Mrs Mariano: Part 1 Read online

  Chapters

  Chapter 1 Mr. Mariano

  Chapter 2 Medusa

  Chapter 3Cop Killer

  Chapter 4Yes

  Chapter 5Mrs. Mariano

  Chapter 6Gattina’s Kitchen

  Chapter 7Bricks and Mortar

  Chapter 8Hello, Mother

  Chapter 9The Electrician

  Chapter 10The Fileplace

  Chapter 11The Taxidermist

  Chapter 12Who’s Your Granddaddy?

  Chapter 13Propeller

  Chapter 14Secrets

  Chapter 15The Basement

  Chapter 16Honeymoon

  Chapter 17The Break

  Chapter 18 Cat and Mouse

  Chapter 19The Devil

  Chapter 20Dolls

  Chapter 21The Visitor

  Chapter 22 The Imposter

  Chapter 23 Lost

  CHAPTER 1

  Mr. Mariano

  I can’t believe I’m doing this.

  Standing by a draped alabaster fireplace in the most beautiful plantation home I have ever seen, I feel like an imposter. With button lounges, antique furniture and sparkling chandeliers, the elegance is almost over-the-top, like something out of a movie. The sign out front says it’s a highly sought-after wedding venue and I can see why.

  Frank Mariano sure has high-end taste. It’s typical that he would hire a venue such as this to keep in touch with his associates-slash-family-friends.

  The guests are from all the prominent Italian families – the Ricci’s, the Bianchi’s, the Gallo’s, and so on. I can recognise some of them, but I was only ever acquainted with them when I was younger – I didn’t make too many friends with the inner circle.

  I can confirm that I am the only Gatti here and that not one pair of eyes has overlooked me tonight.

  Everyone here knows about my father – Jimmy “Lucky” Gatti. His nickname was given to him as a cruel joke; the man was a chronic gambler who relied heavily on the family to bail him out of dangerous situations.

  Jimmy had once managed to pay his debts and had the chance to cut ties with the New Orleans’s organised crime syndicate. This was about the same time that he was banging my mother – a complete stranger – at a Bowie concert twenty-nine years ago.

  My uncles and cousins all moved to Miami and Jimmy should have followed them. Yes, that would mean I would never have existed but right this moment, I’m feeling like that wouldn’t have been such a bad thing.

  Instead, he stuck by my mother during the pregnancy. They were exclusive and in love but from what I’ve heard over the years, he wasn’t entirely faithful to her. And then she died giving birth to me.

  Jimmy did the right thing, I suppose, and raised me. But without a clue what to do, he returned to New Orleans for help. And becoming a father didn’t encourage him drop change his gambling addiction, either. Jimmy just straight up sucked at life and my brother and I have always been the ones to pay for it.

  Tonight, I’m here to help my family but I can’t help but feel that I’m dragging our name further through the mud. The reason I am all dressed up from head-to-toe looking like I have stepped off the red carpet is to follow through on my offer to marry one of Frank Mariano’s sons.

  Hence, the nerves.

  The other women are dressed this elegantly too, I suppose, so I should stop feeling so ridiculous in my black, two-thousand-dollar gown. It looks like a modern version of Morticia Addams’ dress. I matched it with a deep plum, matte lipstick, which I am worried has rubbed off on all the champagne flutes by now.

  A quick glance in the golden framed mirror above the fireplace shows me that my makeup is still intact. At least something is going right, I suppose.

  The dress, the lipstick, the thick mascara and winged eyeliner are quite dark in contrast to my pale skin and light blonde hair.

  The tips of my long hair relentlessly tickle my back, so I decide to tie it up. Yes, it took me forever to get my hair in these side-swept waves but every time I move my head slightly, it feels like someone is running their fingers along my shoulder blades ever so lightly.

  Jumpy much?

  Naturally, the champagne is divine, although it’s not the poison I would normally choose.

  I swap my now empty flute for a new, sparkling one when the waiter passes again and wonder if they have been watering these down. Surely the four – no, five – glasses I’ve had should have calmed my nerves by now.

  Maybe this is a mistake. My feet hurt. I hate stilettos with a passion.

  What I should have been doing this entire time – I arrived an hour, three minutes and forty-two seconds ago – is bite the bullet and find one of the Mariano sons and got the ball rolling. But I can’t bring myself to do it. I’m surprised that I even made it here, to be honest.

  I take a swig and exhale deeply out of my nose.

  Remember why you’re here.

  I was only a few months old when my father met a “nice Italian girl” named Sofia and a year later, we were blessed with my baby brother, Emmanuelle, or Manny.

  Not surprisingly, Sophia ended up abandoning us. I was seven and Manny was five. Honestly, with the crap that Jimmy put her through, it was a miracle that she lasted that long. I can forgive her everything except for breaking Manny’s little heart.

  For a while, it seemed that Jimmy learned how to become a better father after that. He even started to make smarter financial decisions. But, even at a young age, I knew that he was still dodgy. So, too, were the men he worked with. Every now and then when I glance around the room, I catch the eye of one of these men and they quickly look away, likely embarrassed.

  But alas, he has gone and done it again; Jimmy gambled money he didn’t have and this time, he pissed off a pretty powerful dude – a black Texan named Simon Briggs, who owns two oil ranches and moonlights as a rapper.

  Yes, seriously.

  Mr Briggs is perilously concerned about getting his money back and apparently no one in my family is safe. I suppose, I would have been fine if I stayed overseas, but Manny...not so much.

  There was talk of me marrying a Mariano son almost ten years ago, before I started college. Jimmy’s shady accomplices would tell him that it’s his best chance at cleaning the slate because “No one would touch a Mariano.”

  But my father wouldn’t go for it, which surprised me. In fact, he was adamant that I stay away from the Mariano’s, even though it would have guaranteed our family’s safety. When we knew for sure that there was nothing but heartbreak for me here, Jimmy bought my plane ticket and arranged a new job for me in the UK.

  But here I am now, by my own devices, doing what needs to be done to protect my family. By family, I mean Manny and his wife and my adorable baby niece, Isabella.

  It will be worth it. Or at least that’s my mantra for the night.

  Cameras flash and the guests gather closely to witness the arrival of our host, the most generous Mr Frank Mariano.

  He’s tall, dwarfing most men in the room. Sophisticated. Older, but cutting-edge somehow.

  There is a woman not much older than me standing quite close to him - obviously, his date for the night. She looks pleased to be here; her smile couldn’t possibly get any bigger. She probably spent the entire week preparing for this occasion.

  Since when did I become so cynical?

  He lifts his glass of whiskey and toasts the room, with such confidence and a deep, husky voice that demands your full attention.

  Everyone is happy. Their smiles grow big too, for the man in charge.

  Is it too late to sneak out?

  He spots me in the crowd and concludes his speech.

  Too late.

  The smile on his date’s face falters as Mr Mariano hands his empty glass to her, catching her off
-guard.

  The room parts for him and conversations resume as he stalks toward me.

  The intensity of his stare makes me want to squirm. He has always had a dangerous aura, a sense of malice about him, so it’s hard to know what he is feeling or thinking.

  Is he upset that I’m here? I was told he wanted me to attend, that he was eager to introduce me to his sons. Maybe I am about to learn otherwise.

  But he takes my free hand, bends his tall frame over and kisses it gently, eyes never leaving mine. His dark, arched eyebrows climb higher as his soft lips begin to press a little more firmly.

  When he finally pulls back, he says, “Helena,” and it sounds as refined as he looks. He pronounced it “hel-ay-nah", which is wrong, but I don’t correct him.

  His salt and pepper hair (mostly salt) is neat and lush, the hairline formed in a widow’s peak. When he straightens, he smooths out the lapels of his dark charcoal suit, which had to cost at least five times that of my dress.

  You can tell he had a very sharp features as a younger man. With age, some softness has been added to his long face, somehow only adding to his attractiveness.

  Did I just imply that he was attractive? It’s a bit odd to go there, isn’t it?

  Perhaps he is one of those men who seem handsome because of their power and ability to make you feel intimidated and engaged at the same time. Or maybe I’m just losing my mind over here.

  I’ll just put it down to nerves.

  “Mr Mariano,” I reply suspiciously, without meaning to. Damn it, I need to control my emotions. I hope he didn’t notice.

  He noticed - without a doubt - with those cool, calculating eyes and obvious knack at seeing through bullshit. However, he is too polite to say anything. Everything about him screams old-fashioned and chivalrous.

  “Had the seven-year itch, hmm?” He purrs. “Couldn’t keep away from home forever?”

  Of course, he has been keeping tabs on me; I may soon inherit his family name and everything that goes with it. Unfortunately for him, I am the only woman in the U.S of A who is reckless enough to consider marrying one of his sons.

  “I suppose you could say that.” I sip my champagne.

  This is a mistake.

  The waiter comes by again and he grabs another whisky. “Grazie,” he says.

  I return my flute. That’s enough drinking for me tonight.

  I half-expect him to excuse himself to speak to someone else but he stays with me.

  He leans in just enough so that I don’t have to crane my neck so much to see him. “You have spent the entire night by the fireplace,” - how does he know that? - “would you like to step outside… join me on the balcony?”

  Everyone stares as he holds his arm out for me to link with. His date certainly isn’t smiling anymore.

  The night breeze hits me as we cross the threshold and my mood instantly improves. Maybe those prying eyes were getting on my nerves more than my reason for being here.

  I lift my head and breathe it all in – the cold, night air, the deceiving sense of freedom. Then, out of the blue and close beside me, he declares, “I didn’t think it was possible, but you have grown more beautiful.”

  I turn to look at him. In the crisp air, I can feel my cheeks burning, as warm as the vintage bulbs surrounding us.

  Damn it, I could never take a compliment without wanting to instantly dismiss it. But dismissing it would make it seem like I want reinforcement, so I let it slide and look away.

  A moment passes before he declares, “I want you to reconsider marrying Cristian or Samuel.”

  When I turn to face him again, he is staring out over the balcony, lost in thought. “They would only hurt you,” he continues, distractedly.

  For a moment, all I can do is breathe. I don’t know how to reply to that. I am aware of the rumours but even if they were true, I would do anything to keep Manny and his family safe.

  “I can take care of myself,” I quip, remembering to feel insulted. “I am a grown woman.”

  He wants to say something and it’s a while before he clicks his tongue and then makes a move to take his jacket off.

  He places it over my shoulders, wrapping me in the warmth and wood-spice scent that has transferred from his body. When he slides up his white sleeves, most of his tanned forearms are revealed. So too, is his Rolex.

  The waistcoat is a perfect fit, naturally and his side profile is strong and proud.

  “I have to do it, Mr. Mariano,” I say, not allowing myself to become distracted.

  “Please, call me Frank,” he gently interjects.

  “Frank,” I plead, afraid now that I’ve come here in vain, “don’t turn me away. I need to do this. Trust me, I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t necessary.”

  I should probably choose my words more carefully. It’s not wise to offend my future father-in-law. Especially when that person is, well... him.

  He wipes a hand over his face. Okay, I will admit that his obvious concern is off-putting.

  The rumours must be true: both of his sons are twisted. And it must be bad if Frank Mariano is this scared for my well-being. The stories regarding the man himself are quite extreme too. There’s a reason he is known as Frank “the Skinner” Mariano.

  “The Skinner” holds his arm out to me again and I take it, not knowing if he has agreed to let me continue my quest or if he is about to escort me downstairs and out the front doors. Or perhaps even worse…

  We return to the main ballroom. After he eases his jacket from my shoulders and hands it to the nearest attendant, he asks if I would like to dance.

  With one eyebrow raised, he bares his teeth in a cheeky grin. His long, square chin and the deep smile lines on his face make him look utterly villainous. Is this the face his victims see before he begins to peel the skin from their bodies?

  What can I do? I comply.

  I hand my black, sequined purse to the same smiling attendant and take a deep, steadying breath.

  With a hand on the small of my back, Frank leads me onto the wooden parquet dancefloor and gently pulls my body into his.

  Being close like this requires me to crane my neck to look at his mischievous face. He is well over six feet tall. With the stilettos, I’d be lucky to reach five eight.

  We dance for a bit and it’s not unenjoyable. In fact, it’s seamless and unexpectedly... nice. After some time, I even forget that my feet are hurting.

  When he leans in close to tell me that everyone’s staring – and that it must be because he has been exercising his gluts – I giggle. The smile he returns is disarming. And maybe the alcohol is finally taking effect because the nerves I felt earlier have now completely slipped away.

  He is in charge and I can deal with that. Being who he is and about thirty years my senior, he is naturally a very confident man. He is literally my opposite. In saying that, there is something about him that feels familiar. Perhaps it’s just because I’ve known about him my whole life.

  When the quartet switches it up and begins to play La Cumparsita, I glare at him with a most unsubtle warning because I know that he is dying to make me tango; his enormous grin tells me so.

  Luckily, his gallantry spares me from certain humiliation. He twirls me around and pulls me in close again, as if we were lovers.

  When he dips me and his amber eyes glitter in delight, as bright as the crystal chandelier above us. My face begins to hurt from smiling so much.

  He pulls me back into his arms to sway softly and I realise that I have foolishly forgotten why I’m here.

  “Where are your sons, Frank?” I beseech him.

  He tenses but then continues to sway. It’s obvious that he doesn’t want to answer. Changing the subject would be his next move, but he knows how much I need to do this and that there isn’t a chance I would drop it.

  When he finally stills, all my insecurities and responsibilities crash down on me at once. I didn’t come all this way to drink champagne and dance all night with the most notorious
man in New Orleans. It’s time to get back to reality.

  “I didn’t invite them,” he informs me, deflated.

  My ears start to ring, and I cannot hear what he says next - possibly something about taking the conversation elsewhere because he leads me to another room. Somehow, I remember to collect my purse from the attendant on the way.

  The busy wait staff are the only people present and they are too busy to notice that they have company.

  “I don’t understand,” I quaver, feeling rather at a loss. Being angry doesn’t make much sense as I don’t actually want to do this, but it took so much courage to get here, damn it. And it’s the only plan that I have in order to protect my family. I am otherwise powerless against Simon Briggs.