The Capo’s Yuletide Bride (Boston Elite Syndicate #3)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

vittoria

"Remember what I said," my father hisses as he helps me out of the car. His hand tightens around mine; not enough to hurt—he's not stupid enough to leave marks before an important meeting—but enough to send a warning. "Do not mess this up, Vittoria."

I swallow hard, forcing a smile that feels like broken glass on my face. "Of course," I snap back, my tone sharper than I intended.

Fuck.

His eyes narrow, and for a moment I think he's going to backhand me right here on the gravel driveway. Instead, he says nothing as we approach the grand entrance of the Mariano Estate. Each ascent up the expensive stone front steps brings us closer to my personal hell.

I smooth down my emerald green dress, feeling the weight of everyone's expectations crushing my shoulders.

This isn't just some dinner party. It's a fucking show, and I'm the star attraction; the sacrificial lamb being served up to secure a powerful alliance between two crime families that spans across both sides of the Atlantic Ocean.

I'm the pawn being moved across the board, and everyone knows it.

Part of me is glad I'm moving halfway across the world.

My father isn't exactly father of the year.

The man gets rough when things don't go his way, and I've been his favorite punching bag since I could walk.

My brothers are older, broader, taller than him.

They can fight back now. Me? I'm still small enough for him to throw around when he needs to blow off steam.

I'm going to miss Alastríona the most. She's been my best friend since we were little girls. God, being in a different time zone is going to kill me. Not speaking to her every day? That's going to be even worse.

As we reach the ornate double doors, I take a deep breath and steel myself for what's coming. The butler greets us with a polite nod and ushers us into a foyer that screams money. It looks like something out of a fucking museum; cold, lifeless, and meant to intimidate.

"Domenico!" The voice is cold and detached as he calls out to my father. I turn toward the sound and come face to face with my soon-to-be husband, Cesare Mariano, head of the Mariano family. "Vittoria," he greets with a slight nod.

"Mr. Mariano," I reply, keeping my voice steady despite the nerves eating at my stomach. I've been taught to respect my elders, to obey what a man says. I know our world. I know exactly how women are supposed to behave in it.

His eyes appraise me like I'm a prize mare at auction. He runs his gaze down my body, and it takes everything in me not to recoil. The fucking pig. He turns to my father, and they begin talking quietly. I tune them out.

Cesare is forty-two. He lost his wife last year to some crazed asshole who was taking out powerful families around the world.

Beatrice Mariano had been married to Cesare for twenty-one years.

They had six children together. The eldest, Lorenzo, is twenty.

Then the twins, Ciro and Elisabetta, are almost nineteen.

Giovanni is eighteen. The two youngest are Sofia and Valentina, who are seventeen and sixteen.

I'm set to marry this man. After the chaos that went down last year, Cesare and the rest of the Boston Elite Syndicate needed to strengthen their ties with the criminal underworld. One of their own went on a killing spree, and now they need to rebuild trust and power.

Lucky me, I drew the short fucking straw.

Cesare's hand finds the small of my back and he guides me deeper into the mansion. I resist the urge to shrug it off, knowing my father's watching every move I make.

"Come, let me introduce you to the children," Cesare says, his voice still cold as winter.

We enter a lavish sitting room where five of his kids are seated. Their conversations die the moment we walk in, all eyes turning to me. I recognize them from the files I've studied: Lorenzo, the twins Ciro and Elisabetta, Giovanni, and Sofia. Valentina, the youngest, is missing.

"Children," Cesare announces, "this is Vittoria, my future wife."

The words hang in the air like a death sentence. I force my smile wider, ignoring the looks of disgust and curiosity aimed my way. Lorenzo, the eldest, steps forward first. He's handsome. He’s got his father's strong jaw and dark eyes. Those eyes now look at me with pure contempt.

"Welcome to our home," he says, his tone clipped and sharp. "I hope you'll find it... comfortable."

I nod, knowing full well he means the opposite. This isn't just their home, it's about to become my gilded cage.

The twins approach next. Mirror images with blonde hair and icy blue eyes. Ciro's handshake is firm, almost challenging, like he's testing how much pressure I can take. Elisabetta's is limp and dismissive, like I'm not worth the effort.

Giovanni hangs back, his gaze analytical, like he's trying to solve a puzzle. Sofia, the youngest here, doesn't even try to hide her disgust. Good for her. At least she's honest.

As Cesare leads me around the room, making stilted introductions, I can't stop wondering where Valentina is. Is she hiding, revolted by the idea of meeting her father's child bride? Has she found a way to escape this suffocating dinner?

I fucking envy her, wherever she is.

As Cesare's hand tightens possessively on my waist, I realize my own chance at escape died long ago. I'm in the lion's den now, and there's no going back.

The tension in the room is thick enough to cut with a knife as we move toward the dining area. I feel his children's eyes boring into my back. Their snide remarks about me being a whore and a gold digger are said in Italian. They think I don't speak the language.

Fuck them. I do.

My father made sure we knew the languages of our heritage.

I'm fluent in Italian and Irish, not to mention German, Spanish, and Mandarin.

My mam wanted me to hold my own, to have an advantage.

She hoped for a different life for me, but it was never in the cards.

My father always planned on using me as a pawn in his world.

Cesare's hand remains firmly on my waist—a constant reminder of my new reality.

The dining room is massive. A crystal chandelier hangs above a table that could seat twenty. The china gleams, and the silverware sparkles under warm light. It's beautiful but cold, much like everything else in this house.

"Please, sit." Cesare gestures to the chair at his right. I obey, carefully arranging my dress as I take my seat. My father sits across from me, his eyes still sharp and watchful.

Just as the first course is about to be served, the dining room door swings open. A girl, no older than sixteen, bursts in. Her dark hair is windswept and her cheeks are flushed. This must be Valentina.

"Sorry I'm late," she says, not sounding sorry at all. Her eyes land on me, and for a moment I see a flicker of something—sympathy maybe—before it's replaced by careful neutrality.

Cesare's jaw tightens. "Valentina, how nice of you to join us. This is Vittoria, your future stepmother."

The word 'stepmother' is practically sneered. I watch everyone tense. It's a damn joke. I'm barely older than Valentina herself. I just turned nineteen, for fuck's sake.

"Hi," Valentina says, sliding into the empty seat next to me. "Welcome to the family."

There's an edge to her voice I can't place. Before I can figure it out, the first course arrives.

Conversation during dinner is stilted and formal.

Cesare and my father discuss business, their voices low and serious.

The children continue speaking in Italian, talking about my looks, my hair, my body.

It takes everything in me not to bark back a response.

I'm supposed to play nice. My father warned me countless times on the plane: I'm not to open my smart mouth.

"So, Vittoria," Lorenzo suddenly speaks up, his voice cutting through the tension. "Tell us about yourself. What are your... interests?"

The way he says 'interests' makes it clear he doesn't expect me to have any worth mentioning.

I take a sip of water, buying myself time.

I hate how I'm being treated. I understand their mother died only a year ago, but I'm not at fault for what's happening.

If I had my way, I wouldn't be here. But I don't get a choice, just like they don't.

"I enjoy reading," I begin, my voice steadier than I feel. "Particularly classical literature. I'm also fond of art and have been studying Italian Renaissance painters."

"Really?" Valentina asks, leaning in. "Who's your favorite?"

"Botticelli," I reply without hesitation. "His work is intricate and full of hidden meanings."

For a moment, Valentina's carefully crafted indifference slips, and I see genuine interest in her eyes. But before she can respond, Cesare clears his throat, effectively ending our budding conversation.

"Vittoria's education has been... adequate," he says dismissively. "But her primary role will be as my wife and the mother of my children."

The words hit me like a slap. My cheeks burn with humiliation, but I force myself to keep a neutral expression. Across the table, my father nods approvingly at Cesare's words.

Bastards. Both of them.

Valentina's fork clatters against her plate, the sound jarring in the sudden silence. "Excuse me," she mutters, pushing back from the table and rushing out.

Cesare sighs heavily. "You'll have to forgive Valentina," he says to me, his tone condescending. "She's still adjusting to the idea of a new... maternal figure."

Maternal figure my ass. I nod mechanically, my appetite completely gone.

"Now," my father says, his voice dry, his eyes boring into mine, "we should discuss the wedding arrangements."

My stomach churns. I've known this was coming, but hearing it discussed so casually, like it's a business transaction rather than the rest of my life, makes it real in a way that terrifies me.

"The ceremony will take place in three weeks," Cesare says, his tone leaving no room for argument. "That should give us enough time for all necessary preparations."

Three weeks until I'm bound to this man for life. I focus on the intricate pattern of the china plate, struggling not to lose my composure.

"Excellent. A Christmas wedding," my father agrees. "And the venue?"

"Here, of course," Cesare replies. "The gardens will be covered in snow by then. Picturesque setting."

"What about Vittoria's dress?" Elisabetta suddenly interjects, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "I'm sure she'd look stunning in Mother's gown. Don't you think, Father?"

The table falls silent. The tension is so thick I can barely breathe. I hold my breath, waiting for Cesare's response. His eyes narrow dangerously, and for a moment I think he might lash out at his daughter.

Instead, he turns to me, his gaze calculating. "What do you think, Vittoria? Would you like to wear Beatrice's wedding gown?"

It's a test. A cruel, impossible fucking test. If I say yes, I'm trying to replace their mother. If I say no, I'm disrespecting her memory. There's no right answer, and they all know it.

Cunning little bitch, Elisabetta.

I take a deep breath, choosing my words carefully. "While I'm sure Beatrice's gown was beautiful, I think it would be more appropriate for me to have my own dress. Perhaps something that honors both our families' traditions."

Cesare's eyebrows rise slightly—the first hint of genuine surprise I've seen from him. My father's eyes narrow, but he says nothing. The children exchange glances, their expressions a mix of shock and what might be grudging respect.

"Diplomatic answer," Cesare finally says, his tone unreadable. "We'll discuss it further with the wedding planner."

The rest of dinner passes in a blur of forced small talk and fake smiles. By the time dessert is served, I'm exhausted. My cheeks ache from maintaining this polite mask.

As we prepare to leave, Cesare pulls me aside. His grip on my arm is firm, bordering on painful. "You did well tonight," he says quietly. "But remember, Vittoria, in this family, we value obedience above all else. I expect you to fall in line."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. One wrong word and he'll make sure my father knows about it.

As we walk toward the car, my father's hand on my back like a warning, I catch sight of Valentina watching from an upstairs window. Our eyes meet for a brief moment, and I see pain flash in them before she disappears.

In the car, my father is unusually quiet. It's not until we're halfway to the house he's rented while we're in America that he speaks.

"You're playing a dangerous game, Vittoria," he says, his voice ice cold. "Don't think I didn't notice your little act of defiance over the wedding dress."

I stare out the window, watching city lights blur past. "I was just trying to—”

"I don't give a shit what you were trying to do," he cuts me off. "Your job is to please Cesare. Nothing more. Do you understand?"

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. "Yes, Father."

But inside, rage burns hot and bright. I'm sick of being treated like property, sick of being moved around like a chess piece for these men's games.

As we pull up to our temporary house, dread settles in my stomach like a stone.

In three weeks, I'll be free of my father, and I can't fucking wait.

But thinking back to the calculating looks I received from Cesare's children, and the possessive grip of my soon-to-be husband, I realize my battle is just beginning.

The lion's den is waiting for me, and I have no choice but to walk straight into it.