Trapped (Sinners of Boston #5)

24. Delilah

TWENTY-FOUR

DELILAH

The villa’s sprawling vineyards stretched out before me, a sea of green under the warm Italian sun. I wandered down the rows, marveling at the vibrant, lush vines heavy with grapes. The beauty and serenity of the place felt surreal, like stepping into another world. I reached and plucked a grape from the vine, popping it into my mouth. I grimaced.

Definitely not ripe.

I continued my exploration, enjoying the solitude and the sound of the breeze rustling through the leaves. It was a rare moment of peace, away from the chaos that had defined my life lately.

“Enjoying the view?”

I jumped, my heart racing. Santino stood a few feet away.

“Damn it, Santino.”

He smiled, stepping closer. “You scare easily.”

“Maybe that’s because you kidnapped me and are trying to knock me up like I’m a prized mare.”

He paused, inches away. “Is it so wrong to want something permanent with you?”

Was it?

I wasn’t sure how to feel. Part of me longed for stability, someone who cared enough to fight for me, but I hadn’t entered this agreement with Santino expecting a real relationship. There was also the fact that men lied. All the time. Santino had done it several times.

I crossed my arms. “I’m supposed to believe you suddenly care about me? Where were your warm, tender feelings when I begged you for help?”

“I didn’t feel for you then the way I do now.”

“You act like your intentions are pure when they’ve been anything but.”

“I never said they were. I said that they changed.”

My cheeks burned. “How?”

He shrugged, taking another step closer. “People change their minds. It’s nothing to be scared about.”

“How did they change? We don’t do anything together. We barely talk. All we do is have sex.”

“I’ll take you out more. I promise.”

I sighed. “Why do you think we’d be good together?”

“I don’t know,” he murmured. “I haven’t put a lot of thought into why. It feels right. That’s enough for me.”

“It feels right?”

“Yeah. That’s what I said.”

“How do you know that?”

He seemed annoyed with the questions. “I bought a ring two weeks ago.”

My heart pounded. “You’re kidding.”

He reached into his jacket pocket. Slowly, he produced a small, black box and opened it with his thumb. A ring with the biggest diamond I’d ever seen winked inside. I barely glimpsed it before he snapped the lid shut, stuffing it back inside his jacket.

He bought a ring. For me.

I kept glancing at where the ring had disappeared, certain I’d imagined it.

“Delilah, I’m not the type to kneel. I’m also not one for big speeches, but I want you. That’s all I’ve known for the past two months. I always want you.”

His words stirred something deep within me, a flicker of hope I smothered. Just because he bought a ring didn’t mean he was in love with me.

He shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching. “It’s not just about what I want, though. You need stability. I can provide that.”

His words engulfed me in frigid water. I frowned, the idyllic setting of the vineyard suddenly less enchanting. “You make it sound like a transaction.”

“It can be both. You get the support you need, and I—well, I get to keep you.”

It wasn’t the declaration of love I’d dreamed about as a girl when I still clung to fantasies. It sounded like a strategy.

“And if I say no?”

He studied me, his gaze unwavering. “I’ll convince you.”

His confidence shook me. He predicted us getting married as though he’d already seen me walking down the aisle to him. That would’ve been sweet if it weren’t for his delivery. I’ll convince you . My heart sank. It wasn’t the plea of a lover but the strategy of a tactician.

“You’re assuming a lot,” I murmured.

“No, I’m betting on us.”

My cheeks flushed. “You make it sound so clinical.”

“Isn’t a strategy to keep you by my side better than me going down on one knee?”

No , I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell him that his practicality stripped the beauty from the gesture. But instead, a deep, weary sadness echoed inside me. He was offering permanence, yes, but it was tethered to necessity. Not love.

Santino offered me his arm. “Come with me.”

I took it, the sadness thick in my throat. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” he said.

We walked in silence, our feet crunching gravel. We reached a small clearing where a dilapidated gazebo stood, its paint peeling and vines creeping up its sides. It looked out of place amidst the well-maintained vineyard.

“This place belonged to my grandparents,” Santino said, his tone unusually somber. “After they died, nobody was around to take care of the property. It fell into disrepair like so many of the farms scattered all over Italy. Until I started renovations, slowly making it like it used to be.”

“Do you want to live here someday?”

“I like the idea of growing old here with a family. Away from all the bullshit in Boston. But I’m probably not cut out for life out here.”

I studied him, trying to reconcile the ruthless man I knew with this version of him who dreamed of a simpler life. It was hard to imagine Santino living a quiet life in a vineyard.

“Why tell me all this?”

“Because I want you to see that there’s more to me than illegal fighting rings and collecting debts. A part of me craves something normal.”

“Is that even possible for you? You’ll have a target on your back for the rest of your life. So will your children.”

His expression darkened, and I knew he was remembering the fire that took his cousin’s life. Every time it crossed my mind, horror pitted my stomach. He took my hand, and we strolled out of the farm onto a gravel road.

We headed down the winding stone road into a small outdoor market. Hunched over old women dressed in all black filed into a small church. The doors opened, and I glimpsed a priest in white robes waving incense over the pews. A funeral. My skin prickled as Santino brought me to a cafe.

We settled at a small table outside, the smell of freshly baked bread and brewing coffee wafting through the air. Santino ordered for us in rapid Italian, and the waitress blushed. Irritation heated my chest as she fluttered away.

“Is this your way of showing me you’ll be a good father?”

“I think you know that already, principessa. I took care of you, didn’t I? Everybody who hurts you has to deal with me. Dimitri. Ivan. Anybody who looks at you the wrong way.”

How did he know about Ivan?

I froze.

“I helped you get clean for the first time in years. I held your hair when you vomited, washed you when you could barely stand, cooked you food.”

Everything he said made me feel worse.

“I don’t know why you want anything to do with me. Your dad was an alcoholic. Aren’t you afraid I’ll be just as much of a mess?”

Santino’s expression softened. “My father gave in to his demons. But you’re fighting them. That makes you strong.”

I pulled away. “That doesn’t change what I am.”

“We all have our issues. The question is whether we let them control us.”

I stared into my coffee, the swirling darkness reflecting my tumultuous thoughts. I allowed myself to imagine it—a real fresh start with Santino.

As we walked back to the villa, the sun was setting, casting long shadows over the vineyards. It was a beautiful, almost haunting sight—a reminder of the fleeting nature of peace.

When we reached the house, men in suits were gathered around a black car, their expressions tense. Santino’s demeanor shifted, the mask of the mafioso slipping back into place.

“Stay here.”