Married to the Mafia Devil: A Forced Marriage Italian Mafia Romance, page 1
MARRIED TO THE MAFIA DEVIL
A Forced Marriage Italian Mafia Romance
MARIA FROST
Copyright © 2024 Maria Frost
Cover © 2024 - covers_by_wonderland
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author.
Trigger Warnings
Married to the Mafia Devil contains the following tropes and potential triggers:
Tropes:
Instalove
Age gap
Forced marriage
Virgin heroine
Touch her and die
Italian Mafia
OTT jealous/possessive hero
He falls first
Potential Triggers:
Cursing
Sex on the page
Violence on the page
Death of minor characters
Cancer
Anxiety
OCD
Agoraphobia
Domestic violence
Corporal punishment (spanking)
Sexual assault threat
Contents
Blurb
1. Emma
2. Matteo
3. Emma
4. Matteo
5. Emma
6. Matteo
7. Emma
8. Matteo
9. Emma
10. Matteo
11. Emma
12. Matteo
13. Emma
14. Matteo
15. Emma
16. Matteo
17. Emma
18. Matteo
19. Emma
20. Matteo
21. Emma
22. Matteo
23. Emma
24. Matteo
25. Emma
26. Matteo
27. Emma
Mailing List
Acknowledgments
Also by Maria Frost
Blurb
I owe money to a possessive mob boss.
He’s broken into my bedroom to collect.
A dangerous stranger is in my bed.
Clamping a rough hand over my mouth.
Warning me to stay silent.
I don’t know why my father stole from the mafia.
And my terrifying intruder doesn’t care.
He just wants to claim a debt from my quivering body.
I’m a shy bookworm with my V-card still intact.
He’s a coldhearted monster with a reputation for violence.
So how can his touch makes me ache with such need?
I refuse his proposal of marriage, of course.
But Matteo Rossi didn’t break in to listen to reason.
He’s going to make me his mafia bride.
Whether I want to or not.
Be advised: Married to the Mafia Devil is a forced marriage Italian Mafia romance where an OTT jealous/possessive mafia boss marries the broken bookworm he fell for first…
ONE
Emma
“Emma, we need to talk about your rent.”
I’ve barely opened my apartment door and already Mr. Petrelli is leaning in, trying to get past me.
“I’m late for work,” I say. “Can we do this later?”
“You tell him to come out, stop hiding behind his daughter.”
He leans in too close, the smell of stale cigarettes clinging to him like the mold clinging to the wall behind him. “I’ve been generous since your mother died but it’s been a year. The world keeps turning, Emma, like it or not. You earn money, you work hard, you pay your rent.”
Something inside me snaps at the mention of my mother. “Mom was barely cold when you raised the rent, slipped the letter under the door while we were at her funeral.”
He looks surprised that I’m arguing back for once. “Ten percent is nothing,” he splutters. “I’ve got bills to pay too.”
“You’ve got a brand new Audi in the parking garage. You want me to feel sorry that it’s not the Bentley you keep bragging about getting?”
He looms over me, finger wagging. “My choice of car is none of your business. Your father’s drinking is my business. He spends on liquor but not rent. Where is the son of a bitch?”
“I told you. I don’t know.”
“Three months I believed his lies.” He affects a horrible voice, mimicking my father’s pleas. “It’s coming next week, Mr. Petrelli. I left it in my other pants, Mr. Petrelli. I swear you’ll have it tomorrow. All bullshit.”
“Look, I’ll talk to him when he gets back, okay? I’m sure he just forgot?”
I’m not sure if I’m trying to convince him or me. Since Mom died, my dad’s memory has gotten as bad as his drinking.
Mr Petrelli reaches a bony finger my way, his breath sour as he leers at me. “You could make up the shortfall. ” The suggestion hangs in the air. He stretches toward my hair, yellow nicotine stained nails getting too close for comfort. “Pretty little thing, aren’t you?”
“You’ll get your money, all right?” I say, cowering back from his reaching hands.
He scowls. “Too good for an old man, is that it?” He shoves something into my hands. “Eviction notice. You have one month to vacate.”
The words hit me like a punch, knocking the air right out of me. “But what about Amelia? It’s not that simple. She—“
“Your sister’s legs aren’t broken, are they?” His expression hardens, and I steel myself, hoping to reach below the vicious exterior and extract a scrap of humanity from this heartless, greedy man.
“It’s her agoraphobia. She hasn’t left the place since the attack. She’s still recovering but it’s slow. Please, you don’t have to do this. We’ll find the money.”
He stares at my tits, licking his lips. “I tell you what. You keep me company and I’ll give you more time to clear the debt. Otherwise, I’ll drag her into the street myself along with you, that lush you call a father, and all your shit.”
“You lay a finger on her and I’ll...” My voice trails away as I realize I have no leverage
He grins. “That’s what I thought. One month and that’s being generous.” He turns and limps off down the stairs.
I duck back into the apartment. I can’t leave yet. I’m late but I have to go through the ritual from beginning to end before I can go. He interrupted me halfway through. I need to start again.
Lights on and off twice in my room with right hand. Check the window lock with left hand. Check the kitchen faucet is off.
Amelia’s asleep when I pass her room. I’m glad. I don’t want her to see how stressed I look as I rush through the list of things I have to do.
What happened to the rent money? I think to myself. Why is Dad letting this happen to us?
I run my fingers over my favorite photo, the one held onto the refrigerator door with a magnet. It’s one of the few photos I have of Mom; it was always her behind the camera, urging us to goof around for the shot, but Dad took this one.
She was getting real sick by that time. In the picture, she seems almost to glow in the sunshine, as though she has a foot in the next world.
Already an angel, bound for another place, but she is smiling. Always, every day, there it was. The same benevolent smile that warmed my heart through every scraped knee, kid’s nightmare, or high school drama.
Mom loved Hannigan’s Park.
By the end, she was too tired to travel anywhere else, but she loved to sit beneath the cherry trees, her blanket on her knees, letting the breeze stir her thinning hair. In the photo, Amelia and I sit beside her, each holding one of her hands.
She was delicate by then, thin and birdlike, skin like paper, but the park was the place we went to feel whole. It saw us as children, carefree and playing, and it saw us as adults, loving and hurting, side by side.
It’s not there anymore, just a wasteland waiting to be sold off to some asshole developer to turn into offices. You can never go back to your past, no matter how much you might want to.
My real dream, way beyond any thoughts of college, is for the park to come back. The idea of being able to sit where Mom sat, see the views of Manhattan like she used to, that plucks at my very soul. But I have to make do with this old photo. It’s better than nothing.
Open the door, touch the nameplate Mom wrote in that delicate flowing script of hers, cross the hall to the shared bathroom. Light on and off twice. Then back to my door. Check it’s locked again, rattle the handle twice. Check my bag, book inside for the quiet moments. Now I’m ready to go.
I blink back tears, refusing to let them fall. I can't afford the luxury of breaking down, not when everything's falling apart. How am I ever going to go to college and become a counsellor when I can barely take care of myself let alone anyone else?
I promised Mom I’d go to college and I’m going to break that promise. Dad’s drinking again, spending the rent money again. I can’t bail us out, not this time. My savings are long gone.
Amelia can’t leave our place, her agoraphobia has gotten too bad. I’ve got a shitty hourly pay job and college is a pipe dream. Right now, I need to worry about keeping a roof over our heads, making sure Amelia is okay, nothing else matters.
Pulling my jacket tighter, I hustle down the dimly lit s
I’m glad of the fresh air when I get outside. The chill of the morning does nothing to cool the flush of panic on my cheeks or the stress filling my mind.
As I head towards the liquor store where I work, only one thought is clear: everything is falling apart.
The bell above the door jingles mockingly as I step inside, the familiar scent of aged wood and alcohol greeting me.
It's a smell I usually associate with stability. The routine of shelving, sorting, and selling provides a rhythm to my days.
I’ve been here since leaving school. Hidden in the back at first, dealing with the deliveries. I’ve gotten used to the place. But today, the rhythm feels off, like a song played by a covers band who suck.
“Emma,” my boss calls from behind the counter, his tone solemn. “I need to speak with you for a moment.”
I approach the counter, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace. “Morning, Mr. Jenkins. I’m sorry I’m late. My landlord wanted to speak to me about something.”
He doesn’t return the smile. Instead, he places a sheet of paper on the counter between us. I look down at the list of figures.
“Not again,” I say. My heart, already low, sinks further.
Mr. Jenkins nods, his voice laced with a regret that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Sneaking decent bottles this time, the expensive stuff. When I caught him he swore you’d cover it for him. It’s up to three hundred dollars now and I can’t leave it any longer. Bank’s open. You can go now.”
I close my eyes, a silent plea for strength, for patience, for anything that might stave off the wave of embarrassment and frustration crashing over me. “He promised me he’d stop doing that.” I think of the other promise he made, that he’d been paying the rent.
“I let it slide the first few times because I know how tough he’s had it since your mother died but I can’t let it slide any longer.”
“I’m sorry, Can you maybe take it out of my pay check?”
He gestures to the figure at the bottom of the paper, “It’s too much. Either you pay his tab in full today, or I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
The numbers on the paper blur as my eyes fill with tears. “Please, Mr. Jenkins, we just got given an eviction notice. Please don’t fire me.”
“So you don’t have enough to pay his tab.” He shakes his head, the final nail in the coffin of my pleading. “I'm sorry, Emma. I really am. But my costs are through the roof. Petrovitch Industries keeps putting my rent up. I’ve got bills of my own to pay.”
“Please, we can work something out. I’m begging you.”
He shakes his head again. “I’m sorry.”
“So am I,” I say, my shoulders hunched as I turn and head back out of the liquor store, away from the job that kept us barely afloat, into a future as uncertain and dark as my emotions.
As I reach the door, he calls my name. “Emma?”
I turn, praying he’s changed his mind. “Yeah?” I ask, my voice trembling.
“Tell your dad if he comes in again, I’ll have him arrested.”
When Mom fell ill, Dad had to quit his sales work to look after her. Amelia and me did our best to help with the bills and we got by.
Between her waitressing and my job, we were able to cover things until Dad got back to work six months ago. Then Amelia got attacked and couldn’t go to work anymore. My OCD got worse than it’s ever been, panic attacks coming on top, just to add to the fun.
Dad’s drinking came roaring back as well and he got canned without telling us until we figured it out for ourselves. I’ve been giving him all my pay the last three months to at least make sure we keep a roof over our heads. And for what?
I look up at the sky. Mom would be so ashamed of me if she was here. I promised her just before she died that I’d look after the family, take care of my sister, keep my dad from drowning in grief. Beg the city to keep a corner of the plot they’re trying to sell. Rebuild her park as a memorial to her.
I desperately wanted to make her proud of me. Go to college, become a counsellor, help people like she did before she got sick. Now all I have is an eviction notice in my pocket and no job.
The morning sun, now fully risen, mocks me with its brightness. I pull my jacket tighter around me, a futile attempt to hold myself together as my feet make their own way down the street to the only place that might make me feel better. I try to call Dad on the way but of course he doesn’t answer. God alone knows where he is right now.
The bell above The Book Nook sounds cheerful as I push the door open. Mom used to spend hours in here when we were younger. I remember pottering around her legs when I was little. It’s how I met Pamela. She used to come in here as a kid too.
Pamela is talking to a customer. “I couldn’t sell you this,” she says, her nose wrinkling. “It’s mindless exploitative tat. Now go over to the Classics and apply yourself.”
The man she’s talking to frowns like he’s not sure whether to complain or laugh. “Go,” Pamela says, giving him a nudge.
He heads away, half a smile on his face.
Pamela waves when she sees me. “He needed help,” she says as she walks over. “Thinks Jeffrey Archer is the greatest writer of the last fifty years.”
“He has sold a lot of books,” I reply.
“So did Hitler.” She leans over my shoulder. “Proust,” she shouts at the guy. “You’ll love him.”
The man grins, coming over to the counter to pay for his purchase. “Listen,” he says as he hands over the cash. “If you’re not doing anything later…”
Pamela shakes her head. “Come back in when you’re ready for volume two.” She gives him a wink. “I’ll be here.”
He heads out with his purchases and I give Pamela a look. “What?” she asks. “What did I do?”
“You know you only get away with being mean because you’re pretty. You do know that, right?”
She laughs. “I am merely helping the great American public move in the right direction. Can I help it if they interpret my insults as flirting?” She frowns at me. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work? What’s up? Jenkins give you time off for good behavior?”
I sink onto the worn couch in the corner, a fixture as much as any book in here. I hand her the eviction notice. “He fired me because Dad’s been stealing again.”
“Shit.”
“It gets better. Petrelli wants us out because we’re three months behind. I don’t know where Dad is and I’ve no idea what he’s been spending our money on.” I feel a panic attack clawing at me.
Pamela sits beside me. “Okay, deep breath,” she says, an arm around my shoulders. “Remember the breathing exercises we talked about. In and out, like gentle sex.”
“How would I know what that’s like?” I ask as I start to gasp. “The closest I ever got was that kiss from Santa when I was six.”
“I had no idea you wanted more from Mr. Ho Ho Ho. Early developer were you?” She puts an arm around me. “And dirty Santa aside, you’re breathing normally again.”
“So I am. You distracted me. I hate you.”
She squeezes my shoulder, her usual optimism undimmed. “You’re not in control of everything in this world, Emma. I know you want to be, especially on the days I find you straightening every single book in here.”
“They need straightening sometimes.”
“It’s not your job to get everything straight in this world. You can’t stop your dad drinking. That’s up to him. And when Amelia’s ready to leave, she will. All you can do is be ready to help them both. You can’t sort everyone’s problems out. Let someone else take the slack sometimes, give yourself a break.”
She jumps to her feet as she spots someone over by New Releases. “Put that back, have you no shame? It’s as cliched as that cravat you’re wearing.” She turns back to me as the book is returned to the shelf. “I’ve got it. You can stay at my place.”
