Her ruthless owner, p.1
Her Ruthless Owner, page 1
Table of Contents
Her Ruthless Owner (A Bride for the Mafia Boss)
About the Book
Her Ruthless Owner
Penelope
Cesare
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue
Dear Reader,
From homeless to hitched...
I'm eighteen years old when I'm plucked out of poverty...and it's revealed to me that I'm the missing bride of a powerful mafia boss.
A not-so-normal marriage...
I know I should be thinking of running away, but instead I choose to wear the ring of Boston's most dangerous billionaire—-and submit to his ruthless demand.
Forget about me being your husband...and think of me as your owner instead.
About the Book
I CAN'T EXPLAIN IT. I just know, I just feel the truth all the way to my soul. Cesare Marchetti is not a good man, but he's not and will never be evil the way my foster father was—-
"If we marry," I begin.
"You mean 'when' we marry," he puts in smoothly.
Like grandmother, like grandson, I can't help thinking, with how both of them are acting like our wedding is already a foregone conclusion.
But while that's obviously not the case, I think I should let it go for now...since I still have a more important question to ask, which is—-
"What kind of marriage do you think we'll have?"
"Are you asking me if I plan to fuck you?"
My face turns red. "No!"
"The answer is yes, by the way."
"I don't care," I manage to choke out...even if I'm not quite sure I'm telling the truth.
"Then perhaps you can elaborate," Cesare invites. "What exactly are you asking, Penelope?"
"I just want to know if we'd be like a normal couple—-"
"Don't normal couples fuck?"
I should've seen that coming, dammit.
"I'm being serious here," I say stiffly. "I need to know—-"
"No, we will not be a normal couple."
Uh...ouch?
"My answer obviously disappoints you."
"Why can't we be a normal couple?"
"Why would you want to be?"
"Is it because you, I mean, is it because we, are, uh, famiglia?"
"That's part of the reason, but if you'd really like me to spell it out..."
"Yes!"
"Then it's because I don't want you to think of me as your husband—-even when we're married."
"Excuse me?"
"I'm sure you're aware that today's normal marriages have high divorce rates all over the world. Marriages between famiglia, though...divorce and annulments are exceptionally rare, and do you know why that is?"
If I have to guess...I think that's because some members of famiglia may not see anything wrong with shooting their spouses or lovers when one of them wants out. So who needs a lengthy divorce battle, when you can just turn yourself into a widow real quick?
"When you're famiglia, you eventually understand as you grow older that marriages are more likely to last when both parties treat it as a business transaction. And we can't do that if you think of me as your husband...or insist on seeing yourself as a wife."
"Then how do you want us to see each other then?" I ask in confusion. "As business partners?"
"That could do," he acknowledges, "but since that's boring as fuck, I would like you to see me as your owner instead."
"Excuse me?"
"And you, on the other hand, will be my property."
"You're kidding me. Right?"
"I could've lied to you," he points out, "and use pretty words to convince you that I have feelings for you. Instead, I'm telling you the truth...because I don't want our marriage to be built on lies."
"But...an owner?" I choke out. "I'm not an object to be owned. What you're suggesting is completely crazy—-"
"Will you still think that," he muses, "if I say that you shall own me as well?"
Her Ruthless Owner
By Marian Tee
A Bride for the Mafia Boss Novel
Copyright 2023 by Marian Piñera
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Penelope
IT'S A MISERABLY PERFECT day to commit my first act of crime.
The skies are a dull shade of gray, and it's been drizzling all day. People are running to and fro with either their hands over their heads or their faces peeking out from hoodies and jackets.
Everyone's mood is downcast, and the direction of their gazes also mirrors this. No one wants to look at anyone else; no one wants to be bothered, no one wants to risk seeing anything that's only going to add trouble to their already troubled lives.
You can't get weather more criminally perfect than this, really, so...
Now or never, dude.
My hands start to perspire, and fear curdles in the pit of my stomach. My conscience is already warning me of the fires of Hell, but I tell it to go take a hike for now.
It's not like I mean to make a habit out of mugging rich, old ladies. I've been planning this for a week, and I really think if I play it smart and not do anything rash...I really believe this is all I need to turn my life around.
I've seen the other kids do it, and since I also know for a fact I'm a lot quicker and more flexible than most of them are—-
Show time, dude!
My target walks out of the bank at exactly three-fifteen, like clockwork. Coiffed silver hair, shoulders slightly hunched, and petite and thin enough for a strong gust of wind to easily blow her over. It honestly feels like she's asking for trouble, with that string of pearls she's wearing around her neck and the Louis Vuitton purse she's always holding so, so loosely in her left hand.
She's going to get mugged sooner or later, really...
So why not me?
At least I know for sure I have no plans of hurting her in any way. I just need a bit of her money to start a new life, but I swear I'll find a way to pay her back.
So please, lady, don't make this harder than it should be!
My target is about to cross the street, and I know I need to make my move before she...shits.
I mean, shit!
There's a familiar-looking boy crouched in hiding behind a couple of unevenly stacked boxes.
Shit, shit, shit!
Marko's about my age, and he's lived in the streets far longer than I have. It was about a month ago when he joined the local Russian gang that's recently been busy making its name in Queens. Since then, he's gone from being okay to outright sadistic, and I know for a fact Marko won't be satisfied with just mugging my feeble-looking target. He'll also take pleasure in killing her to prove to his new "family" he's as tough as they come...and I can't do a thing about it.
Or rather...I mustn't.
Because the smartest thing to do now is to walk away.
Just walk away, forget what I've seen, and pretend I have no idea of what's to come.
So get moving, you idiot!
But instead I find myself desperately jumping up and down and yelling at the old woman when I see her heading Marko's way like an elderly ostrich with her head happily buried in the sand.
"Yo, old lady, over here!"
She halts and looks at me in confusion, and please, please, please don't tell me she's hard of hearing, too?
My antics already have Marko on his feet and glaring at me like I'm next on his murder list. I know I still have one last chance to walk away...alive. But when I see the old lady resume walking towards Marko—-
Shit, shit, shit!
My self-preservation instincts fly out of the window, and I run like hell as Marko charges towards our mutual target.
Oh God.
It feels like I'm on a suicide mission, by choice, but...I just can't find it in me to do nothing. I'm not sure this is enough to get me into Heaven, but...God always love the foolish, right? And honestly, I can't remember feeling any more foolish than I do now—-
Please God, please let me get to her in time!
Marko raises his fist to punch the daylights out of the old lady—-
"That should do it, young man."
I crash into a halt when I see her shooing Marko away like he's some harmless little fly, and things get even crazier when Marko actually backs off.
"Sorry, Pens," he says sheepishly as he turns to face me. "And good luck."
My mind feels like it's about to unravel when Marko even starts whistling as he walks away with his hands buried deep in his pockets, and I'm pretty sure it's absolutely not a coincidence that Marko also happens to be whistling One Republic's I Ain't Worried.
He's acting like the three of us weren't this close to being the newest statistical data point in New York's fast-growing crime rate—-and I just don't get it.
What the hell's going on?
&
LABORERS ON A CIGARETTE break outside the public market turned a blind eye when they saw a convoy of vehicles rolling up to the entrance of the Marchetti warehouse across the street. Doors simultaneously opened as men in dark-colored suits stepped out, and being dragged behind them was a man in chains, yelling for help.
Life in the city had been peaceful ever since the Marchettis came into power. It was like having an Italian brotherhood of Bruce Waynes to look after folks like them who worked their asses off day in and day out.
It was just plain nice, to wake up and know they lived in a city where no one was going to mess with them, just because they were broke and powerless. As far as they were concerned, Boston, and not a theme park, was the happiest place on earth, and all they had to do, for the status quo to remain in place...was to occasionally look away, every time a Marchetti was in the process of teaching a valuable lesson to one of their enemies.
The cries of pain and agony continued well into the night, but not a single call to 911 was made. Time...as well as the whole city was on the side of the Marchettis', and after over forty hours of torture, their captive finally broke down and began talking.
Cesare had just finished scrubbing the blood off his knuckles when his phone vibrated in his pocket. It was a message from his grandmother, and it was short and viciously simple as always.
I found her.
'Her' was someone he had long assumed dead, and while her existence meant that it was his life which would now be upended—-
Do you need me to do anything?
Duty to famiglia always came first, and his phone vibrated again with his grandmother's reply.
Nonna: We'll see.
Cesare: And her family? Will you tell them you found her?
Nonna: It depends.
Cesare: On what?
Nonna: On whether she's good enough for us to proceed with our plans.
He was still staring at his phone broodingly when it rang, and Massimo's name flashing on the screen had Cesare answering the call.
"I'm about to order some flowers for you, fratello. I just need to know if it's for your wedding or funeral?"
"Fuck you, fratello," Cesare returned pleasantly without missing a beat, but the words only had Massimo smirking.
Being born in the same year but having different mothers was no walk in the park for either of them. Many had delighted in constantly pitting them against each other, and while Cesare and Massimo had come to blows numerous times growing up...
"What's your plan?" Massimo asked in a sober tone.
Adulthood had changed all of that, and they might as well be twins with how fiercely loyal they were to each other.
"There's nothing to plan. Everything's already set in stone. If Nonna comes back unaccompanied, I never have to think about her again. But if Nonna thinks she's worthy, then I'll marry her."
"Just like that?" Massimo's frown was evident in his tone.
An image of their eldest brother's fiery fidanzata came to mind, and Cesare almost winced. Sarica was like a sister to all of them now, but it was no secret how the girl was also hell-bent on finding a way to escape her arranged marriage to Giancarlo.
And then there was Massimo himself, who would have to break things off with Ynez, once it was his turn to marry for famiglia.
For an arranged marriage to succeed, emotions must never be allowed to come into play, and since he had no heart to begin with—-
"Sì, fratello." Compared to his brothers' respective predicaments, his own situation was as simple as adding one and one together to come up with a rule-based marriage for two. "I'll marry her, just like that...because I intend to train her to think of me as her owner, and not her husband."
Chapter One
Penelope
A BLACK CAR COMES OUT of nowhere like a monster that's about to swallow me up, and my suspicions unfortunately prove true when I hear the old lady behind me speak.
"Get in, please."
Just like that, our roles have been reversed, and I realize all too late that everything about her was a sham. Weak and feeble, my butt.
It was all an act obviously, since the woman I almost mugged now looks more like someone's rich badass granny with her witchy near-black eyes ablaze with cunning, and her shoulders set firmly back without the slightest hint of a droop.
More cars roll into view, and in a blink of an eye I find myself surrounded by an army of remarkably well-dressed...bodyguards. Or extras for the next Matrix sequel, but presently moonlighting as hitmen.
Either way, the sheer number of them is a not-so-subtle warning about the pointlessness of fighting back or running away, and since I didn't survive living off the streets this long by being stupid—-
I get in, she gets in, and my back immediately knocks against the door as her driver slams his foot on the gas, and the car blazes off like we're practicing for the next Formula One race.
My heart leaps into my throat as we overtake three vehicles in the past five seconds. What the heck? Why bother abducting me when her driver clearly means to kill us before the next stoplight?
My almost-victim-turned-captor raises a brow when she sees my white-knuckled grip on the roof handle. "You have no reason to worry, bambina—-"
I mentally beg to differ, with the traffic lights having just turned red, which her driver then interprets as an encouragement to 'go faster' instead of 'stop'.
"Francisco is a very good driver."
We barely escape crashing into a ten-freaking-wheeler truck from an intersecting lane, and all eighteen years of my life flash before my eyes.
"And anyway, it won't be long before we reach the airport—-"
I think I must've misheard her or something. Did she just say—-
"Sì, bambina. You did not hear incorrectly, and we are indeed heading to the airport."
It's bad enough that I've been abducted, but why does my abductor have to be clairvoyant as well...just like the witch I fear her to be?
"If it makes you feel more comfortable, we're not leaving the country. We just need to get out of New York, and the sooner, the better, too."
I know there's a good chance she won't care to answer, but I ask it anyway. "Why?"
"Because I'm not in charge here."
She looks at me meaningfully when she says this, and I guess that only means one thing, doesn't it?
Wherever she's taking me, it's a place where the old lady's in charge—-and I might as well kiss my chances of escaping goodbye.
"You have a very expressive face, bambina."
The crafty sound of the other woman's voice reminds me of witches with an appetite for the tender hearts of virgins...like yours truly (the virgin part, I mean, since I've always been more the thorny than tender type).
"I know you have no reason to trust me, but surely there's no harm if you listen to what I have to say first?"
I WARN MYSELF AGAINST believing anything she says, but by the time she's done talking, I end up questioning her sanity instead. Is she really saying what I think she's saying? Does she really expect me to believe that everything that happened today...is nothing but an elaborate scheme to determine if I'm a 'decent' human being?
"You obviously don't believe me," she observes, "but maybe you'll change your mind if you see this..."
Holy shit.
I panic the moment I see the old lady reach into her purse.
"Here..."
My threatens to leap out of my chest, but instead of pointing a gun to my head like I expected her to do—-
The old lady hands me a photo instead.
Oh.
I guess I was being a little paranoid back there, and...whoa. I can't remember the last time I held an actual printed photo in my hands, and—-
No.
My throat tightens when I realize whose faces I'm staring at. The woman on the left is obviously the old lady from years back...while the couple next to her can only be my parents.
There's Dad, with his usual goofy grin, and Mom, whose chagrined expression may have something to do with the fact that toddler-me in the picture was busy chewing on the hem of her skirt.
"I'm so very sorry for your loss."
My gaze jerks back to the old lady at her words. I know I can be fooling myself here, but the gruff note of sympathy in her voice doesn't sound like a lie.
