twenty
930 Words
Angel
IS THIS THE SAME MAN I MARRIED? The sweet guy that's mild mannered, and hardly piggish. He never looked at me inappropriately the whole time I've lived with him. Of course, sometimes I'd catch him looking at me with a heated look but he's a man and I'm a woman.
It's natural.
However, I'm starting to believe that I was decieved. This man makes things happen. He has a short temper, and he's very dangerous.
I may have made a mistake with the bartender.
I don't think I've ever seen Marco so scary in my life. It was like a whole other side to him. When he cut his eyes at me I thought I would faint. From fear or because I was turned on? Your call.
So here it is, about three in the morning, and Marco Romano is going off.
After he attacked my mouth (not that I didn't enjoy it), he threw down on the bed and left.
Just like that! I scrambled against the headboard, unprepared. Usually, I would be having a panic attack right now, but because he's my anchor, I don't fear him.
He's the safest person I know. No woman, no man holds me down like he does. He's saved me many times, but he doesn't ask much from me. That's why I do what he says most times.
That's why I didn't put up much of fight when he suggested we get married.
Not because I'm afraid of him, or because I'm submissive— I'm grateful and I know there is only a very slight chance he'd do something to hurt me intentionally.
I've only know Marco for a short amount of time, but he has enriched my life, and my daughter's life.
He's introduced me to lovely people, like Savannah, Melanie, Isadora, Sofia, and Julie.
Even Alessandro and Sergio have become safe people.
I'm brought back to reality at the sound of the bathroom door shutting.
Peering up through my lashes, I stay quiet.
“Why so shy now little wife?”
Unable to hold back, I ask the question I've been dying to ask.
“Why do you call me little wife?”
He glanced up at me, shirtless, his brown eyes blazing.
“Because you're little, and my wife. Two facts you don't seem well acquainted with.”
Think I may have hit a nerve.
Changing up tactics to prolong the inevitable.
“You told me you were going to explain how you got us married and me legal.”
“You want to know,” He smirks, his accent thickening. “Now?”
I nod my head back and forth quickly, smiling shyly.
“Okay. I will tell you.” Sitting down on the bed, but not beside me, he starts to speak.
“You know I am Italian,” Statement. We both know I knew that.
“I left Italy in my mid teens, I was fifteen. Before I left Italy, I lived in a neighborhood that wasn't good. Similar to what you American's call ghetto.”
I am not American. But I won't nit-pick.
“I grew up with Salvatore Genovese, Luciano Vitale, and a few other promient people.”
“The mob bosses?”
He smiled, not smirked but his dimpled smile that made him look cute.
“Sì, Salvatore's father Benito ruled over our circut, or the area that his Famigila owned. He was horrible, senseless killings mad violence. He was a sadistic and cruel man.”
Sadness gathered in his eyes, making a black cloud at the top. I fought a frown.
“We all escaped around the time, but I wasn't a promient member of La Cosa Nostra, I was just violent, and had connections.”
Closing my eyes, I try to picture Marco violent. It's hard.
“Sal and Lucy helped me across the border, and they had our papers say we were natural citizens. So, the government thinks we were born here.”
“That is only reason why I could marry you to keep you here. The rest was just forgery. Quite simple.”
“When we signed our marriage license, the date was for a month ago, instead of the actual month. Same day though. All our photographs from the wedding are dated for a month ago.”
“Clever,” I grin.
“Very.” he grins back.
“Do you have parents?” The sad cloud returns.
“No. My mother died in shootout, and my father died of a broken heart.”
“I'm sorry,” My eyes train on his figure, wanted to comfort him like he comfort me.
“It is alright. What about you? Where are you from? Where are your parents?”
That oh so familiar haze nudges me, but I use his scent to ground me.
“I was raised in Chicago, on the south side. The projects. My mother used to be so sweet, and my father— well, I was Daddy's girl. Then, one day, when I was about ten, my father died. It was sudden, by the time we got to the doctor, it was too late.”
“Then my Mother became the devil. The end.”
Not the end, but where I wish it had ended.
There is a quiet calm, an agreement in the air only broken when he asks the one question, no one should ask me.
“Who is Sera's father?”
I glance up, my gaze visibly burning into his skin.
“You are. Never ask that question again. Never.”
twenty
- Writer
