The Mafia King’s Doll

Angelo

Walking into the cathedral, I head down the aisle, barely taking notice of the empty pews.

Father Parisi comes out of the confession booth, and the instant his eyes land on me, he hurries toward me. “Mr. Rizzo. This is unexpected.”

I’m not a man of religion, and the walls of this building rarely see me, so I can understand why he’s surprised that I’m here.

Wanting to get out of the cathedral as quickly as possible, I mutter, “Where can we talk in private?”Copyright by Nôv/elDrama.Org.

“Are you here for confession?”

I let out a chuckle, and shaking my head, I say, “I’m comfortable with the idea of going to hell.”

Big Ricky stifles his laughter behind me with a fake cough.

Father Parisi looks visibly disappointed with my comment. He gestures toward a door. “We can talk in my office.”

I follow the holy man to the back of the cathedral and into his office. It’s so fucking stuffy in here it makes my skin itch.

Glancing at Big Ricky, I order, “Wait outside.” “Yes, boss.”

I shut the door before turning my attention to the priest.

There’s a cautious look on Father Parisi’s face as he asks, “If it’s not for salvation, why are you here?”

Cutting to the chase, I say, “I’m getting married and need you to perform the ceremony.”

Surprise flutters over the old man’s face. “Oh.” He blinks at me before letting out a sigh of relief. “That’s such good news. When will the wedding be held?”

He probably thought I wanted to use the Parish for illegal reasons. “Tomorrow night.”

The quicker I get this over with, the sooner I can give all my attention to my business again.

His eyebrows lift. “That’s earlier than I expected. Will it be held here at the cathedral?”

I shake my head. “The ceremony will take place at my estate. I expect you to be there at seven p. m.”

He moves closer to his table as he asks, “Who’s the bride?” “Vittoria Romano.”

The priest’s eyes fly to my face, and the blood drains from his complexion. “Tori hasn’t said anything to me about marrying you.”

Taking a step closer, I tilt my head. My tone is low, carrying the promise of death, as I say, “That’s because she doesn’t know, and it will stay that way until we’re both saying our vows in front of you.”

A pleading expression tightens his features. “Mr. Rizzo, I can’t perform a forced marriage between you and Tori.”

My patience starts slipping, and I clench my jaw as my eyes sharpen on him. “You will do as I say, or a new priest will sit in this office.” I take another threatening step closer to him. “And you will not tell anyone of this until Vittoria is married to me.”

“She’s a good girl,” he pleads. “Don’t do this to her.”

Done with this conversation, I mutter, “Seven p. m. sharp tomorrow night. Don’t make me add killing a priest to my list of sins.” Wanting to get through to the man so he’ll keep his mouth shut, I close the distance between us and stare him down with all the brutality I’m capable of. “I’ll drain you of every drop of blood in your body before nailing you to a fucking cross for your entire Parish to see.”

The old man swallows hard on his fear while his body shakes, his head bobbing frantically up and down.

Done with the meeting, I stalk to the door, and pulling it open, I leave the stunned priest in his office and walk out of the cathedral.

I want to get this wedding over and done with so my life can return to normal.

God help whoever gets in the way of me putting my ring on Vittoria’s finger.

Tori

For once, Giorgio looks worse than me with his broken arm, crooked nose, and black eyes.

Mr. Falco’s men beat the living crap out of him, and my only regret is that I didn’t get to see it happen.

Wearing a cream silk gown with long lace sleeves, I frown at Giorgio. “Why am I even going with you?”

This dress must’ve cost more than all the clothes in my cupboard, but I’m glad it covers my arms and legs so none of the bruises are visible.

“Because we have to present a united family,” he mutters impatiently. “This is an important night for me. I’m finally getting the recognition I deserve.”

Looking at his beaten-up face, I find that hard to believe.

Giorgio’s eyes sweep over me, and looking disgusted, he says, “You could’ve done something with your fucking hair.”

“It takes hours to straighten my hair,” I argue. “It’s not like you gave me much time to prepare.”

Giorgio came home an hour ago, threw the dress and heels at me, and told me to get ready. There was only time to bathe and put on some makeup.

He takes a threatening step toward me, but for some reason, he seems to restrain himself from hitting me.

Instead, he shoves a finger in my face and hisses, “You’re fucking testing my last nerve. Shut the fuck up. When we’re at Mr. Rizzo’s place, you’ll just fucking smile and not say a fucking word.”

I just stare at him, and usually, it would make him beat the living hell out of me, but I’m at the point where I don’t care anymore.

“Fucking bitch,” he snaps, and grabbing my arm, he shoves me toward the front door. “Mark my words. When we get home, I’m going to make you wish you were never born.”

“You’ve done that plenty of times before. The threat doesn’t scare me,” I mutter as I walk out of the house.

The flat of Giorgio’s hand slams against the back of my head. “Shut the fuck up!”

After shutting the door and locking it, Giorgio grabs my bicep and drags me to his Dodge.

My foot is still tender from the cut I got Tuesday night, and the heels aren’t helping. I’m pushed into the passenger seat, and the door’s slammed shut.

I adjust the silky fabric around my legs before tugging the safety belt over my chest and securing it.

Anger rolls off Giorgio in waves as he climbs into the car. He starts the engine, and pulling away from the curb, he mutters, “Don’t fucking embarrass me tonight. Attending a party at Mr. Rizzo’s mansion is a once- in-a-lifetime opportunity. You should be fucking happy I’m bringing you along.”

I’d rather stay at home.

Glancing out the window, I don’t take in any of the passing scenery.

After everything that’s happened the past two weeks – the repeated beatings, Angelo popping up everywhere, the attack from Damiano, the visit from all five heads of the Cosa Nostra – I’m done.

It is what it is, and nothing I do will change my crappy circumstances.

When Giorgio pulls up to a pair of massive black gates, a guard dressed in black combat gear approaches us.

Of course, Angelo would have an army guarding him. The man has more money than God.

Giorgio quickly rolls down the window, and with a smug voice filled with self-entitlement, he says, “Mr. Romano for Mr. Rizzo.”

Mr. Romano. Give me a break.

I cover my mouth as laughter threatens to burst from me.

The guard glances at me before signaling for the gate to be opened.

When Giorgio steers the car up the long driveway, he lets out a whistle. “Once your inheritance pays out, I’m buying a place like this.”

I take in the impressively manicured gardens. Someone must put a lot of effort into keeping the trees and hedges neatly trimmed.

It’s beautiful.

When my eyes land on the mansion that seems to be bathed in rose-gold light as the sun hangs low in the sky, my lips part because I’ve never seen such a breathtaking house.

Ivy covers the side of one wall where a Lamborghini is parked, and I notice two statues of cherubs perched on either side of an arch that seems to lead to the front door.

Trust the devil to live in a place that looks like heaven.

We climb out of the Dodge, and I quickly smooth the wrinkles out of the expensive gown.

It’s the first time Giorgio bought me something like this, and it makes me worry about his motive. His story about us showing a united front is a load of hogwash.

“Don’t embarrass me tonight,” Giorgio mutters under his breath as we walk through the arch.

On either side of the cobbled path is water with smooth pebbles framing the ponds. Bright green creepers with tiny leaves snake between the darker stones, giving the space an enchanted feel. I see Koi hiding beneath floating leaves that sprout small purple flowers.

Wow, this place is straight out of a dream.

The front door is three times the size of ours at home and made of black frosted glass. Before we can knock, it swings open, and we’re met by Big Ricky.

“This way,” he says without bothering to greet us.

I don’t hear music or anything related to a party, and a frown starts to form on my forehead.

Something’s not right.

We’re led past an open-plan living room with a sunken lounge where the furniture consists of black couches and a light-colored wooden coffee table. There’s a massive flat-screen TV mounted against the wall.

I tilt my head back to look at the glass ceiling that gives a clear view of a very old tree, the green leaves rustling in a breeze. The stunning view makes a smile curve my lips.

Wow.

We’re taken into an open space where stairs go up to the first floor on either side of the room. Lifting my eyes, I see Angelo standing on the upper floor area with his hands resting on a wrought iron railing.

Dressed in a three-piece black tuxedo, the man looks more like a god than the devil he is.

A freaking handsome devil, but a devil nonetheless.

My heart thumps heavily in my chest as if it’s getting ready to make a run for it. Every muscle in my body tenses because the wolf’s den is the last place I want to be.

“Welcome,” Angelo murmurs as he walks to the landing before stealthily taking the stairs down to where we are. The low and deadly timbre of his voice has goosebumps spreading over my arms.

God, I can’t believe I’m in Angelo Rizzo’s house.

“Mr. Rizzo, I just want to say how honored I am to be here tonight,” Giorgio says with respect dripping from the words.

Angelo flat-out ignores Giorgio, and coming to a stop in front of me, his eyes drift from my head to my toes, making a blush creep up my neck.

“You look beautiful, Vittoria.”

I clear my throat before whispering, “Thank you.” “Follow me,” he orders.

An apprehensive feeling turns my stomach into knots, and as we follow Angelo, I hear Big Ricky right behind us.

Every nerve ending in my body is on guard, and my eyes keep darting around, hardly taking in any of the luxury decorating the mansion.

Something is very wrong.