Sold to the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance Novel (2 page)

I
’m sitting
in my room, staring out the window at the little red and brown birds hopping along the branches of our magnolia tree. They’re chirping so sweetly and happily, and I wonder what kind of conversation they must be having.
What do little red birds talk about?
I ponder, resting my chin on my arms. If only I could understand them. I can’t help fantasizing about what it must be like to fly.

It’s six in the morning and the sun is just starting to peek its bulbous golden face from behind the skyline of my suburban neighborhood, the homes all nearly identical, like a neighborhood of doll houses. Last night, there was a storm, so my father crowded us all into the den to watch the lightning and talk about the power of God. He does this every time a particularly nasty storm rolls through. He just wants us all to appreciate how small and insignificant we are, teach us to fear our inevitable smiting by the almighty if we succumb to sin. Daddy tells me that every time lightning strikes the ground, it is retribution for a sin committed in that spot. From this, I can gather that there is a whole lot of sinning going on.

We live in upstate New York, in a tiny little town full of beautiful parks and trees. There are lovely forests and lakes, but I don’t get out to see them very often. My parents know how dangerous it is out there, so they try their best to protect me from it and keep me locked up inside.

Sometimes this makes me sad. But I know it is a sin to defy one’s parents or to think negative thoughts about them. So I just remind myself that they are only trying to keep me safe from temptation, to keep me clean of sin.

Today is my eighteenth birthday, and I am graduating from the homeschooling program I’ve spent my entire life studying. It is bittersweet, saying goodbye to the textbooks and lessons which have given me glimpses, albeit obscured, of the outside world. From my geography books, I learned about just how huge the Earth is. And from my parents, I have learned just how evil most of that world really is. They have taught me that anything outside the little social group we’ve cultivated is tainted, too dangerous. Everyone in our group feels just as strongly about what Daddy says, and the one time someone dared disagree with the world view of the group, they weren’t invited back anymore.

Sometimes, the pictures in my textbooks make me feel some kind of strange wanderlust. But any sort of lust is utterly forbidden, even if it’s only a longing for another place, a piece of scenery I have never known. The world is filled with amazing colors I’ve never even touched, but I must remind myself that beauty like that can surely only be the devil’s work, trying to tempt me to step into a sinful world.

I glance at the clock. Any second now my mother will come and knock on my door, letting me know that it’s time to get up. Oversleeping is a symptom of laziness, an indicator of a slothful, ungrateful attitude.

And sloth is a deadly sin.

But they’ve frightened me enough that I always wake up before my mother even comes to get me. I want more than anything to be the best daughter I can be. I need to be perfect. And lately, my parents have been telling me that soon I’ll need to be more than just a perfect daughter.

I need to be the perfect wife.

There’s a curt knock at my bedroom door and I hear my mother’s voice call out, “Time to get up, Cassie. Get dressed and come down to make breakfast.”

“Yes, Mother!” I reply cheerily.

I jump up from my little spot by the window, my knee-length, white eyelet night dress swirling as I rise to my feet. I flounce over to the gray wooden vanity in the corner of my room, sitting down on the rickety stool. My face blinks back at me in the round mirror, and I can’t stifle a yawn. I do like rising early, but lately I haven’t been sleeping very well. This is subtly reflected in the light shadows beneath my eyes. I know my father will comment on this. The slightest flaw in my appearance is an affront to God, who made me. I need to be wholesome and beautiful, and this means I must be perfect at all times.

Especially if I am to be someone’s wife!

I lean closer and scrutinize my smooth, pale skin, looking for any imperfections. But luckily, I have been blessed with exceptionally clear skin. My mother says it’s because I am so faithful to my God, but I personally, secretly believe it has more to do with genetics — something I read in a science book before my father confiscated it. Of course, I would never admit that, though.

My cheeks are tinged rosy pink, and my full lips part in a perfectly symmetrical, straight smile, dimples appearing on both cheeks. I have long lashes framing my large, pale blue eyes, but I have never worn mascara on them. In fact, I’ve never worn any kind of makeup. It is forbidden in my household. Sometimes, at the supermarket, I have sneaked away from my mother to look at the makeup aisles, in complete awe of the multitudes of colors and textures. I know nothing about how makeup is supposed to be worn, but the colorful shades of lipstick have always intrigued me.

I wonder if I will be allowed to wear colors like that on my wedding day. I assume not, as the husband my parents choose for me will probably be a likeminded individual, carefully selected from our tight-knit, closed-off social group. My parents have a lot of friends, all from the congregation at church. Most of them are also parents who homeschool their children. At church I have stolen glances at these other young people, some of them around my age. I wonder if they are just as restricted as me. I think they must be. Children are meant to be seen and not heard, though, so I don’t have many opportunities to speak with them.

During the last church service we attended, I surveyed the crowded pews, looking for male faces. I wanted to see what the pool of potential husbands looked like. I was dismayed to see how dull and plain they all were. I know that men don’t need to be handsome to serve God. But women must be beautiful, because the best way that a woman can serve God is by serving her husband. Therefore, a woman must be both beautiful and pure.

At least, that’s what my father and mother have told me.

Perched in front of the mirror, I comb my waist-length, silvery blonde hair over my shoulder, working the tangles out of my soft curls. Then I plait it down my back in a simple, no-nonsense braid that keeps my hair out of my face. I get up and stand in front of my armoire, trying to decide what I should wear today.

Finally, I settle on an ankle-length light pink skirt, beige button-up blouse, and a chocolate brown cardigan. The pink skirt is the brightest article of clothing I own, and I hope that my eighteenth birthday is a fitting occasion to wear it. My parents usually only buy me muted neutral tones, like gray and brown. A woman is not meant to be flashy for anyone but her husband and her God. I think about the little red and brown birds outside on the branches. The lady bird is brown and the male is bright red. My father says this is proof that women are meant to be modest and men are to be powerful.

After I smooth down my skirt and make sure that most of my flesh is covered up, I go down the hall to tap on my little brother’s door and wake him up. Isaiah is seven years old and the sweetest child in the world, I’m convinced. He is rowdy sometimes, of course, but Father says that is acceptable for little boys. Girls are supposed to be soft and quiet, but boys can be loud and messy. It’s just the way things are.

“It’s time to get up, Isaiah,” I say through the door.

I hear him groan and roll out of bed, and I smile to myself as I walk down the stairs and into the kitchen. My mother is already there, wearing a long brown dress and white apron. Her blonde hair is tied back into a perfectly round bun, as usual. She radiates a kind of demure, sophisticated beauty that I aspire to. She takes me on a lot of outings to have tea or coffee with other mother-daughter pairs from church. I think she wants to let me see a little bit of the world, even if it is only a sliver.

“Good morning, Mother,” I greet her, taking my place beside her at the kitchen island. She is rolling out dough for homemade biscuits, and there’s a frying pan of bacon and eggs on the stove across from us.

“Happy birthday,” she replies. “Could you take over these biscuits so I can tend the stove?”

“Of course!” I say, taking an apron from a peg on the wall and tying it around my neck and waist. It certainly wouldn’t do to have my clean outfit covered in flour.

“And hurry, please. Your father is in quite a rush this morning. He has a meeting with some, uh, business partners in a couple hours.”

“Yes, Mother.” I quickly and efficiently form the biscuits, arranging them on a baking sheet and pop them into the oven. Then I gather a stack of cloth napkins and four sets of silverware to set the table. My brother and father both take a lot longer to come down in the morning, but that’s okay. My mother and I are made to serve, and we do it happily.

She was married to my father when she was eighteen and he was thirty, and despite the fact that they did not know each other until the day of their wedding, they have made a lovely life together. My mother is very subservient and very good at maintaining a beautiful house. Our two-story craftsman home is furnished with refurbished antique furniture and hand-sewn linens, and my mother keeps it perfectly spotless at all times. “A woman’s home is reflective of her soul,” she always tells me, “So keep it clean.”

Once all the food is cooked, we place portions on each plate and fill the glasses with freshly-squeezed orange juice, just in time for my father and Isaiah to come down the stairs, rough-housing playfully. Standing primly by his chair to pull it out for him, I greet my father.

“Good morning, Daddy,” I say, smiling widely.

He is a tall, broad-shouldered man with a thick mustache and beard, once brown and now gray peppered with white. He’s dressed in a dark business suit and tie, everything perfectly polished and ironed smooth, from his slacks to his cuff links. He is an investment banker, and from what I have gathered, a very powerful man in our community. All the time, women at church tell my mother how lucky she is to have landed such a prestigious man. But all of her thanks go to God, of course.

“Good morning, and happy birthday,” he says, his voice deep and resonant.

Isaiah’s face lights up. “It’s your birthday?” he asks excitedly.

I nod. “Yes! I’m eighteen today.”

He gasps and bolts toward me, flinging his arms around my waist and hugging me tightly. I laugh and ruffle his fluffy brown hair. He is a handful, to be sure, but he is never dull. In fact, some days I shudder to think how boring and quiet my life would be without him running around. I’m going to miss him terribly when I get married. But I’m sure I will still see him all the time, especially since my husband is almost certainly going to be a part of our established community here.

“Eighteen? That’s so old!” Isaiah bursts out, peering up at me with a wrinkled nose.

I kiss the top of his head. “I know. I’m ancient now.”

“Does this mean Cassie’s gonna go away?” he asks, turning to my father with a suddenly worried expression. He clings to my hand, pressing his chubby little cheek into my palm.

My heart tightens in my chest at how panicked he sounds. My parents are wonderful, of course, but it hurts me to think of my little brother being all alone in the house without me there to entertain and take care of him. My mother is home all the time, and she looks after him, but she doesn’t play with him like I do. Apart from a couple neighborhood boys, I am Isaiah’s best friend in the world. I hope he won’t be too lonely without me.

My parents exchange concerned glances. Then my mother takes Isaiah by the hand and takes him to his seat quietly.

“Perhaps we will discuss this over breakfast,” Daddy says, scratching at his beard. Suddenly, I feel a little fearful. They’re acting a little peculiar.

“I won’t be going too far, I’m sure,” I tell Isaiah with a wink as I take my seat across from him at the table. My parents sit down and we all eat in silence for a couple minutes, waiting for my father to speak.

Finally, he sets his fork and knife down and announces, “We have selected a husband for you, Cassandra.”

I nearly choke on my biscuit.

“Already?” I ask, my eyes going wide. I hadn’t expected an announcement quite this big this morning. I thought they would take a lot longer to pick a candidate, and I had hoped — a very small, quiet hope — that they would include me in the decision to some extent. I know it isn’t my place to choose; my parents know what is best for me, anyway. But I don’t know if I am ready to be anyone’s wife. Not quite yet.

“No!” shouts Isaiah.

“Hush, sweetheart,” my mother tells him softly, shaking her head at him.

But my brother slams down his fork and crosses his arms. “I don’t want Cassie to go!”

“It is nothing to fear,” my father tells Isaiah firmly. “And it is none of your business. It is an arrangement between your sister and… God.”

“Could you tell me his name?” I ask, my hands starting to tremble. I look back and forth between my parents as they give each other knowing looks.

“Um, no. We… we can’t,” my mother says.

“Don’t worry about it,” says my father.

Now my stomach is turning in knots. Why are they acting so strangely? Why is my future husband’s name such a big secret? I have probably already heard his name in passing — our community is very exclusive, and everyone knows everybody else.

“Haven’t I met him before?” I press, daring to test my father’s patience in my panic.

“N-no, you have not,” Mother answers hesitantly. My father shoots her a warning glare and her mouth closes tight.

Daddy clears his throat and folds his hands on the table in front of him, pushing his plate forward as he fixes me with a dark gaze. “It is not your place to question our judgement in this matter, Cassandra. Put your faith in God, where it belongs, and do not fret about your fate. Rest assured that this decision will be made based on what is best for our family.”

I stare quietly down at my plate, my appetite totally dissipated by now. I feel as though I’m on the verge of tears, but crying is not allowed in front of other people, and especially not in my father’s presence. I resign myself to crying later, alone in my room. But before I drop the subject entirely, I ask one more question: “So, he is of our faith, then?”