Relucatanaly Ruined & Owned By The Mafia Novel

The Mask He Never Removed by Ariana Drew 17 Summary In Chapter 17 of "The Mask He Never Removed," Dante reflects on his decision to allow his wife, Lucia, to explore their penthouse, a choice he now regrets. After suffering a wound from a confrontation involving the Kavanaghs, he waits for help in his study, feeling the weight of his injuries and the tension of his new marriage.

When his caretaker, Moira, and her daughter Freya arrive, they express concern for his wellbeing and challenge him about his relationship with Lucia, revealing the complexities and moral dilemmas surrounding their marriage. As Moira stitches up Dante's wound, she confronts him about the ramifications of marrying Lucia without her consent, emphasizing that a marriage built on force cannot thrive. Despite her insistence on treating Lucia with kindness, Dante remains defensive, viewing their union as a mere business arrangement rather than a partnership.

This tension reflects his internal struggle with the implications of his actions, as he grapples with the possibility that he may be the real villain in this narrative. Meanwhile, Lucia is depicted as a young woman caught between fear and defiance, trying to navigate her new reality. When Dante finds her with her grandmother, their interaction is charged with animosity and misunderstanding. Lucia's refusal to return to him, coupled with her sharp words about being treated like a prisoner, highlights her emotional turmoil and resentment towards her situation.

Dante's attempts to assert his authority only deepen the rift between them, as he fails to recognize her humanity and the pain his decisions have caused her. The chapter culminates in a confrontation where both characters reveal their vulnerabilities. Lucia accuses Dante of stripping her of her freedom and choice, while Dante clings to the belief that their marriage is a necessary evil. Their exchange is marked by a painful realization of the power dynamics at play, and the emotional distance between them becomes palpable.

In the end, Lucia walks away, leaving Dante to confront the reality of his choices and the growing chasm in their relationship, setting the stage for further conflict and potential growth. Continue Regular Chapter Reading Below **CHAPTER 17** **DANTE** *X*X« Granting my wife the liberty to roam around the penthouse could very well rank as the most regrettable choice I had made in the brief span of our three-day marriage. The moment I had uttered the words that allowed her to explore, she had dashed from that playroom like a frightened rabbit escaping a hungry wolf.

Paddy had barely managed to inform me that she had made a beeline for the east wing before I dismissed him, too drained from blood loss to pursue her myself. In hindsight, perhaps I should have arranged for Nonna Rosa to have separate quarters-somewhere far removed from this place. Yet, that would mean Lucia would spend all her time there, and despite everything that had transpired, I desired my wife close by. I wanted her under my roof, where I could keep an eye on her, where I could manage the unpredictable variables of our new life together.

Now, I sat alone in my study, my shirt hanging open, the pain in my shoulder pulsating like a relentless drumbeat as I awaited Paddy's return with assistance. Twenty minutes passed, and then the heavy oak doors creaked open, a wave of relief washing over me as two familiar figures entered the room. "Dante Lorcan Cummiskey," came the sharp voice that had been chastising me for twenty-seven long years. "What in the name of all the saints have you done to yourself now?" Moira stood in the doorway like an avenging angel, a medical bag in one hand and her other firmly planted on her hip.

At fifty-three, she still possessed a striking beauty-her auburn hair streaked with silver, and her green eyes capable of cutting glass when she was angry. Which, as far as I was concerned, was most of the time. Behind her, Freya bounced on her toes, a whirlwind of energy at nineteen that made me feel ancient in comparison. "Jesus, Dante, you look like you wrestled a bear and lost." "Language, Freya Mairead," Moira snapped, but her attention was already riveted on my wound.

"Sit down before you fall down, you stubborn fool." I had learned long ago that arguing with Moira was a futile endeavor. She had raised me and my brother after our mother began her slow descent into madness, and she had been stitching us up-both physically and emotionally-ever since. "It's just a graze," I protested weakly as she pushed me down into the leather chair. "Just a graze, he says." Moira clucked her tongue, examining the wound with the practiced efficiency of someone who had seen it all.

"You've lost enough blood to fill a pint glass, and God knows what kind of filth was on whatever did this to you." Freya perched on the arm of the chair, her worried eyes studying me intently. She had inherited her mother's coloring but was blessed with her father's stubborn chin-a father I had buried when she was just twelve, after he had dared to attempt selling her to settle his gambling debts. "The Kavanaghs?" she asked quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. I nodded. "Business disagreement." "Business disagreement," Moira repeated flatly, threading a needle with a deft hand.

"Is that what we're calling gunfights at the docks now?" Without warning, she jabbed the needle into my skin, and I hissed at the sudden pain. "Hold still." "You heard about that?" I asked, the realization of how far-reaching the news had spread hitting me. "Half of Dublin heard about that. Explosions and gunfire tend to make the news, you thick-headed boy." She worked with steady hands, stitching the wound closed with a precision that was both comforting and alarming. "What I want to know is why you risked everything over a container of foreign girls." Freya's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"You saved trafficked girls?" "Don't make me sound noble," I growled, my frustration bubbling to the surface. "I don't deal in human cargo. It's bad for business." "Bollocks." Moira tied off the last stitch with a sharp tug. "You could've let the Kavanaghs take them and walked away with your alliance intact. Instead, you started a war over strangers." She was right, and it infuriated me. "Maybe I'm getting soft in my old age." "Maybe you're finally growing a conscience at thirty," Freya said with a grin, but it quickly faded into concern.

"Speaking of soft, where's this mysterious wife of yours? Paddy said you got married." The question I had been dreading. "She's... visiting her grandmother." Moira's hands stilled, her expression shifting from concern to disapproval. "At this hour? With you wounded and alone?" "She's not my nursemaid," I replied defensively. "She's your wife." Moira's voice took on that tone that had terrified me as a child. "And a wife's place is beside her husband, especially when he's been shot." Freya studied my face with an intensity that made me uncomfortable.

"You like her?" "I barely know her." "That's not what I asked." She leaned forward, her eyes pleading. "Dante, please tell me you didn't force some poor girl into marriage just for business." The accusation made my eyes roll in exasperation. "Her father offered her as part of an alliance. I accepted." "Oh, you stupid, stupid boy." Moira sank into the chair across from me, her expression a mix of disappointment and concern. "And what did this girl say about being offered like a prize cow?" "She wasn't thrilled." Freya's expression darkened, her voice low.

"You mean she said no and you married her anyway." "It's complicated." "It's not complicated," Moira snapped, her frustration bubbling over. "It's wrong. How do you expect to build a marriage on force and fear?" "I don't expect to build anything," I said coldly. "This is business, and she's just like the furniture in this house-bought and fully paid for." Freya must have sensed something in my demeanor because her expression softened. "What's she like?" "Stubborn. Angry. Beautiful." I ran a hand through my hair, feeling the weight of my choices.

"And possibly plotting to kill me." Both women stared at me in disbelief. "Come again?" Moira asked, her voice barely above a whisper. I recounted the intercepted shipment, how her father and brothers had framed me to the Fabrizios, the timing that felt too convenient, the way Lucia had appeared in my life just as everything began to unravel. "Her family are still our enemies, no matter what papers we signed.

For all I know, she's feeding information to her brothers, waiting for the perfect moment to plunge a blade between my ribs." "So you married someone you think is trying to kill you," Freya said slowly, her eyes wide. "That's either very brave or very stupid." "Both, probably." Moira stood, packing her medical supplies with sharp, efficient movements. "Here's some free advice, since you're clearly too thick to figure it out yourself: if you want this girl to be a wife instead of an enemy, try treating her like a person instead of a prisoner.

Kill them with kindness." "I'm not-" "You are." Her green eyes flashed with intensity. "I raised you better than this, Dante. Your mother may be gone, but she taught you to respect women before she lost her life." The mention of my mother struck a nerve, and I felt the sting of her words. "This is different." "How?" "Because this woman could destroy everything you and Freya depend on for safety." Moira's expression softened slightly, her tone shifting. "And what if she's not your enemy?

What if she's just a frightened girl trying to survive in a world that's decided her fate without asking her opinion?" I didn't respond, unable to articulate the turmoil within me. The possibility that I could be wrong about Lucia-that I was the real monster in this twisted narrative-was too perilous to entertain. And it was illogical. She had targeted me that night, fully aware of who I was, knowing I would be her husband the very next day, and she had pretended ignorance... only to walk toward me down the aisle the following day.

I had warned her what would happen if she made me the central figure in her damsel-in-distress story. After Moira and Freya departed, promising to return in a few days to check on my stitches, I found myself staring at the clock. It was past midnight, and Lucia still had not returned. A good wife would be here, tending to my wounds, ensuring my comfort. Instead, mine was hiding in another wing, as if I were the plague itself. With a sense of determination, I made my way through the penthouse halls, each step sending fresh waves of fire through my shoulder.

The cast wing was quieter, adorned in warm colors that reminded me of the Italian countryside. Lucia's influence, no doubt. I discovered them in the small sitting room-Lucia curled on a loveseat like a cat, her grandmother seated beside her, both engaged in rapid-fire Italian. They looked up when I appeared in the doorway, and I noticed Lucia's expression shuttering closed. Nonna Rosa went pale. "Signore," she whispered, struggling to rise from her chair. "Don't," I commanded, but my eyes were fixed on Lucia.

She wore a silk robe over her nightgown, her feet tucked beneath her, her hair cascading in soft waves around her shoulders. She looked young, vulnerable, and undeniably beautiful. And yet, she hadn't returned to her wounded husband. "It's past midnight," I said in a conversational tone. Lucia lifted her chin defiantly. "You said I could move freely around the penthouse." "I did." I leaned against the doorframe, scrutinizing her. "What I'm curious about is what kind of married woman sleeps away from home while her new husband is wounded and alone." Nonna Rosa flinched as if I had struck her.

Lucia's cheeks flushed with indignation. "I didn't think you needed me." "Need?" I smiled, but the warmth was absent. "No, rabbit. I don't need anything from you. But appearances matter in our world. And right now, anyone watching would think my wife finds me so repulsive she can't bear to share the same wing of our home." "Maybe that's because I do find you repulsive," she shot back, but there was no fire in her words-only fatigue. Nonna Rosa looked between us, her expression a mix of concern and fear, as if she were watching a tense tennis match. "Nonna," I said, softening my tone.

"Perhaps you could give us a moment?" The old woman nodded quickly, pressing a gentle kiss to Lucia's forehead before hurrying from the room. Wise woman. She recognized a predator when she saw one. Lucia watched her go, and I saw the exact moment she realized we were alone. "Come home, Lucia," I urged, my voice firm yet gentle. "I am home. This is part of your penthouse, isn't it?" "You know what I mean." She stood, tightening the belt of her robe defiantly. "Why? So you can show me more of your torture chambers?

Explain more contracts I didn't ask for?" "So you can sleep in our bed like a proper wife." "I'm not your proper wife. I'm your prisoner with paperwork." Her words struck deep, mostly because they were true. But I had been raised by wolves, and wounded wolves were the most dangerous kind. "Funny," I said, pushing off from the doorframe. "You didn't kiss me like a prisoner earlier." Her face flushed crimson. "That was a mistake." "Was it?

It certainly felt like you were enjoying yourself right up until I stopped." "You're so insufferable." "And you're avoiding the question." I moved closer, and she instinctively backed up until her legs hit the arm of the loveseat, trapping her. Normally, I would have relished the position, but Moira's words echoed in my mind-treat her like a person instead of a prisoner. "I'm not going to hurt you, Lucia." "You already have." "How?" "You married me without my consent. You brought me to a foreign country where I know no one.

You show me rooms designed for torture and then act surprised when I don't want to share your bed." Her voice cracked slightly, revealing the vulnerability beneath her anger. "You've taken everything from me-my choice, my freedom, my future-and you want me to be grateful because you haven't hit me yet." "Your father gave you to me," I said coldly, unwilling to accept responsibility for this mess. "If you have complaints about the arrangement, take them up with him." Something flickered and died in her eyes. "Of course.

How foolish of me to expect basic decency from a man who buys women like livestock." She pushed past me toward the door, but I caught her wrist. "Lucia." "What?" she whispered, her voice barely audible. I should have apologized. Should have admitted she was right, that I was handling this all wrong, and perhaps we could discover a way to make this work for both of us. Instead, I said, "You're my wife now. Start acting like it. Come back to the room, or you'll have your hide skinned by Paddy." The hurt in her eyes crystallized into tears.

"Go to hell, Dante." She yanked her wrist free and walked out, leaving me standing there, the weight of my choices crashing down around me like a heavy shroud. Conclusion In the aftermath of their tumultuous confrontation, the air between Dante and Lucia crackled with unresolved tension and unspoken fears. As he stood in the dimly lit room, the sting of her words echoed in his mind, a haunting reminder of the power dynamics that had ensnared them both.

Dante grappled with the realization that he had built walls around his heart, fortified by years of survival in a world that demanded strength over vulnerability. Yet, in that moment, he understood that the very foundations of his life were beginning to crumble, shaken by the presence of a woman who refused to be merely a pawn in his game. The weight of his choices pressed down on him, forcing him to confront the truth he had long avoided: that love could not be forged through coercion or fear, but rather through understanding and respect.

As Lucia stepped away, her tears a testament to her pain and defiance, Dante felt the first stirrings of a deeper connection-one that transcended the transactional nature of their marriage. He recognized that to truly claim her as his wife, he needed to dismantle the mask he had worn for so long, revealing the man beneath the hardened exterior. The journey ahead would not be easy; it would require humility, patience, and a willingness to confront the ghosts of their pasts. But as he watched her retreat, he felt a flicker of hope ignite within him.

With both characters at a crossroads, readers can anticipate a confrontation that goes beyond mere words. Dante's struggle to reconcile his upbringing with his burgeoning feelings for Lucia will bring forth a raw and emotional dialogue, forcing him to confront the very foundations of his beliefs about power, love, and freedom. As he attempts to navigate the treacherous waters of their relationship, will he finally see Lucia as more than just a pawn in his game? Moreover, Lucia's defiance will take center stage as she seeks to reclaim her voice and agency in this tumultuous union.

Her determination to stand her ground against Dante will set the stage for a battle of wills, one that could either forge a fragile bond between them or deepen the chasm of resentment. With Nonna Rosa's wisdom echoing in the background, the stakes will rise as both characters are pushed to their limits. Expect revelations, unexpected alliances, and perhaps even a flicker of hope as they both grapple with their identities and the choices that have led them to this moment.

The question remains: can two wounded souls find a way to heal together, or are they destined to remain adversaries in a game they never wanted to play?