Ravaged Crown - A Mafia Romance

WILLOW

There was a time when I used to run my fingers through his blonde hair and marvel at the fact that this man was mine. A time when I would stare into his dark amber eyes and feel grateful that someone like Casey Reeves could ever be interested in a girl like me.

You wanna know the really sad part?

Even now, I still feel it.

It's a much smaller feeling. Much less all-consuming than it used to be. But it's still there. Along with the rest of my regrets.

I used to have friends.

I used to have dreams.

I used to have parents.

Now, I have a wardrobe full of pretty clothes and expensive shoes. I have a beautiful and lonely house. I have a husband who pets me like a dog in public and fucks other women when I'm not at home.

I gave my soul away-and in return, I got... this.

Casey's sweat is melting into the shirt he just tugged on, turning the armpits into dark circles. I look down at the way he's holding my hand. Possessive. Tight.

"Baby, let's forget all about this, okay? You can make me dinner and later, I'll show you just how much I love you."

I raise my eyes to his face and stare at the sudden stranger in front of me. Is he really suggesting that we have sex the same day I walked in on him fucking some random woman? I don't even want to go down the road of untangling that supremely fucked-up fantasy.

"Who is she?" I ask instead.

He sighs tiredly, as though he's annoyed that I haven't gotten over this already. "Does it matter?"

"Tell me."

"Mabel Sheridan."

"Was she named after her grandmother or something?"

"I understand you're upset, but she means nothing to me. She's just someone I work with."

"So you're going to see her tomorrow at work?"

"She's heading the department in Chicago. She's only here for a few more weeks."

I notice how deftly he avoids answering the question. Which of course is all the answer I need. "How long has it been going on?"

"Baby," he says, an edge of steel entering his tone. Usually, that would set off a warning bell: red alert, go no further, Casey Explosion imminent!

But I don't care. I'm getting really fucking sick of that word.

"I'm leaving."

He arches a brow. "And where're you gonna go?" he scoffs. "You don't have anyone else, Willow. You have only me."

"I'll find a motel or something."

"And how're you gonna pay for it?" he asks in sadistic amusement. "You don't have a job. You haven't worked a day in your life."

Everything he's saying is true, but it's missing nuance. It's missing context. Like the fact that the only reason I don't have a job is because he insisted that he didn't want me to work. Demanded it, really.

"You're my queen," he always told me. "And I'm going to take care of you."

Now, I understand what he really meant: You're my property, and I want to control you.

"I... I'll get a job," I stammer, fighting back angry tears. "I don't need you."

He laughs, and it makes me feel like throwing up on the fluffy white carpet he bought for me on our first wedding anniversary six years ago.

"Go ahead, baby," he tells me. "It'll be fun watching you try."

Still laughing, he walks out of the room.

And I'm left to make the bed he was just fucking another woman on.

One Month Later

"Are you the temp?"

The maître d' is a hook-nosed man with a permanently annoyed expression on his face. I passed by him earlier, on my way into the restaurant, and witnessed him yelling at another waitress like she was a stray dog.

"Yes, sir," I nod, trying to adjust the small white apron around my tight-fitted black uniform. "Mr. Connelly punched me in."

He looks over me with a critical eye. "You're not wearing the right shoes," he says, glancing down at my black flats.

"I know; I'm sorry. But it was a last-minute call and the agency informed me of this shift literally half an hour before I got here. I had to-"

He holds his hand up to silence me. "Not interested in your life story. There's a group of VIPs in one of our private rooms. Can you handle pouring drinks?"

I swallow past the knot in my throat. "Oh, uh, yeah. Of course. Sure."

He nods primly. "Let your hair down and drop a button on your blouse," he instructs with a straight, dour face. "Those men in there expect a certain standard."

I have no idea what that means, but I do as he says.

Every time I have any doubts about my quest to find a real job, I hear Casey's laughter in the back of my head, and it makes me even more determined to stay the course.

Speaking of the literal devil, my phone starts to vibrate in my pocket.

I know it's him. No one else calls me.

"Oh, and girl?"

I look over at the maître d'. "Yes, sir?"

"These are important fucking men you'll be handling tonight. You're only here because one of my waitresses decided to break some dishes and slice her hand open in the process. Don't fuck it up."

The knot in my throat doubles in size. I do my best to keep my voice steady as I say, "I won't."

He nods one more time, smug as ever, and leaves.

Then it's go time. I turn and walk into the private room with my heart hammering hard against my chest.

I notice three things right off the bat, two of which are completely inconsequential.

One, the naked statue of a woman with absurdly huge breasts standing regally in the corner.

Two, the black-and white-checkered carpet under my feet that covers the entirety of the space.

And three-the only thing that matters, the only thing that will ever matter from this point forward-the man sitting in the middle of the plush white sofa with his hands sprawled along the back of the furniture like he owns it.

No, like he owns the whole room.

No, like he owns the whole restaurant. The whole city. The whole world.

His eyes land on me. Some alien feeling travels up my spine to my chest.

On the surface, the reason for my reaction to him is obvious: he's the most handsome man I've ever laid eyes on in my entire life, and that's no exaggeration.

There's something else to it, though. Something deeper. Stranger.

Because I've never seen this man before.

But he's looking at me like he knows exactly who I am.