Chapter 7

7

Zara

F erraro deletes my texts to and from Izaiah on his phone and mine, then destroys the device, frustrated that there were no messages tying Emilio Rovina to the club raid.

After that was handled, we covered his upper body in one bag, lower in another, then we rolled him up like a joint, starting with the part of the rug that’s stained, along with his knife. To ensure he stays rolled up and spreads the least amount of DNA and fibers possible in the chute or dumpster, I wrapped an entire roll of plastic around him.

Then, somehow, Ferraro deadlifts and holds him in front of his body while I quickly cleaned the floors and even the walls with Clorox wipes. I get on my knees and search for even the tiniest drops. Once that’s done, I wipe down my door, window, and laptop, erasing any of Izaiah’s or Ferraro’s fingerprints.

“That’s good enough,” he says .

“Okay. I think so too,” I agree as I stand in front of the sink and survey the whole room again.

“Let’s go, Zara.”

I slip on a pair of flipflops, and since he objected to adding clothes, I’m ready to leave wearing nothing but his giant jacket that smells way too delicious for a killer. Not to mention how good he looks in the black button-down with rolled-up sleeves. It’s a great choice of color to hide blood stains. Which reminds me…

“One last thing.” I wet a kitchen towel under the sink faucet with cold water.

“What now?”

“Your face.”

“What about my face?” he huffs.

“There’s some blood on it.” I have to stand on my tiptoes to reach over the bundle in his arms and scrub at the splatter on his cheek, then his neck before doing the same to the other side. There’s even a little drop of crimson on his earlobe.

“Really?” he asks as he recoils.

“I think that’s all of it.” I swipe the towel over the slice of chest showing thanks to his open collar before my heels lower to the floor again.

Rather than trash the towel with Izaiah’s DNA on it, I tuck it under the larger towel I tied on his thigh, so it won’t bleed through.

“I’ll take his legs, since they’re lighter.” I grab hold of the rug’s end.

Rather than open the door, Ferraro stares me down, his brow furrowed. “Have you done this before?”

“Done what? Disposed of a body?”

“Yes.”

“God, no. Why?”

“I think most women would sob and shit themselves if a man was killed in front of them by a don who also wants them dead. ”

“I’ve dealt with scarier things than my own death,” I confess. “And some people deserve to die.”

Ferraro nods. “Unlock the door and check to make sure the hallway is clear. Are you sure he’ll fit in the chute?”

“Well, we won’t know until we try.”

“Go measure,” he snaps.

“Measure? With what?”

“You don’t have a measuring tape?”

“No, it’s in my toolbox I left in my imaginary work shed out back.”

He sighs. “This isn’t going to work.”

“It’s going to work!” I assure him, letting go of the rug, since he doesn’t need my help holding him up. “And when it does work, you better have come up with a plan that allows me to keep breathing. I could easily grab that gun from your ass and shoot you, you know.”

“Why do you think I’m keeping my back away from you?”

Of course, he thought of that.

And since he seems so concerned that our Izaiah blunt won’t fit down the hole, I go and grab my laptop from the sofa.

“What are you doing with that?”

“Measuring,” I tell him. “My laptop has my phone messages on it, so we should bring it with us to destroy, and it’s got a sixteen-inch screen. I’ll measure the front of the rug and then go see if it’ll fit in the chute.”

“A tape measure would be more accurate, but I guess the laptop is better than nothing.”

I get the dimension of one end of the Izaiah blunt, then slip out in to the dimly lit hallway and look both ways. At this time of night, it should be clear, so I tiptoe over to the chute at the end of the hallway, pull the door down using the cuff of Ferraro’s jacket cloth to avoid fingerprints, and hold up my device .

Hurrying back to my apartment, I open the door and wave Ferraro forward. “It’s a perfect fit if you can break the flimsy latch.”

“Flimsy latch,” he mutters. “If this works…”

“You’ll let me live?” I know it’s unfortunately not that simple, so I’m only a little disappointed when Ferraro doesn’t answer. He slips past me sideways carrying the rug, slowly and carefully so he doesn’t scrape it on the door frame, keeping his back to the opposite wall.

When he’s clear, I twist the simple lock on the doorknob and shut the door from the outside, wondering if I’ll ever see the inside of my tiny little apartment again.

It wasn’t much, but it was mine. I busted my ass every single day to have a place of my own. Not that it ever really felt safe thanks to the Rovinas.

I’m so relieved that Izaiah is dead that I’m volunteering to be kidnapped. Because that’s what this is right now. My wrists may not be handcuffed, and I may not be gagged while I help Ferraro get his body out of the apartment complex, but I’m not stupid. My fate is in the don’s hands from here on out.

There’s no one to help me or save me. I sure as shit can’t go running to the police. I’ve heard rumors that half the police force work for the mafia, which would explain why they never get arrested or charged with anything.

Well, except recently with Ferraro. With his money and power, he’ll probably find a way to make the gun charges disappear.

I can run, but I can never truly hide from the rich and powerful mafia families. The best I can hope for is to be helpful or tempting enough to convince Creed Ferraro to let me live.

Hurrying over, I use the jacket again to open the hatch, then hold my breath as Ferraro holds Izaiah and breaks the latch off with an impressive yank. Then, he shoves a human burrito through the slightly bigger hole.

A few thuds later and the rug disappears .

“It worked.” Ferraro sounds surprised with his hands braced on his hips.

“I told you it would.” My words are breathless, since I wasn’t entirely sure we could pull it off.

“We’ll take the stairs down so you can show me where the dumpster is, and then you’re going to wait patiently in the SUV for me, aren’t you?”

“Where else would I go?” I ask him seriously.

Less than five minutes later, and we’re traveling down the dark, mostly empty, city streets… with one smelly-assed passenger.

“I’m going to need to take ten showers to get this stink off me,” Ferraro complains from the driver seat. He only pulled Izaiah out of the dumpster and carried him for about two minutes to toss him in the truck, but apparently that’s all the time it takes for the stench to sink into every fiber of your being.

“A huge oversight on my part,” I mumble through his suit collar, using it to cover my nose and mouth. It should be illegal for a criminal to smell so damn good. I want to suffocate in the leather and cedar scent. “But again, you didn’t have any better ideas.”

He doesn’t respond to my remark. But a few minutes later, he quietly chuckles softly while staring at the road. “My brother would be laughing his ass off at me right now.” His good mood evaporates just as quickly as it appeared, a scowl replacing his grin.

I could help him dispose of a hundred bodies, but he’s never going to forgive me for luring him and his brother to the club that night.

“So, um, where are we going to dump the body?” I ask to change the subject.

“I don’t know yet.” Yep, his tone is definitely icier than it was moments before .

“Are we just going to drive around the city with a smelly body in your backseat until you decide?”

“For now, yes. I’m going home to take a shower.”

He said he’s going home, not that “we” are going to his home.

I did my part. I helped the man clean up the mess he made in my apartment, and now…now I don’t know what happens to me.

It was crazy for me to think I could just ask the don to trust me and let me head to bed after we loaded up Izaiah’s body in his SUV. Of course, it wouldn’t be that easy to convince him to let me go free. Creed Ferraro hasn’t survived being one of the city’s dons for years by being stupid.

I’m a witness to a murder. Not just any murder, but the murder of a don’s son by the capo dei capi . At least I assume that’s their power dynamic.

If Emilio finds out who killed Izaiah, it will start a war. Even if Emilio didn’t know about the club setup, he’ll want revenge for his son, just as Creed wanted revenge for his brother. It’ll be an endless cycle of war that could affect the entire Rovina family.

The entire family.

I study Ferraro’s profile as he drives. It’s possible that we’re going somewhere remote where he’ll make me return his jacket, then dig my own grave, in the nude, before he shoots me and tosses me in with Izaiah.

And…I can’t even blame him for being so ruthless. I know firsthand that people will do anything for the ones they love.

I’d kill anyone who hurts Oriana or go down swinging in my attempt.

I should be terrified of this mobster sitting next to me, but there’s only one thing that truly worries me — would Ferraro hurt an innocent little girl?

I’m just about to ask Creed if there are any exceptions to his ruthlessness when he suddenly clears his throat and says, “The way I see it, micetta mia , we’ve got two options here. ”

Ah, we’re finally getting down to the nitty gritty. “Only two options?” Does he mean like firing squad or lethal injection type options? And I don’t know what micetta mia means, my something or another in Italian. It can’t be anything good.

“Yes, only two options that will work for me, since I can’t let you walk away now.”

“Let’s hear these options of yours, so we can get this over with.” I steel myself physically and mentally as I clutch the armrest like a lifeline. Sure, I considered trying to jump out, but one look at me in flip-flops and a man’s suit jacket, and everyone will assume I’m a crazy homeless person until Ferraro catches up to me.

“The first option is that I give you a swift death and bury you with Izaiah.”

“Yeah, no, I’m not a big fan of that plan. I don’t want to spend an eternity anywhere near that piece of shit. What’s the second option?”

“The second option is much riskier for me, but…it would allow you to keep breathing.”

“That sounds perfect. I do enjoy breathing, so I’m all for any plan where I get to stay alive.”

Taking his eyes off the road, he turns to look at me, not the smartest thing to do when you’re driving around with a dead man. His gaze slowly rakes over his jacket I’m huddling inside, from the collar to the bottom hem before returning to my eyes. “Are you absolutely sure about that?”

“Yes.”

“Okay,” he replies as his focus returns to the road again. His tattooed knuckles whiten as he grips the steering wheel tighter. “We’ll go down to the City Clerk’s office tomorrow morning and make it official.”

“Great. Okay,” I agree, letting out a relieved sigh that I’ll get to live and see my daughter grow up. “What’s at the City Clerk’s office? ”

“Our marriage license.”

Our. Marriage. License?

He definitely said “our” as in my and his license for marriage .

My head pops up from his collar in disbelief. “Whoa! What? Who said anything about marriage?”

Even in the dim car, I can see Creed’s jaw ticks. “Would you prefer if I go back to the first option?”

“No. No!” I affirm, even though I know there are some things worse than death. Is this going to turn out to be one of them? “Marriage? Really? Wh-why exactly would we need to get married?”

“Spousal privilege.”

“Spousal privilege?” I repeat.

“All communications between spouses remain confidential, and you can’t be forced to testify against a spouse in court.”

“Ohhh,” I mutter. “So, I wouldn’t ever have to testify about what you did tonight?”

“You wouldn’t have to testify about what happens tomorrow. I think I can get a judge to waive the waiting period and make it all official first thing in the morning. Then, you’re going to help me get rid of Izaiah’s body, and that will be covered by spousal privilege, even if the murder itself isn’t, since we’re not married yet.”

How the hell did we go from discussing my imminent death to…me marrying the man who hates me for causing the death of his brother?

Ferraro must be joking.

Or plotting a punishment worse than death.

My stomach rolls, making me feel queasy, and it’s not even because the cabin smells like rotten garbage.

“Well?” Creed asks.

“I’m guessing there’s no such thing as a pinkie promise privilege?”

A grunt from him says now is not the time for jokes. “A sudden wedding will look suspicious to the family, but at least it will give us a cover for why you’re moving in with me and staying by my side day and night.”

“I’m moving in with you?” I blurt out.

“I told you that I can’t just let you walk away. This arrangement will only work if I can keep an eye on you and be certain that you’re not making any phone calls or speaking to anyone about what happened tonight.”

“I can’t just move in with you and skip the marriage step?”

“There’s no roommate privilege,” he replies. “I need a commitment from you if I’m going to try and trust you. What I did tonight…this isn’t how I usually handle business. You cannot tell anyone what happened tonight, Zara. Not a soul. I don’t even want my own men to find out. The family is already all up in arms after Carmine…” When he trails off, the sadness with which he says his brother’s name, it makes me feel so damn guilty.

God, I hate Izaiah for not only causing this mess for Creed but making me the bad guy in his story.

My fingernails drum nervously on the door panel. “So, you’re saying that if I want to live, all I have to do is marry you, move in, and never tell anyone what you did?”

“Yes.”

“Wow. You drive a very hard bargain, Mr. Ferraro.”

“Creed,” he corrects me. “And…as an incentive for your cooperation, I’ll consider opening an expense account for you with a monthly allowance.”

“A monthly allowance? Like if I wash the dishes, you’ll give me twenty bucks for a new pair of shoes?”

“We can negotiate your allowance later, but it will be a significant amount of money so that you’ll be disinclined to betray me, not one you have to do anything to earn.”

“Oh, so it’s more of a bribe? ”

“How much did Izaiah pay you for setting me up?” he asks yet again, his tone frigid.

“I told you — nothing. He said it was a favor.”

“Right,” he mutters, sounding unconvinced.

“It’s true.”

“Well, either way, this money isn’t technically a bribe. It’s an incentive. I’ll have to get an attorney to draw up a prenup. Once it’s signed, we can start off at a million a month.”

“A million dollars?!” I twist in my seat, studying his face in the dim car interior to see if he’s being serious.

He nods. “A million a month. Twelve million a year will be well worth it to avoid a life prison sentence. Or Emilio finding out before I take him out.”

Holy shit on a stick. I consider telling him that I will marry him for free if he just promises to kill Emilio.

But then he may start asking questions, decide I’m not worth the headache, and dump me in a hole with Izaiah.

“Thanks to my new gun charges,” Creed grits out with a pointed glare at me. “I’ll probably be going to prison soon for at least three-and-a-half years. After I’m released, we can discuss getting divorced if I can trust you not to run your mouth by then. Just remember that if you tell anyone I killed Izaiah while I’m away, you’ll go down as an accessory.”

I already know that I’m in too deep to try to turn Creed into the police now. And boy do I have motive for wanting Izaiah dead. A criminal trial would not go well for me.

And if Creed is in prison for three-and-a-half-years, he won’t be able to touch me. I’ll basically be free.

“So, this would only be a temporary arrangement? For a few years?”

“Yes.”

“And you want to take out Emilio Rovina before you go away? If he was involved in the police raid at the club? ”

“Yes.”

That sounds like a dream come true. I would have a great shot at custody once he’s out of the way.

But, if it turns out Emilio wasn’t part of the raid, he’ll still be a pain in my ass.

“I have a question about you and Emilio,” I start, trying to figure out how to ask what I want to know. “How does your…hierarchy work?”

“What?”

“The mafia hierarchy. I’ve heard that you’re the scariest one that the other families answer to. Is that true?”

“I can’t discuss the inner workings of the family with you,” Creed says. “You already know enough to sink me as it is. Besides, we all take an oath of silence. The omerta . It’s even the name of our social club because it’s the foundation on which we exist.”

“You can’t just tell me if you’re Emilio’s boss? Or how you feel about him? You’re worried about him finding out about Izaiah, right?”

“I would rather figure out if Emilio was behind Izaiah and the raid first, but if he starts getting suspicious, I may have no choice but to find a way to take him out…surreptitiously to protect my family.”

Thank god.

“And the rest of his family? What happens to his other children if it comes down to that?”

“If they don’t suspect me or cause me any problems, then Saint, Stella, and Cami can stay out of this shit.”

I slump a little in my seat, pleased to hear that. “Okay. Good. That’s…good to know.”

“Why? Are you close with the Rovinas?”

“It’s more complicated than that. I don’t think the rest of the Rovinas even know I exist. Only Izaiah.”

I’m just the Rovina family’s filthy little secret they keep hidden .

Izaiah and Emilio only think of me as a harmless, powerless kitten without any claws.

If I marry Creed Ferraro and he really does give me an “allowance,” then there’s a possibility that I could save enough money to hire an attorney, one who can help me finally get custody of Oriana. Those chances go up with Emilio dead, and Creed is definitely my best bet for making that happen.

“I’ll do it. I’ll marry you.”

He glances at me, then shakes his head. “Did it really take that long for you to decide marrying me was a better option than death?”

“Yes. Because some things —”

“Are worse than death,” he finishes for me. Neither of us speak through several stoplights as we reach Manhattan. Then he says without looking at me, “I’m furious at you for setting me up, for being partially responsible for ending my brother’s life, but I’m not going to hurt you unless you give me a reason to.” His eyes cut to me, and he adds, “Don’t give me a fucking reason to hurt you.”

“Are those going to be your wedding vows?” I joke, even though there is nothing humorous about the unexpected warmth and…ache that begins to take hold within me, all thanks to the way he’s looking at me.

The angel of death.

I just saw him kill a man, so I shouldn’t be getting turned on by anything this man says or does.

For the first time since he mentioned the marriage, the word husband blares loudly in my head. In a few hours, Creed Ferraro is going to be my husband.

And I’m going to be his wife.