My Neighbour's Wife (A Mafia Romance Novel)

5. Susanna's pov

I was defiant for the first few months and my stepmother punished me for it. It was never the kind of punishments that marred my skin. After all, I had to look perfect for the men. My body had to be perfect, my skin a blank canvas for them to paint with c*m and bruises.

My stepmother’s punishments were the kind that stained one’s soul with an oily darkness that could never be washed away; the kind that broke one’s will.

“Don’t speak a single word, not even when you are spoken to.”

It’s the first word Zefiro has said to me since “Cazzo”. It’s the first time he’s acknowledged my presence or looked my way in over ten hours. Agreeing to help me doesn’t include talking to me, I suppose. I just wish I’d brought a book with me or something. I’d been wound up too tight to sleep in the jet and when I asked the cabin hostess to help me set up the display, she had outrightly snubbed me and walked over to Zefiro’s seat way behind me and spoken something Italian to him with the sultriest smile I’ve seen in a long time.

My only consolation was knowing he didn’t smile back. I’m not the only one he’s a jerk to, apparently.

There are dozens of suited bodyguards milling about the mansion that looks like it has been plucked straight out of a medieval fairytale. I turn around in circles, gaping at everything. It screams old money. It screams ancestral wealth. The sleek lines, the towering spires, the sweeping driveway flanked by manicured gardens, and the imposing entrance of what looks to be the main residence at the top of the stone steps is in the middle of two…gargoyle statues?

I stare at Zefiro’s tall back as he leads the group, a head taller than most of his guard detail. It is a struggle to keep up with them and the only reason I’m not lagging is because of the large man behind me, pushing me forward with the lip of his barrel. Zefiro looks like he belongs here, and from the way he moves elegantly without cutting a single step, the way every single person we pass by scrambles out of his path with fear, he probably owns the place.

I’ve lived with a certain notion for most of my life—the more powerful a man, the more blood he has on his hands. I don’t know where to place Zefiro.

Yesterday, he was my neighbor who reluctantly rescued me. Now, he’s some Italian jock prince, striding down his turf with his brown eyes scanning for prey. Even the air seems to bend around him. My eyes narrow to the tattoo at the nape of his neck. It suits him perfectly, just like the nonchalant expression he wears. But even in that simple look, there’s power.

I’m not sure how I didn’t see it. Or perceive any of this. I may just have entered a lion’s…no, a dragon’s keep.

We take a flight of steps and my thighs burn from exertion as I’m forced to take three at a time to match their strides. Peering through the bodies of the guards, I see that there are quite a number of people at the entrance. About a score of them, all dressed like they’re at a lavish, yet respectable event.

I stare at my unmanicured toes in the horrid brown flipflops Zefiro had acquired for me at the last minute. I suppose I should be grateful he even thought about me enough to cover my feet.

Without warning, they all come to a halt and fall into some sort of formation that leaves me and Zefiro standing in the center. Sort of, because he leaves me behind, walking toward a woman approaching from the entrance, dressed in a black blouse and skirt that sweeps the floor as she walks.

My brain freezes as I try to decide whether to follow him or stay behind. I choose the former, because it feels like I’m already tethered to him by an invisible thread. I don’t know him, but I know I’ll follow him everywhere if it means he’ll keep me safe.

The closer the woman gets, the clearer her features her. She looks to be in her sixties with a full head of black and grey hair. Her thin, red lips are pressed together in a stern frown and her black eyes are focused with an intensity that makes my blood chill. The pearls on her neck dance with every strong step and I hold my breath as she comes to a stop before Zefiro, whose shoulders seem to have tensed.

For obvious reasons, I keep my distance, five feet behind. They stare at each other for what seems to be an eternity before the woman smiles, reaching up to grasp his cheeks. She pulls his head down with surprising strength and I hear a deep amused chuckle slip from him as she kisses both his cheeks soundly. “Stellino mio,” she says, or at least, that’s what it sounds like.

“Nonna.” Zefiro’s dips to the bottom of my stomach, unsettling it. It’s the affection in it. It’s been so long since I’ve seen such a display. It makes me miss my father.

“I didn’t think you would come.”

Another careless laughter. “Because you gave me a choice. You look well.”

She nods. “You’re thinner. Nothing a few days of healthy meals won’t fix.” She turns his head left and right. “I told you straying too far would ruin your beautiful color. You have such large buckets underneath your eyes. Trouble sleeping? I will have Dr. Russo pay a visit. You must be in perfect condition. There’s also the matter of the—”

“Nonna,” Zefiro interrupts, but she just keeps going like she doesn’t hear him. “—proposals. The Morreti’s eldest daughter returned from Korea last week after completing her masters. She will be here tonight for dinner and—”

“Grandmother,” Zefiro says again, with enough bite to make her stop, and I flinch at his dark tone. Touchy subject, I suppose.

Her eyes shutter and just as she parts her lips to scold him, she notices me for the first time, standing awkwardly beside him. Her nostrils crinkle as she takes in my disheveled hair, the mismatched oversized pyjamas, the flipflops. Her head tilts and her gaze rises up to my face again. “What have you dragged home from the gutters this time, Zefiro?”

My cheeks are set on fire with embarrassment. Maybe if I’d been given more time to take care of my appearance and presentable clothes, I wouldn’t look like a gutter rat.

Zefiro stiffens and looks back with dark, irritated eyes. Oh my, did I say that out loud?

Under the weight of both their gazes, warmth rushes to the pit of my stomach, spreading like wild fire. “I—”

“She’s the help,” Zefiro says smoothly, which is better than anything I could have come up with.

“The help,” his grandmother repeats, running her sharp gaze over me again and apparently finding me lacking in that too. I can see where he got his attitude from. “You’ve brought home another stray cat.” She practically sneers at me with disgust.

Zefiro shrugs, hooking his arm with hers. “Charity, Nonna. It was you who taught me why it is important to help the needy.” He turns her away from me, and looks back at the guards. Not at me. I might have as well been nonexistent. “Vince, take her to the house manager.”