is a column, which I’m not thrilled about, but it’s the safest and fastest escape, so I clamp my legs around the stone and shimmy down, grateful that my pajama bottoms protect my skin from scraping. It’s a thick column, so it’s a struggle, and I almost lose my grip at first. Thankfully, my legs save me, and with some readjustments, I inch down.

  When my feet touch the patio tile, it’s a mad dash to the gardens across the freshly mowed lawn. The dense lilac bushes provide cover, easing the panic in my belly. It isn’t my usual route, but I improvise, scaling the wrought-iron fence at the yard’s edge thanks to the metal drum that Mama uses for composting—gardening the only thing she allows to get her hands dirty.

  That also means I plummet to the earth on the other side of the fence, landing on my hands and knees in grass and old leaves. Lovely.

  I make it to Perla in under ten minutes, but she frowns when I slide in the passenger door of her sedan. “You smell like grass clippings.”

  “Look,” I grumble, unzipping my backpack to extract my dress and heels while huffing and puffing from the jog. I probably look crazy with my hair standing on end, but at least my ass is in her seat. “I had a rough escape from Alcatraz.”

  She laughs, already decked out in a slinky number of her own that has enough glitter to see from space. “The warden that tough on you, huh?”

  I shrug out of my coat to change. “You have no idea.”

  “Oh, those legs, baby!” Perla’s wolf whistle turns every head in the line outside of Minerva’s.

  I tug at the lace hem of my dress, wishing the cracks in the sidewalk would swallow me. I don’t need extra attention out here in the open. “Perlie, quiet! If any of Papa’s men…”

  She rolls her eyes; the lids donning a silver shadow that glistens under the club’s exterior neon lights. “Hush it. You’re safe here. T
hey’re all in bed for the night.”

  Papa’s men never rest, but it’s not worth arguing. She won’t understand.

  “Please,” I beg, squeezing her hand. “I need to keep buzz to a minimum. It sounds like some shit went down with the family.”

  Frowning, she leans in, dipping her glossy mouth next to my ear. “What kinda shit? Like Italiano hunting season or something? Are we not safe? Should I run back to my car and get my knife?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit, shifting my weight between feet as my stilettos slowly massacre my arches. Terrible choice in footwear. I don’t want to consider that we aren’t, even if it is a genuine possibility. Papa has more enemies than friends, meaning I do, too. “All I know is that he didn’t want me going out tonight. I need to be careful. You too, Tits.”

  She grins at the nickname, squeezing one of her boobs. “I packed plenty of protection for tonight, honey. Don’t worry. Chuckie and I are going all the way.”

  I blink, taken aback. “At the club?”

  I can think of a million and one places I’d rather have sex than at Minerva’s, a nightclub whose floors are sticky by the end of the night. Whenever I have sex, that is.

  Virginity is a coveted piece of the marriage game, and I have yet to spend a night with a man. I chickened out the one and only time it was a possibility. The crushing weight of Papa’s expectations was a lust killer for me and my then-boyfriend, Richie, who rightfully thought deflowering the mafioso’s daughter was a surefire way to earn a bullet to the head. He’d barely touched a tit before he practically ran out of the party we were at and never talked to me again. Real confidence booster at seventeen.

  Perla tossed hers away like a chewing gum wrapper her freshman year of high school. The guy definitely didn’t deserve it, either. But she didn’t want to hear that when I tried to talk her out of sleeping with Matteo. Any guy that willingly goes by the nickname Shrimp isn’t good enough for my best friend. He proved it, too.