Arranged Mafia Marriage

Karma

I cough, sputter, then sit up with a gasp. I glance around the room I am in…which is empty, save for the bed I am on… Well, calling it a bed is giving it too much credit. It’s some kind of bunk built into a wall. Starlight slants in through the only window, which is high up in the wall. Shit, where the hell am I? One second, I had been sitting on the jetty, sipping my prosecco and planning my future with my Capo. The next, something… No, someone had swooped up from out of the water, grabbed my leg and pulled. I had screamed… Or tried to scream, but I had hit the water and swallowed a few mouthfuls before remembering to hold my breath.Content provided by NôvelDrama.Org.

The guy had started towing me away. I had resisted and he had cuffed me on the side of the head. He’d stunned me enough that I didn’t resist as he towed me along the surface, then hauled me onto the boat. Then, I had pretended to lose consciousness while they fired up the engine and set off.

I’d stayed still, in the hopes that I’d hear the men speak and give me some clues of who they were and where they were headed. But they had, annoyingly, spoken very little to each other.

When they cut the engine, I peeked through half-closed eyelids to find that they were docking the boat. One of the men reached for me and I lost it then. I struggled, tried to evade him, and he hit me on the back of the head. And then I found myself here.

A headache builds behind my eyes. I touch the back of my head and wince at the bump there. Damn it, I am tired of being kidnapped and used as a pawn in this stupid game that the Mafia seems to want to play with their rival gang. It has to be a rival gang holding me, right? The same one who had kidnapped me the last time. The same one who had planted the bomb in my car. The one that killed Xander and my unborn child. I squeeze my fingers at my sides. This time, I am going to have my revenge. No way am I going to let them get away with this a third time.

The door to the room opens and light streams in. I throw my hand over my eyes to protect them from the glare, when footsteps sound. The light bulb overhead is switched on and I wince.

“Come on,” a woman’s voice says in precise English, “he is waiting for you.”

I lower my hand, stare at the middle-aged woman wearing a black dress that comes to her knees. Her hair is black and pulled back in a bun. She wears minimal makeup and has the kind of looks that would help her blend into the background anywhere. It’s almost as if she’s trying not to draw any attention to herself, and succeeding quite nicely, by the looks of it-no pun intended.

I snort to myself as I rise to my feet. My knees threaten to give way and I have to dig my feet into the ground for purchase. I tip my chin up, walk to the door. She steps out of the room and I follow her. She leads me to an elevator…and I blink. Of course, there is an elevator. Not sure why, but I imagined this was a room in a place where such modern trappings would be nonexistent. I watch her profile, but she gives nothing away.

The car ascends two floors, then jolts to a halt. She heads out and I follow her up the corridor and into a room. She beckons me to enter. I walk in, turn to find her standing at the entrance to the room. “You are to get dressed and come down to the dining room for dinner in an hour.”

“An hour?”

She nods.

“And how do I tell the time?”

She points to a small antique alarm clock on the dresser.

She turns to leave and I yell out, “Hey, you do realize that I have been kidnapped right?”

She closes the door in my face.

I walk toward it, and open it, to find she’s striding away. “One hour; you don’t want to keep him waiting,” she calls over her shoulder.

I take a step forward, then hesitate. Guess it’s not going to help if I follow her now. She’ll probably just call one of those two idiots who grabbed me earlier to come get me. Also, I want to take something for this headache that has been growing in intensity.

By the way, I am taking all this rather calmly, aren’t I? I mean, I am tagged, so he is going to come after me. Bet he’s already on his way. All I have to do is sit tight, and make sure I don’t get myself killed in the meantime.

Half an hour later, I step out of the shower. The hot water has taken the edge off of my headache and made me feel almost human. I walk into the bedroom and find a simple black dress, underwear made of white cotton, still in its packaging, and a pair of sneakers laid out for me. Did the same woman place it here? Probably.

I pull them on and they fit. So, whoever took me had anticipated that I’d need clothes, but he or she isn’t going to keep me here for too much longer? And given the utilitarian feel of the clothes, he or she doesn’t have a romantic interest in me… At least, I don’t think so.

I dress quickly, then dry my hair with the hairdryer provided. I head for the door when it opens. I pause as the same woman from earlier beckons me. I follow her. This time, down two flights of stairs. So, we are back on the same floor as the room where I had been kept earlier.

I follow her down a long corridor with closed doors leading to other rooms. Each of the doors are ornate. There are paintings on the walls depicting scenes from the English country side. “Are we in England?”

“Yes,” she confirms.

“In the countryside?”

She doesn’t say anything, but I am sure we are.

“Whose clothes are these?”

“They were purchased for you.”

O-k-a-y. Not what I was expecting.

She reaches the door at the end of the corridor, and pushes it open. I walk in to find a long table with places set for two at the head of the table, facing each other. I walk toward it, when the door on the opposite side of the room opens.

A man prowls in. He is tall, broad shouldered, dressed in a black suit that clings to his shoulders. His features are hard, his gaze intelligent as he takes me in. Gray threads the hair on his temples, hinting that he is in his early forties, maybe? It’s difficult to say, because with his trim build and the obvious muscles that stretch his jacket, he could be anywhere from late thirties to early fifties.

“Finally, we meet, Signora.” His voice is very cultured, very British.

“You?” I frown, “I know you.”

“We haven’t been formally introduced though, have we?” He prowls over to me. “JJ Kane, at your service.”

I glance down at his hand and hesitate. The man looks like Daniel Craig toward the end of his career as James Bond-cynical, hardened, and I hate to admit it, but he radiates raw sex appeal that fills the space between us. He’s not as sexy as my Capo, but this man… He’s as dangerous.

“Why did you kidnap me?” I demand.

Amusement lurks in his gaze. He doesn’t seem to be offended by my obvious snub. “Not my style, but something I couldn’t avoid.”

“Were you also behind the rigging of my car that killed Xander?”

“I heard about that.” He tilts his head, “Sad affair. But no, also not my style. Too messy.”

I glower at him, “What’s your game anyway?”

“No game,” he holds up his hand, his gaze steady, and his tone reeks of sincerity. All the more reason I don’t believe him.

“I am simply inviting you to lunch.”

“Oh, so that’s why you took me from my husband’s island, because you wanted to have lunch with me.”

“Indeed,” he gestures to the table, “and because I wanted him to realize that he shouldn’t underestimate me.”

“You couldn’t have told this to him directly? Honestly, this entire ‘being a pawn in the games that you made men play’ is proving to be a little tiresome.”

He laughs, “You don’t mince words do you?”

“Please,” I hold up my hand, “enough with the false praise; I can do without it.”

I walk over to the chair at the head of the table and drop into it.

His features go solid. A pulse flares to life at his temple, then he throws back his head and laughs. It’s a full-bodied laugh that comes from the pit of his belly and makes him seem younger than his years. He stalks over to the chair on my left and slides into it. “You have balls, signora.”

I sniff, “Lady balls, don’t you mean?”

“Precisely,” he glances at me closely as if noticing me for the first time, “so this is why Michael is so taken with you.”

“Aren’t you his arch rival or something?”

“Rival?” He frowns, “I wouldn’t use such a common word. More like we are two players who are competing for the same thing.”

“And what is that?”

“Power.”

“Of course, it is.” I roll my eyes and notice a man walking through the door. He’s followed by a second man holding a tray on which there are two steaming bowls of soup. Both men are dressed in uniforms, clearly indicating that they are staff.

They retreat and JJ gestures to the food, “Please, eat.”

“Don’t mind if I do.” I reach for the soup spoon then hesitate. “This doesn’t have any seafood in it does it?”

He shakes his head and I scoop up some of the broth.

The scent of coriander and ginger fills my senses. And the taste? Whoa, creamy and light at once, spicy and nourishing, and yet, there are traces of some ingredient that I can’t identify but which adds such depth that the taste lingers in my mouth long after I’ve swallowed it. “Wow,” I stare at the food, then back at him, “that is good.”

“Indeed, it is.” He chuckles, “Gordon is the best chef right now on the entire continent.”

“And he’s cooking this meal for you?”

“A favor.” He inclines his head, “It’s not every day that I have such a distinguished guest.”

I stare at him. Should I believe him? Why would I? The way he had me brought here shows that he has something up his sleeve. But what?

I turn my attention back to the soup and don’t stop until I’ve swallowed down most of it. I lean back with a sigh and find JJ watching me with a pleased expression.

“And she also doesn’t stint when it comes to eating well. You are, indeed, a catch, signora.”

“Grazie,” I murmur as I pat my mouth with my napkin.