Chapter 3 The Girl in My Garden

William Belinni

The sleeves of my shirt are rolled up to my elbows, but that hasn’t stopped the fabric from becoming completely stained with blood.

My hands and arms are smeared red, and I beat the bastard so badly that I can still taste the metallic tang of blood in my mouth.

A traitor’s blood.

I was about to head downstairs to the Outfit’s Christmas party when my father, the head of the Mafia, asked me to go to the back of the property and deal with a problem.

The problem was one of the men who used to distribute our drugs.

He’d run off with the Outfit’s money and disappeared.

We spread the word that he’d been forgiven and invited to the year-end celebration my mother was hosting—a private event attended by a select group of America’s elite.

The idiot took the bait.

Without surprising anyone, he showed up at our house in a suit, ready for the party.

Our men led him into a room and managed to sedate him before discreetly dragging him to the far end of the property and leaving him in the shed.

Waiting for me.

I had fun with him for an hour, breaking a few bones and leaving his face raw.

My knuckles are split open, but my chest fills with exhilaration.

Being at the top of the Mafia guarantees us soldiers to handle every kind of job, but there’s something I learned from my father:

Some situations require my presence.

Some things simply shouldn’t be delegated.

When you outsource everything, you leave room for betrayal, and I can’t afford to overlook a single detail of what happens in my territory.

Besides, I’ve always enjoyed dirty work.

The only reason I didn’t finish the job myself is because he still needs to be interrogated, and I need to get back to the party.

To find a wife.

“Goddamn it,” I mutter, with absolutely no intention of following protocol.

I’ve always fulfilled my duties and followed the rules of the Mafia without hesitation.

Being at the top means living under constant scrutiny, and one of my obligations is to set an example.

To do exactly what tradition demands.

It was never a problem professionally.

I went through brutal training.

I was tortured, beaten, nearly destroyed…

And I kept my head held high while becoming a man of honor—someone capable of punching, breaking, and killing any son of a bitch stupid enough to put his hands on me.

But knowing the Mafia expects me to get married quickly?

That’s complete bullshit.

I don’t want marriage.

Not even an arranged one.

I value my freedom. I enjoy putting my dick inside willing women and living without having to answer to anyone.

My father wants me to settle down, and my mother insists there are Mafia princesses who would make excellent wives and mothers.

Yet at every party I’ve attended, I’ve been bombarded by overexcited mothers trying to push their daughters toward me.

Useless daughters.

Girls who could barely look me in the eye and clearly knew how to do nothing but embroider, play the piano, and smile like porcelain dolls.

Fuck.

I never gave much thought to marriage, but spending the rest of my life chained to a dull woman certainly isn’t the most appealing fate in the world.

The problem is that my father is sick and wants me to take over the business.

I have a younger brother who could help me, but Robert has the same essence as a snake:

Untrustworthy.

Self-serving.

Always ready to sink his fangs into you when you least expect it.

“Fuck it,” I mutter.

“I’ll do what they expect me to do, and that’s it.”

Instead of returning to the mansion by the main path, I enter the maze of trees that leads to my refuge—the only place where I can truly breathe.

The place is dark, which gives me the advantage of avoiding anyone on the way.

I’m covered in blood, and I need to keep a low profile until I can take another shower before the party.

However, something makes me stop immediately.

I reach for my gun the moment I hear an unfamiliar sound and position myself behind a tree, alert, tracking the source of the noise.

And then I see her.

In the middle of the garden, sitting on the bench my father and I built when I was still a teenager, there’s a blonde woman…

Crying.

Under any other circumstances, I’d be annoyed to find her there.

I specifically asked the staff to place that bench at the heart of the maze to make it difficult to reach.

That simple, rough piece of wood, made by my hands and my father’s, represents one of the few moments when he acted like a father instead of a Don.

That’s why it became my refuge whenever my mind is in chaos.

But surprisingly, I don’t feel irritated seeing her sitting on my bench.

I feel curious.

I keep watching her for a few seconds and notice that even while crying, she’s absurdly beautiful.

I put my gun away when I realize she poses no threat.

And that’s when she seems to notice me.

She straightens her posture and jumps to her feet, looking around as she wipes away her tears.

“Who’s there?”

Fuck.

She’s even more beautiful standing up.

Her body is a fucking spectacle, and the purple dress hugs every perfect curve.

The low back of the dress nearly makes me lose control, but common sense wins, and I remain where I am.

I have a primitive instinct toward desire.

Because of my position, whenever I’ve wanted something, I’ve taken it without effort.

But somehow, this woman feels different.

“I… I’m leaving!” she announces, frightened.

Her voice nearly breaks.

The hands of the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen are trembling so badly they betray her panic.

Maybe it’s because she knows she’ll have to cross the maze to get back to the party.

That would be difficult enough on its own.

It would be even worse if she thought she was being followed by a man in the darkness.

“Stay,” I say, using the gentlest tone I can manage, although my voice is still far too deep and hoarse to sound truly harmless.

I don’t want her to leave.

Not yet.

“Who are you?” she murmurs, pressing her hands against her chest as she tries to figure out where my voice is coming from.

But it’s too dark.

She can’t see me.

And I don’t want her to.

I’m covered in blood.

She’d only become more frightened.

“Why are you crying?”

The blonde looks toward the maze again, probably wondering whether it’s worth running.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” I assure her, keeping my voice calm.

She doesn’t seem to believe me.

“I’m going back to the party.”

“To the party you were escaping from?” I ask.

She looks toward me again.

Bingo.

“Who are you avoiding?”

“What are you talking about?” she asks, clearly uncomfortable at being caught. “I… I’m not hiding from anyone.”

“What a shame.”

I pause.

“It would be interesting to talk to someone else who’s running away.

Like me.”

It’s only half a lie.

I’m trying to make her feel more comfortable.

Trying to get her to open up to me.

She hesitates, biting her lower lip.

Her expression changes immediately, and her body no longer looks ready to bolt back through the maze.

“You needed to breathe too?” she asks softly, confessing her own sin without even realizing it.

Bingo again.

And that’s why women don’t become soldiers.

Most of them have soft hearts and believe in the goodness of people.

That’s suicide in the Mafia.

“Yes. Parties suffocate me, but they’re a necessary evil.”

I’m honest.

She lets out an audible sigh.

“Oh. I actually like them,” she admits. “I’d rather be surrounded by people than feel alone, but…”

She sighs again.

“Some company is so unpleasant that it makes me reconsider my preferences.”

“Anyone who can’t handle their own loneliness eventually starts considering any company good company.”

I watch her posture tense.

Fuck.

I’ve never had to watch what I say around any woman, but I don’t want this particular one to take offense at my words.

So I correct myself.

“I suppose it’s a good thing you reconsider your preferences when the situation becomes critical.”

She laughs.

And that genuinely surprises me.

First, because I wasn’t expecting that reaction.

And second, because I’ve never heard laughter that sweet and genuine.

The sound makes the corner of my mouth lift into the faintest hint of a smile.

“Did I say something wrong?” I ask, surprising myself once again with how badly I need to know what this woman is thinking.

“No, it’s just…”

She hesitates before sitting back down on the bench.

For some unknown reason, I feel relieved when I realize she’s staying here a little longer.

“You managed to fix it nicely.”

“Yes. I’m good at fixing things,” I comment.

The political environment shaped me that way.

I see problems and solve them.

I anticipate chaos and intervene before the shit hits the fan.

But I’m also very good at breaking things.

Very good.

However, prudence tells me to keep that last piece of information to myself.

“Who are you?” she asks again.

“Who do you think I am?”

I throw the question back at her.

She narrows her eyes as if trying to figure me out.

“I don’t know. You sound kind, which isn’t very common in the Mafia,” she reasons.

My smile widens.

No one has ever called me kind.

I don’t usually behave that way with people.

I’ve never needed that particular social skill to get what I wanted.

“Maybe you work with someone in the Mafia, like Clark works for my father,” she continues.

The gears in my head immediately begin turning as I try to figure out who she’s talking about.

I need a clue.

Something that will tell me who she is.

“Or maybe you’re a waiter. Or a gardener?”

She sighs.

“I don’t know. There are so many possibilities.”

I remain silent, trying to think of every Clark on the guest list.

I can’t remember a single one.

Which means he isn’t important enough to remember.

“What are you thinking about?” she asks.

Only then do I realize I’ve been silent for too long since her last sentence.

“I’m thinking about how terrible the company inside must be if you’d rather be out here with me.”

I throw out the bait, trying to get information without sounding intrusive.

I don’t want to scare her.

“I could be a murderer.”

Fuck.

What the hell did I just say?

I don’t want to frighten the girl, and my instinct is to tell her I could actually be a murderer.

What a fucking idiot I am.

But she destabilizes me.

I open my mouth to try to fix my mistake, but her next question surprises me more than anything else she has said tonight.

“Would you kill me?”