Not Mine to Keep (The Costa Family)

“Stupid garage door.” I needed to figure out how to get some extra money to fix the darn thing. I attempted to punch in the code one more time since the opener in my Jeep didn’t do the trick and sighed when it refused to budge. I was tired, hungry, and desperate to get free of my heels, but I almost laughed at the absurdity of my situation. With my luck, I’d also wake up my next-door neighbor, and Lord knew I didn’t need a midnight lecture on getting home late or noise ordinances.

Giving up on the garage, I rounded my townhouse and went for the front door, doing my best not to catch my heels in the cracks of the sidewalk.

I waved my hand in front of the door, waiting for the motion lights to kick on so I could see. Of course they didn’t work. Another thing to be fixed. Cursing, I finally managed to get the key in the lock.

Once inside, I kicked off my heels, knowing I had a good fifteen seconds to type in the security code before it went off and Mr. Crabby would be awakened by the blaring sound.

“Oof. Thank God.” I moaned in relief, then searched for the lit-up keypad by the door. I was about to punch in the code when I realized . . . shit, it wasn’t on. Did I forget to set the alarm before I left? That’s not like me. A shiver rolled over my skin and spread into my arms at the realization that—

“Don’t panic.” A deep, gravelly voice had me tensing, and my fingers curled inward on instinct. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

That voice . . . The lights flicked on, and I turned to see Alessandro Costa sitting in the armchair across the room, retracting his hand from the lamp at his side. He had one ankle casually crossed over his knee, and he was steadily eyeing me like I was the threat.This belongs © NôvelDra/ma.Org.

I looked to the left, calculating how long it’d take me to get to my handgun safe. He was taller. Probably faster. He’d get to me before I had a chance, but I had to try.

“Don’t bother,” he said, his tone so smooth it somehow rolled over my skin, heating me in places that it shouldn’t have, because like hell was I allowed to have any type of positive reaction to an intruder in my home. “Your gun isn’t there. Or the one up in your bedroom.”

You went through my house? My back went to the wall by the door, my hands remaining in tight fists, wound and ready to go. “You couldn’t possibly have opened the lockboxes.”

“I didn’t need to. Just moved them.” He lowered his other foot to the floor, then gripped the chair’s arms. “I also removed the bat by the door in your garage. Assuming that’s a weapon since I didn’t spot a baseball in there.” He tipped his head a touch, gray eyes sharp on me. “And I hid all the knives in your kitchen. I don’t want you accidentally hurting yourself if you attempt to try and hurt me.”

Attempt, huh? I looked around the living room again, trying to figure out the best plan. Scream? Let one of my father’s shadows come to my rescue? But also, why wasn’t my heart thundering in my chest? My pulse in my ears? Goose bumps on my skin? Why wasn’t I deathly afraid of this man inside my home? What’s wrong with me?

“I honestly wasn’t expecting you to have firearms. Your concealed carry permit was issued back when you used to need one here, which means you bought your Glocks before you learned you’re the daughter of Armani DiMaggio. Why?”

Now that name set me off. Fire through my veins. Anger. Not fear. “Why are you here?” I bit out, not giving him the satisfaction of being terrified of him, if that was what he wanted.

“I told you we needed to talk,” he shared, his tone almost businesslike.

“So that man did send you?” But it made no sense. “Based on what I know about you, you don’t seem like the typical candidate he’d pick out, aside from being rich and Sicilian.”

“You don’t know me.” A touch of a smile came and went from his lips. “Well, unless you researched me, too.” His attention went to the bookshelf on the far side of the room where my safe had been hidden inside a cabinet. “So why the weapons?” he deflected.

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because I’m a single woman living alone and there are a lot of assholes in the world. Case in point.” I lifted my chin, finding his eyes again, letting him know he was now said asshole.

“I’m not here to hurt you. In fact, quite the opposite.” He frowned, his lips scowly-ish, as if he’d eaten something bitter or found my presence offensive.

Um, you’re the offensive one. You’re in my house. I should be annoyed. Angry. Probably screaming, too.

“Your father doesn’t know I’m here. And he sure as hell didn’t send me. The only time I talk to criminals is if I’m questioning them.” Earlier, his accent had been more like a subtle, underlying note of seduction, but now, it was cutting through a touch thicker . . . sexier? I stifled a groan.

There’s something seriously wrong with me. “I don’t believe you.”

“Ahh, but you do, or you wouldn’t still be standing here. You’d run.” He lifted his hand like a request to continue not running. “I’ll get to the point.”

“Please do, because I’m seconds away from screaming my head off. Mr. Crabby next door may be old and crotchety, but he’s got a shotgun he’s been waiting for a chance to use, and he won’t hesitate to save me.” Even if I drive him nuts from time to time.

“Glad to know he’d have your six. I’d trust him over your father’s men parked down the street any day. Hell, they clearly have no clue I’m here.” He kept his eyes on me as he continued, “I have inside information about your problem, and I’ve been tasked with helping you.”

I pushed away from the wall at his words and relaxed my hands for only a moment, shaking them out at my sides. “What do you mean?”

“Remember I said I also have a side gig?” He started to stand, and I flinched and went back to the wall. Immediately clocking my reaction to his movement, he lowered himself back into his seat. “I help people out. People who are in trouble.”

“You know, I’ve heard of that line of work before. What’s it called again?” I briefly chewed on my thumbnail in mock thought before snapping out, “Oh, yeah. Billionaire comic book superhero. Totally fiction. They don’t exist in real life.” I turned to the side, unamused, and pointed to the door. “Now leave, or I scream and Mr. Crabby gets to use his shotgun.”

“Calliope, please. I need you to listen to me.”

“Don’t say my name.” Because I hated how beautiful it sounded rolling from his tongue.

“Your father’s plans changed for you. You don’t have until you’re thirty-five to marry anymore. You have until this Wednesday. And the man he’s chosen for you to marry is . . . well, he’s a monster.”

My heart stopped, and my entire body went cold as he rocked me to my very core. “W-who told you that if it wasn’t Armani? How do you know . . . ?”

“An inside source who disagrees with Armani’s plans to snatch you on Monday and force your hand. And to force you to give him an heir,” he said, not holding back as he gripped the chair’s arms.

“No. I’m not marrying or having a kid for him to steal away and turn into the king of his empire. Hell no. And he could never force me to do such a thing.”

“He can. And he will,” he rasped. “But that’s what I’m trying to prevent from happening.”

“Why? We don’t know each other.” I shook my head. “No way would you just help me. You’re a stranger.”

He pointed to the stairwell off to the side of the bookshelf. “I can take you somewhere he’ll never find you. Anywhere you want to go. If that’s what you want, I can protect you. You can pack your bags now, but you’ll need to say goodbye to this life forever.”

“First of all,” I began, pushing away from the wall, “you think I’m going to take off with you? Maybe you watched a few too many serial killer documentaries and this is some new way to steal women and have your way with them.”

“I’m not trying to have my way with . . .” He discarded his words, probably deciding they’d sounded sexual (or maybe that was just me), but with that intense, husky tone of his, sex seemed to ooze from every word he spoke whether he meant for it to or not. The fact that I let the thought even register meant I was clearly too hungry and vexed to think straight. “And secondly?” he prompted, waiting for me to carry on.

“Secondly, don’t you think if I was the running type, I would have done it when I first learned who my biological father was and what he wanted from me?” The thought had crossed my mind a half dozen times in the last year. My aunt said she had a plan to deal with Armani when the time came, too. But I had a life here and didn’t want to leave it behind.

“There are only two ways I can help you. If you won’t take option one, which is a new identity and life in hiding, then—”

“Let’s say I believe you.” Searching for that spine of mine I’d lost for a moment, I tacked on, “I don’t, just to be clear, but let’s say I do.” I kept my head high as I went on, “What’s the second option that’ll help fulfill your desire to imitate a comic book hero and save me?”

His forehead creased as he stared at me, his chest inflating with the mother of long breaths before letting it go. “That you marry me instead.” His palm whipped up again like a plea not to run.

Was he kidding?

“Your father found out he only has a few years to live, and he’s done waiting. He’s going to force you to marry Wednesday.” The dark words shredded me into practically nothing, because for some reason, I kind of did believe him, which explained why I hadn’t bolted from the room or screamed yet.

I wanted Armani dead. He was evil as far as I was concerned, and I wouldn’t mourn his loss. But if his death meant he’d force me to do the unthinkable, then maybe I had no choice but to give up my life in Tennessee and run. Well, unless I ask my aunt for help. Pull her away from her hard-earned vacation and involve her in my mess. God, that was the last thing I wanted to do.

“Good. I can tell by your face you’re finally understanding the gravity of the situation.” He slowly rose to his tall height, and I didn’t cower this time. Not that I had anywhere to go; I was still only inches from the wall. As his hands slid into his pockets, he added, “Monday, Armani’s second-in-command is coming for you. Those three assholes he’s had babysitting you for a year will help him take you. You’ll be forced to fly to Sicily. Forced to marry. And forced to fuc—” He let go of that horrible sentence, and I realized my hand was now over my mouth.

I was going to be sick. Because I knew, deep down I knew, that The Asshole would do exactly that.

Unable to stop myself, I blew past him and rushed for the bathroom in the hall and fell to my knees, hearing a rip somewhere in the back of the dress as I flipped up the toilet seat.

My stomach protested, but I hadn’t eaten all day, so I was met with that horrible, gut-wrenching pain of my stomach convulsing and producing no result.

At the feel of my hair lifting and being twisted, I spotted the handsome billionaire on one knee alongside me, holding back my hair.

“Le-le-leave me alone,” I cried, trembling as chills crisscrossed my skin. I gripped the sides of the toilet. Nothing came. Just pain.

“I’m here to help, however that may be,” he said, his tone softer than it’d been before. I sure as hell didn’t take the playboy (based on what I’d seen online) to be a hair-holder-for-a-girl-vomiting kind of guy.

No. He’s just trying to gain my trust; he has to have ulterior motives.

He must’ve realized all I was going to do was dry heave, because he let go of my hair and left me. I heard the water running before he offered me a small towel and his hand to stand. “You good?”

Hating that I allowed him to help me up, I covered my mouth with the hand towel and stared at this powerful man in a $10,000 suit, crowded inside the small half bath with faded wallpaper peeling at the edges. He didn’t belong there. Or with me. “I’m just . . .” I closed my eyes, thinking back to the day Armani forced me to have my blood drawn, discovering I was his daughter. “I had the same reaction of wanting to puke when I found out Armani was . . .”

“Understandable.” His firm tone had me opening my eyes.

“I need to change, and you need to go.” I motioned with a little nod for him to move, and he didn’t protest and let me exit the tight space.

“I can’t go, though. We need to—”

“Talk.” I flicked on the hall light and spun around to face him, lowering the towel to my side after determining my breath was probably fine. Not that I should’ve been thinking about that. The man had broken into my house and knew about my father and so many more ands I could write a book. At least I’d be writing again. I hadn’t written a single song since Armani had come into my life. “So, you want me to run or to marry you?” If my stomach wasn’t still nauseous and in knots, I’d fake a laugh at the ridiculous idea of marrying this man.

He set a hand on the hall wall as if needing it for support, which I highly doubted. “The marriage would be temporary.” His brow tightened as if the idea sickened him more than it did me. “Trust me, the last thing in the world I want is to get married to you.”

Yup, thought so. “Then why would you?”

His eyes lowered to the floor beneath us. “I owe someone a favor.”

“I’m sorry . . . what?” I started to move around him, but his hand on the wall went straight to my wrist. It was a gentle touch, but I stopped nevertheless and peered at him.

“It’s a long story.”

“One that ends with us saying our vows? No thanks. I don’t want to be part of that ending.”

“Trust me, I know. But if you’d let me explain, we can formulate a plan.” With a determined look, he pinned me in place, and that somehow made me want to bend to his will. That feeling alone was an immediate cause for concern. I shouldn’t want to bend to him in any way.

“I can’t do this right now. I need to get this damn dress off and breathe. Just please . . . go.”

“Calliope.” He closed his eyes and rasped, “Sorry. Callie. Can I call you that?”

I thought about it for a moment. “I don’t want you to call me anything at all. I want to be alone,” I pleaded, needing to wrap my head around everything.

“We’re short on time. I had no clue I was . . .” He opened his eyes. “I didn’t know who you were when we first met tonight. I didn’t know I was there at that event because of you and for you until . . .”

“The call I saw you take while I was singing?” I whispered at the memory, hating I’d confessed to watching him while onstage earlier.

He lifted a brow, then nodded.

“I don’t know if I can trust you.”

“I’d say call your old man and verify, but I don’t think he’ll wait until Monday to come for you if he knows we’re together. He’ll send his men tonight.”

“Why Monday afternoon?” And why was I continuing this conversation? This was utter madness.

“So no one will report you as having disappeared once school is out,” he said rather bluntly, and knowing how calculating Armani was, that I believed.

“You broke into my house. Proceeded to hide my weapons. And are asking me to marry you because you owe someone a favor. You realize how this looks? Sounds?” I focused on where he held my wrist, and he cleared his throat and let go of me.

“I’m fully aware, but it doesn’t change the fact it’s the truth. I’m trying to help you. And to be honest, you don’t know me. So you shouldn’t just trust my word. I’d be worried if you did accept everything I was saying as the gospel truth, given I did break into your house tonight.” His forehead did that frustrated-tight thing again. “But I need you to.”

I studied him, taking a few breaths that were pathetically shallow and didn’t relieve the tension in my chest. “Aside from this favor you say you owe, what else do you get from this deal? You don’t need the money. I doubt you want to drag your family name down by marrying into the mafia. So why?”

There went his eyes again. Closed. What was he hiding? “Let’s just say I have my reasons. This temporary deal will help us both, and after, we can go our separate ways. It’ll be like it never happened.”

Since he wasn’t looking at me, I sidestepped him and went back into the living room. I tossed the hand towel onto the armchair he’d previously filled and looked up at the ceiling, trying to digest the indigestible.

“Get some sleep. Think about it. I’ll be back in the morning.”

At his words, I turned to see the gorgeous man in his expensive suit hanging back in the doorway of the hall. I had to assume he had no plans to go out the front door with Armani’s shadows parked somewhere outside.

“I can’t marry you,” I cried out, hating the break in my voice. “When I walk down the aisle, I want it to be to the man I . . . love. My forever.”

He casually leaned into the interior doorway, pocketing his hands.

“Don’t you want that, too?”

“I don’t ever want to get married. Period. But I’ll do what needs to be done.”

“What needs to be done? Will that be in your vows?” I was tired. Shocked. And yet, there I was, throwing sarcasm at him. “How in the world will you even convince Armani you’re the man for me instead of the one he chose?”

“I have a plan.” He straightened in the doorway, as if sensing I was coming around.

I wasn’t. But he didn’t need to know that yet. I was close to getting him to leave me alone, and I didn’t want to give him a reason to stick around. I just wanted to hide in a ball beneath my sheets and cry.

“If Armani is truly dying, does that mean we’d need to be married until he dies in a few years?”

He stepped back into the room, shaking his head. “No, he won’t live that long.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ll kill him long before then,” he announced as if sharing a stock tip. Just so matter of fact.

I stumbled back, tripping over the skirt of my dress, and there went another rip. At the feel of air hitting me from behind, I reached around and snatched the material, not needing this man to see me in only my panties. Gotta save something for the wedding night. Ugh, no, not happening. “What do you mean? You’ll commit murder?”

“Is it really murder if he’s a ruthless psychopath?” He peered at me like he was truly expecting me to answer that question with anything other than a yes.

Frazzled, among other things, I murmured, “Won’t that put a target on your head?”

“No, because no one will know it was me.” His lips curved at the edges, and I wasn’t sure if he was on the verge of smiling or frowning. “Unless you want to stay married for years?”

“No!” I shot out, but wait . . . I wasn’t considering this, was I? “I can’t marry you. I’m not leaving my life here.” I let go of the dress and waved my hands in the air. “And I’m not running, either.”

“Then what will you do? Because they are taking you Monday, whether you want them to or not.”

I whipped around, went to the fireplace, and set my hands on the mantel, trying to breathe, because it was becoming increasingly more difficult. My chest was tight, and the corset part of the dress was squeezing me to death.

“Eat. Get some sleep,” he roughly commanded. “I’ll be back in the morning. I’d suggest you not talk about this to anyone, because if word gets back to Armani, like I said, he won’t wait until Monday.”

I still didn’t understand why in the world this billionaire playboy would help me. Side gig? Really? No, I didn’t believe that.

“I won’t be ready for you tomorrow.” My shoulders fell, and the chill at my back reminded me he was potentially getting a hint of my ass right now, so I snatched the material together and faced him.

His eyes were pointed toward the hardwood as if he’d been respectful, not wanting to preview his bride before the wedding day.

Bride? No, no, no.

“You need to be ready, either to let me help you go into hiding or to become my wife.” His gaze flicked up to meet mine as the words my wife fell from his mouth. “Good night, Callie. Sorry about breaking into your home. And, well, for everything else.” He turned for the hallway. He must’ve planned on using the back door, which was most likely how he’d entered in the first place.

“Wait.” My arm shot out at the same time the word did.

He slowly turned, remaining quiet as he waited for me to go on.

But I didn’t know what I’d planned to say next. If he was being genuine, did I owe him a thank-you? I just . . . wasn’t ready to trust him. “Where are my guns?” I blurted instead.

“Right where you left them.” A soft touch of humor caressed his tone, then he nodded and disappeared into the hall.

I hastily removed my dress and let it pool at my feet, then dropped into the armchair and tossed my head back.

“Oh, and I—”

I snapped my head forward, realizing he’d come back. I was only in panties since the dress had a built-in bra, and my entire body became hot.

Alessandro remained fixed in the doorway of the hall, eyes flying over my body. I banded my arms across my chest, trying to hide my nipples as an Italian word—probably a curse—fell from his lips. He surprised me by peering at the ceiling to offer me as much privacy as he could. “I didn’t think you’d get naked that quick.”

Fighting off humiliation, I deflected. “What’d you come back to say? And please hurry.” When he remained closemouthed, my sassy self had me asking, “Tongue-tied again?”

Eyes still hidden from view, a devilish smirk flitted across his lips. I hated the effect it had on me, because I had no clue whether I should believe him. What if this was all a grand plan from Armani? A way to trick me into marrying, letting me think it was my idea? It’d be ingenious.

“I actually don’t remember what I planned to say.” He shrugged, opened his eyes, then demanded, “Just go eat. Then get some rest. Be up by eight a.m. I’ll be back to talk then.”

Unable to stop myself, I asked, “If I actually believe anything you’re saying, and that your motives aren’t evil, and we do temporarily marry, do you plan to be so bossy?”

He responded in a low voice, “If it’s for your benefit.”

“And what makes you think you know what’s good for me?” I blinked back more tears since I couldn’t free my arms from my chest to discard them.

Instead of answering me, he roughly replied, “Eight a.m. Open your door for me. Or I’ll find my way in, and you know I can.”

“And if I call my father’s men over to handle you?” I countered as he turned to the side, preparing to leave.

“Then I guess you’ll have your proof that I sure as hell don’t work for your father,” he murmured darkly, “when I have to kill all three of them.”

“Yeah, well, good men don’t kill people.” Well, not unless . . .

Before I could finish my internal string of reasons as to why killing might be justified, he cocked his head. “Who said anything about me being good?”