Chapter 5

Five

Elena

I gently wave at our gate guard as I drive onto the large compound.

Romeo’s, well, our home is not as big as my parents’, but it’s still quite large with three wings. One for us, one with my library, which I am very happy about, along with guest rooms, and the other wing is for his brothers and Maya, when they want to stay over, which happens most weekends.

I don’t mind them staying, though. They make me feel like part of the family, while my husband would prefer to be with Liliya.

I huff in frustration, hating that my mind has gone to them again as I park in the garage.

Seeing that picture today cemented a lot for me. I’m done trying to win him over. After four years, it just gets too hard. It wears you down physically and mentally.

I gave him my body, I gave him my heart, but he’s not reciprocated it; instead, he’s given his all to my sister, a whore who can’t keep her legs closed, hoping to rile up our father because he won’t allow her to become the first female Pakhan in our family. Instead, he’ll be handing the role over to my cousin Maxim, who doesn’t want the role but refuses to allow my sister to get her hands on it.

I blink, my eyes tearing up. I have a year to leave, a year to figure out where I can run and hide, not only from my husband, but also from his family, mine, and the whole mafia organization.

Sounds easy—not!

My phone rings, snapping me out of my foggy head, and I groan when I grab it and see it’s my mother. I suddenly wish the thing had short-circuited after I smashed the screen.

Great….

“Yes, Mama?” I answer with frustration.

She calls once a month to “check-in,” trying to act like the concerned mother, only for her to scold me for not getting pregnant yet because, apparently, my sister deserves to be a Don’s wife and not me.

Well, maybe if my sister kept her legs shut, she would have been….

“Who did you tell? Did you lie to your husband, Elena?” Mama snaps, a hint of panic in her voice.

I raise a brow as I grab my keys and briefcase as I climb out of my car, commenting, “Mama, you’re going to have to be more specific. I’ve just got home from work; what is it that I’ve supposedly done now?”

She’s quiet for a moment, and then mutters bitterly, "You told someone about your punishments, haven’t you?”

I snort. “This is what you’re gracing me a second call in one month about. You whipped me with a belt when I did nothing wrong, you marked my skin, Mama, and when I say marked, I mean you scarred me.”

She huffs, “You were disciplined, and I didn’t mark?—”

I cut her off, “You disciplined me for something Liliya made up, and let’s not forget the twenty-minute whippings you gave me when I didn’t want to marry someone, all because my sister couldn’t keep her legs shut, and you marked me , Mama. I have several belt scars proving it.”

She sneers, “Elena. That’s not?—”

I cut her off again, “It’s exactly like that, Mama, and you know it. You hate me because I’m not a boy, and used any excuse to punish me for it, but it’s not my fault for my gender; that’s Papa’s, because, newsflash, it’s the male’s sperm the determines the sex of baby.”

She’s quiet for a minute before asking, “I thought you taught 5th grade?”

I sigh. “Mama, I have to teach sex ed in 5th grade; it’s something I had to learn.”

“Oh…” she murmurs, and I roll my eyes and walk toward the utility door as she continues, “You’ve been married for four years, Elena, and over those years, your father has been different with me.”

Huffing, I stop near the washer and remove my shoes, grunting, “You think Papa has been punishing you?”

“Yes, but I was just trying to teach you how to be behave—” she tries again.

I snap, “Mama, you were not punishing me for the right reasons, and even then, you should have sent me to my room, grounded me, heck, banned me from the library, not whipped me with a belt, then allowed my sister to record it.”

“She did what!” Mama shouts, and I move the phone from my ear, wincing.

“It doesn’t matter anymore, Mama,” I try to soothe her, because it doesn’t. I want to move on with my life, preferably without my family.

“It does matter!” she snaps back. “She had no right recording it, the selfish little….” Her words trail off, and for a moment, just a single moment, I swear my mother loves me, but the moment leaves when she continues, “Your father has been slowly cutting me off over the years. He lowered my spending, sold all my designer clothes, and got the staff to move all my stuff to the guest house yesterday.”

I wince, knowing how much Mama loves her clothes, as I hang my coat up. " Then play him at his own game, Mama, just don’t do it as slowly as he has.”

She sighs. “Romeo, he told him.”

I hum and agree, “Most likely. He questioned the marks on our wedding night but never brought them up again, and now I know why. I have barely said two words to Papa since he used my education to get me to sign those papers.”

She’s quiet for a few moments, allowing my words to sink in, before she whispers with hurt, “You hate me, don’t you?”

I debate lying, to tell her how much I hate her, knowing she deserves to be hurt, but a part of me just can’t, because even though she was hard on me, she’s still my mother.

“I don’t hate you, Mama. I love you, but a part of me resents you.” I look at the door toward the kitchen before sighing. “You sold me for your eldest. You resented me for not being born a boy. You’ve always treated me different than her?—”

She cuts me off, “And look how you turned out. You’ve got a career, one a Bratva princess can never have.”

I look down. “Yet you still sold me, Mama, to a man who was promised to my older sister, a man you have told me several times over the years deserves to be with her and not me. You told me to get pregnant so she can finally have him.”

“Elena—” she starts, but I cut her off once more, “Mama, I can’t keep talking about this. It’s in the past. If Papa is punishing you for your treatment of me, then play him at his own game.” I hear a bang coming from the kitchen, then a few curses confusing me, and I say, "Look, Mama, I have to go.”

She sighs. “Fine. Elena…you have a year to get pregnant or you lose your career. I know what you’ve been doing these past few years, and what you’re trying to do now. Don’t be silly doch ….”

With that said, she hangs up, and I flinch.

Of course, my mother knows why I haven’t gotten pregnant. Trust her to be more in tune with me after I moved out.

Shaking my head, I open the door, and the scent of lasagna instantly fills my nostrils, making my stomach grumble and my mouth water.

I guess Romeo called Chef Luigi back in. Dammit, it’s his thirtieth wedding anniversary today.

Grumbling to myself, I walk toward the dining area where Romeo must be but halt in the kitchen when someone clears their throat, making me look up. My eyes widen a little, seeing the man of the hour sitting on the stool at the breakfast bar, two plates in front of him, dressed in a black dress shirt that is half unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, and slacks.

Damn, he looks good enough to eat; maybe I could unbutton some more….

“I learned something interesting today,” he says, snapping me out of my lust filled head, making me look up as he fills a glass with red wine and holds it out to me. My heart pounds, and panic hits.

Does he know about the contraception?

He raises a brow, and I reluctantly walk over, willing for my palms not to sweat with panic, and sit beside him, putting my briefcase on the counter. He passes me the glass and continues, “Turns out you cook for me every night.”

Physically, my body relaxes, and I quickly take a large gulp of the wine to hide my relief before admitting, “I like to cook, I always have. Papa hated it because it meant I spent most of my time cooking for myself and not joining the family at dinner time. Besides, today is Luigi’s thirtieth wedding anniversary, and he deserves a few nights off.”

He hums. “But, by the sound of things, he takes every evening off, and I also learned you clean our room and the library.”

I shrug, acting like it’s no big deal that he’s looked into what I do in the evenings. I grab my fork, replying reluctantly, “I like to do it. Having staff was my mother's and sister's kind of thing.”

He nods, and I take a bite of the food. The flavors instantly melt in my mouth, making me moan. “Oh, wow, this is good.”

Romeo chuckles, sending goosebumps over my arms. He admits, “I’m glad you like it, farfalla . I thought I may have messed up when it started to burn around the edges.”

I look his way in shock and ask, “You cooked this?”

He smirks. “I did, even burnt myself getting it out of the oven." He shows me the nasty red mark, making my eyes widen. He smiles. “I thought because you always cook for me, that I’d cook for you for once. Working with kids can’t be easy; I’m just hoping no one tried to burn your class down today.”

Damn you, Romeo….

There goes the traitorous heart of mine. He does one nice thing out of many screwed-up things, and my heart flutters.

I clear my throat and say, “Thank you; I appreciate it,” before taking another bite, the flavors instantly filling me.

Who knew Mister Big Bad Mafia Don can cook, huh….

A thought hits me, and I still…how many times has he done this for my sister?

And there goes my appetite.

I sigh and start playing with my food, and he whispers, “Eat up, farfalla . Don’t let the first time I’ve cooked go to waste.”

First time….

I don’t react outwardly, while inside I’m confused, but I do as he says and eat what’s probably the best lasagna I’ve ever eaten. He tries to make conversation, asking how my day has been, asking about the kids, heck he even brought up the school fair next week. And then he asked about Andrei’s little girl and his wife, and if he likes retirement, but I don’t talk reply. I can’t.

Yes, he made me this amazing food and was here when I got home, but that doesn’t negate all the time he’s spent with her, his true betrothed, over the years, leaving me alone.

It doesn’t negate that he had her in our home only a few hours ago.

“Mamma popped around this afternoon,” Romeo states as he cleans up our plates. I look at him. He smiles, placing my favorite chocolate fudge cake before me, and I smile a little. “She thought you might like this,” he says.

I nod. “I’ll call her tomorrow and thank her.”

He hums and admits, “I think she’d like that.” He puts his plate beside mine, then rounds the bar, stopping behind me, and says, “She also wanted you to have this, and asked for you never to take it off.”

He raises his arms in front of me, a silver chain dangling from his fingers, a blue gem glittering under the kitchen lights. My breath stutters as he places the chain around my neck, before letting it fall.

The gem feels heavy against my chest despite being no bigger than a dime, but my God, it is beautiful.

“It’s a family heirloom, passed down through my father’s side. My grandmother gave it to my mother after she was wed to my father for four years, and my mother is now giving it to you. If we have a son and he marries, it’ll go to his wife, and so on. It’s something that is to be worn at all times, showing the world and the underworld that not only are you my wife, but you are also seen as part of the family.”

He gently squeezes my shoulders as I hold the gem between my fingers, and then I feel his lips on the top of my head, causing me to close my eyes. For a moment, a split second, I allow myself to believe this is how we are all the time.

I allow myself to believe that he loves me, that I’m his everything, and no one else matters.

But then he and my sister from that photo pop up, and everything dims again, and I silently curse my stupid heart.

Why couldn’t I have fallen for a normal person?

An hour later, after a tense dessert during which I refused to speak to my husband, I left him to clean up, and head for the shower.

Alise accidentally dropped glitter in my hair when she tripped over Janie’s bag, which I don’t think Romeo noticed.

I ignore everything around me, my mind going a million miles per hour, and head to the bathroom, my fingers playing with the gem from Mamma Russo.

I understood what Romeo was saying. His family sees me as one of them. I’m no longer a Mikhailov; I’m a Russo, because we’re still together after four years. But don’t they realize that’s only because I refuse to bring a baby into a one-sided marriage?

Blinking to try and control my tears, I turn the shower on, strip, and climb in.

I walk straight into the spray, my eyes closed, my face lifted. The warm water covers me, washing the day and, hopefully, the glitter away.

Although it may help if I remove my hair clip.

After a few moments of enjoying the heat, I feel the coldness on my back, and I know Romeo has joined me.

I try not to tense when I feel his front to my back, his body warming mine.

He unclips my hair very gently, allowing it to cascade down my back, before he moves it to one side, his lips going to my neck.

My body tingles with his touch, and I instantly hate myself for it.

“I must admit, the first time I saw your hair down, I was mesmerized, but farfalla , I think the glitter is a bit too much,” he whispers against my skin.

“A student tripped,” I admit, and he hums, gently bringing his hands up to cup my suddenly heavy breasts, his thumb and finger pinching my nipples, tugging on them.

I feel him bend a little, his knee forcing my legs apart before the tip of his member hits my entrance, and in one full thrust, he enters me, filling me.

I gasp, my hands slapping against the shower wall for balance as he thrusts hard as he keeps his rhythm slow, his fingers paying extra attention to my nipples.

I allow the pleasure to take hold, allowing him to use me and my body, refusing for my mind to wonder if he showered after seeing her, knowing I'll go dry instantly, and he'll know something is up.

I love him—I do—and I love how he knows my body so well, but I can’t stay with someone who wants someone else.

Romeo groans, his hips going faster as he moves his left hand, going to my thigh. He picks it up, maneuvering it to the left a little, causing him to reach deeper inside, and my belly tightens.

“Fuck, you’re so responsive to me, El, so fucking responsive,” he grunts against my ear, gently nipping it as his hips move quicker.

I let myself be lost in the pleasure, closing my eyes, knowing that when I finally leave, no man will ever compare to my husband, who belongs to someone else.

He spends the rest of the night inside me, only allowing me a few hours of sleep before he wakes me at six in the morning, for the first time, with his mouth on my body, his member inside me, confusing me.

It doesn’t matter, though, because my mind is made up; I’m still leaving, even if it means changing my identity.

He doesn’t belong to me; he belongs to my sister. He always has.