CHAPTER FIVE
EDEN
Dad wipes his mouth with a napkin before tossing it on the dining table and clearing his throat. A silent conversation passes between him and Mom, their eyes speaking a language only couples married for decades know.
“Is something wrong?” I venture, curious about the sudden weight in the air.
Our Sunday dinner was the usual fare of good food and catching up on family news while avoiding the two topics that always cause a strain between us—Dad’s off-limits work and my decision to become more independent.
“Far from it,” Dad begins as Mom squeezes his hand with a smile. “Don D’Amora called yesterday.”
“Are you getting promoted?” Despite my father’s age, he’s not even a capo in the D’Amora organization, and while I’d hate for him to climb ranks to a more dangerous position, I know receiving praise and recognition from the don is important to him.
“He wanted to discuss you, Eden.”
The roast and potatoes I scarfed down meld into a lead pit in my stomach. There’s only one reason why an Italian don would talk to a man about his daughter. A trembling hand falls to my belly to curb the nausea threatening to rise.
“Fabian met with his father to relay his interest in you,” Dad continues.
“As you may know, Fabian is a bit of a womanizer. The don’s had his hands full trying to keep the boy on the right path.
He’s hopeful with this sudden urge to settle down, Fabian might be making a change.
Obviously, you’re not who Don D’Amora would have originally chosen to marry his son, since our family doesn’t come with powerful connections, but the don is willing to overlook that flaw as long as his son is happy. ”
Did I say The Family would forget me?
Never think of me again now that I don’t live at home?
Because I was dead wrong.
Somehow, I landed on Fabian D’Amora’s radar. Me . A woman with no political advantages. A woman he’s never spoken to. I’m not even sure how he knew my name to bring it up in a marriage discussion with his father.
“When your father told me, I almost fainted from joy!” No surprise Mom approves of this union.
Me, less so.
I might actually throw up on her favorite Aubusson rug.
“Something isn’t right. Why would Fabian want me? We bring nothing to the D’Amoras.” I sip at my glass of water, praying hydrating might help cool the sauna the room has turned into. Unfortunately, the liquid sloshes around my belly, making me feel worse.
“We’re a loyal Italian family who’s never broken the don’s trust. For decades, the Marino name has stood for loyalty and devotion—difficult qualities to find in our volatile world,” she says, glancing at Dad over their empty plates.
“Stop questioning our good fortune and accept your elevated station. You’ll be married to the next don! ”
From the edges of The Family to the very center.
How the hell did this happen?