Run Posy Run (Underboss Insurrection, #1)

by Cate C. Wells

Dario doesn’t look right. He’s rumpled. His jet-black hair is always neatly combed back, but it’s tousled, as if he’s been running his fingers through it. His tie is loose, and two buttons on his white collared shirt are undone, one more than usual. My wariness surges.

Dario is always inscrutable. He’s not an easygoing guy. That’s what I bring to the relationship—fun and relaxation. He’s always serious, but this glare is different than his usual baseline intensity. It’s smoldering. Angry. Fear trickles down my spine. My palms grow damp.

My mouth goes dry. Something’s very wrong. He never wants to snuggle. Not even after sex. Something inside me says I should stay where I am.

But this is Dario. He’s a dangerous man, but not to me.

I’ve dated bad men before. Too many. Dario isn’t like that. He’s hard—and insensitive in a manly-man kind of way—but he’s never intentionally cruel. He’s never raised a hand to me, an...

some of the worry seeps from me. This is my man. I’m where I belong.

“You love me, don’t you, Posy?” he murmurs, his breath hot on my ear. “Yes, baby. Of course I do.” “And you’d never betray me.” His voice lowers, and his hold tightens, pressing uncomfortably on my lowest ribs.

“Why are you doing this?” I sob, straining to see his face. He’s a possessive guy, but he’s not unreasonable. He’s the least emotional Sicilian I’ve ever met. “Everyone’s doing it, Posy. Everyone is watching you beg for a cock in your ass.” “He said he deleted it,” I blubber. “So you knew about it?” he asks, his voice acidic with disgust. Of course, I did.

On screen, a fat tear drips down my cheek and leaves a streak of mascara. My chest heaves with the effort of holding in silent sobs. I was such a dumb, trusting kid. I wish I could go back and rescue her. Tell her she deserved better.

I don’t understand why Dario’s being like this. He knows I had a lot of boyfriends before him. We met officially when I was dating Frankie Bianco. This isn’t the fifties. He’s never complained that I know what I’m doing in bed.

“December thirteenth,” he says. “I flew to New York that day. Bought you a fucking ring.”

It says December thirteenth. Of this year. I shake my head. “No. Dario, this video is five years old. That’s why my hair’s brown. I used to dye it in high school.”

Dario shakes me so hard my teeth chatter. “Stop lying, Posy.” I tense, instinctively trying to curl up and protect myself, but I can’t. He’s got me immobilized, facing the laptop, and all I can hear is the soundtrack of my pathetic whimpers as I beg Giorgio to hurry up and cum. That, and Dario’s furious, jagged breath in my ear.

“I swear to you,” I pant. “I’ve never cheated on you. That date is wrong.” “I gave you everything, Posy. I brought you into my home. Treated you like a queen. And this is what I get?” He shakes me again. My head bounces, smacking against his bearded jaw, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “This is what I get for laying down with a Santoro dog.” I wince. He’s never brought my father’s family up before. And since we’ve been together, no one else has either.

Panic screams in my head. Run, run. My stupid heart reaches for him, though. This isn’t the man I know. Where is my Dario? Where is the man who plays games with me for hours and delights when I beat him, who comes looking for me at random times during the day to make love?

“You want me to watch that filth again? Watch you beg for cock in your ass?” His voice rises. “This is what I get for bringing a slut into my house. I should have expected this. You can’t help being what you are—a dirty, lying whore.”

This is Dario. He should believe me. I’ve never lied to him. Not once.

How deluded have I been?

He’s none of the things I tell myself he is—a gentleman, a shy genius who needs a girl like me to bring him out of his shell. A little old-fashioned in his views, but decent and generous. He’s an asshole. He’s a dangerous asshole.

And he’s seething, but he hasn’t lost an ounce of control. He threw me on the floor on purpose; it was a move calculated to demonstrate his contempt. He’s not falling into a rage. If anything, he’s more self-contained now, as still as a cobra waiting to strike, deep brown eyes narrowed and glinting, devoid of any trace of fondness, let alone love.

He might actually...

Where did my Dario go? Did he ever exist? If he loved me, could he be this cold and cruel? Could he believe I betrayed him so easily? Wouldn’t he want to hear my side of the story?

I sashayed into this office thinking he loved me, and a quarter hour later, I am staring at a man who seems to be weighing whether or not I’m worth the effort of scrubbing blood stains out of the carpet. I swallow against a wretched cry. No time for that now.

And besides—I cannot be this shocked. This is how life goes. Delusion and then disappointment and despair. I want to sink to the floor. Surrender. Beg for a mercy that I don’t need and should never have to ask for.

I force myself to drag down a deep breath. I am not going out like this. I might have been named after a flower, but I don’t wilt like one. I’m walking out of this room.

The soft part of my brain I’ve never been able to fix spins off into a fantasy. He can’t do it—he can’t let me walk away. It’s only been eight months, but what we have is real. I’ve never felt this way before, as if I’m punch drunk twenty-four-seven, walking on clouds. He’s angry now, but deep down, he knows me. He’ll take a breath. Think it through. He’ll realize it’s all a mistake. He’s the smartest man I’ve ever known. He won’t let a misunderstanding tear us apart.

He taps the desk with one long finger. “The watch.” It takes a moment to sink in. He wants the Rolex back. It’s on my wrist. I never take it off, except to sleep and shower. My lungs seize as if it will hurt too much to take another breath.

I don’t know what’s stronger—the humiliation or the death of the dream.

He was the one, wasn’t he? The jewelry, the flowers, the late nights, the box in the drawer. I’ve been hurt so many times, but it w...

“Earrings, too.” I touch my lobes. I’m wearing the studs he gave me for Christmas. I can’t take them out quickly enough. No matter what he thinks now, I’m not a gold digger. I’ve never asked him for anything. He made me quit my job. He insisted on the “allowance.”

“People don’t make a fool of me and walk away, Posy Santoro.” He says my last name like a curse. “If I see you again, you’re not walking away. Capisce?” I jerk a nod. He drops my arm as if it burns him, and jerks his chin toward the door.

But I can’t do that. I can’t crumble. I fight the panic back one breath at a time.

I have to get myself out of here. I don’t have the luxury of self-pity. I need to get angry. Quick.

My stomach gurgles ominously even though I didn’t stop for lunch. I was rushing back to make myself up before Dario got home.

I’m not a liar. He knows that. Dario’s a genius. He’s a quiet man who keeps his own counsel but somehow knows everything.

I’m simple in comparison. What you see is what you get. How does he not know me by now?

He’ll drag me from the car, clutch me to his hard chest, gentle and careful this time, begging me to forgive him. He got carried away in a jealous rage, but he knows I love him. I might have gotten around, but I’d never cheat. He knows that because what we have is real. The connection is real. He’s not going to just let me go. It’s a hope that pricks like sorrow.

I’ve been ghosted, slow faded, two-timed, dumped, and kicked to the curb enough times to know the drill.

Dario and I aren’t a love story. It’s the other kind. Girl meets mysterious, brooding mafioso. Convinces herself they’re in love. Lets him take over her life. And in the end, mysterious is criminal. Brooding is cruel. And the mafioso is a monster.

This is definitely not the first time I’ve tripped my happy ass down this crooked path.

I hopped from guy to guy—lapping up the love until the tap ran dry—until

This is a bad situation, and when I have time, I’ll cry a river, but I’m not destroyed. I’ve picked myself up from every relationship disaster so far, and I can do it again.

He thinks of everything. Except why I’d wear a wig to cheat on him—and videotape it. That doesn’t make any damn sense at all.

Ray’s lips thin in disapproval. I know I sound like a gold digger. If he saw the video, I don’t see how his opinion of me is getting lower, though. Still, my gaze drops to my lap.

My mother loved the hell out of me. My father thought I was nothing but a pretty face, worthless like all women. The kids at school hated me for being a Santoro.

I’ve been alone before. I’ve been called names. I’ve been cast off. But I am smart. I will be fine. I’ll break down later once I have a bed for the night.

Did I have breakfast? Or was I too excited to go shopping? The game store had called to tell me that the bespoke backgammon set I ordered for Dario had arrived. He was going to be so stoked. He’d give me one of his tight smiles, the slightest curve of his firm lips, but I’d know he was pleased. There’s a sharp stab to my heart. I breathe through it.

Ray and I aren’t friends by any means, but we’ve developed a rapport over the past few months. I’m cheerful. He feigns annoyance.

“Listen,” he says, ducking his head down, leaning closer and lowering his voice. “You need to leave town.” My eyes widen. “Why?” “Dominic Renelli. He doesn’t like loose ends. You’re not with Dario anymore. You’re a loose end.” Icy fingers stroke down my spine. Dominic Renelli had my Uncle Marco killed. Everyone knows it.

I pull the black credit card from my cell phone case, sliding it into the machine with trembling fingers. Come on. Big money. Declined. Dario is fast. And a vengeful prick. I drop the card in the trash. I need to get out of here.