Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
FINA
It’s a miserable day.
A relentless, bone-chilling wind accompanies my father and me from the airport to downtown Chicago and cuts straight through me. Equally numbing is the dark, menacing skyscraper now a few feet away, my soon-to-be new home if my marriage to Carlo Accardo goes through.
I tuck my bright pink cashmere scarf tighter around my neck, shielding myself from the wind’s bite, the Sunshine State’s golden shores becoming more distant with every gust.
“Only speak when you’re spoken to,” my father warns. As if meeting my fiancé two weeks before my twenty-first birthday—our wedding day—is perfectly normal.
I nod, silent. Nothing I say will change his mind.
We reach the revolving glass door, and my stomach knots tight.
My father stops short, cursing beneath his breath, his attention on the street. “Goddamn it. Settemo Accardo is here.”
A yellow Ferrari polished to a fine shine sits at the curb.
It’s expensive and pretentious, especially with the careless way it’s parked, like the prancing horse on the trunk is daring other drivers to hit it.
Meeting Carlo’s nephew feels like another nail in my coffin, and my father’s anxious expression does nothing to ease my apprehension.
“What’s wrong?”
He faces me. “Just be careful around Settemo. He’s not right in the head.”
I blink, stunned. Is that concern in his voice? Real, genuine concern?
I’m five years old again, and he’s holding my hand at the Santa Monica Pier, laughing as we eat ice cream. He kneels beside me and whispers promises about a life beyond the horizon and away from the famiglie, his kiss tender on my forehead. For a fleeting moment, I feel loved. Treasured.
Memories can be cruel like that.
A few days afterward, my mother disappeared. When I cried for her, he warned me with a hard slap and equally brutal words. “Never speak of her again.”
Rumors circulate, though I never allow myself to go there. I can’t survive if I do. So I bury the painful questions and save them for a future day.
My father stalks toward the glass door. “Don’t forget to compliment Accardo. He eats that shit up.”
I choke back the bile in my throat.
We clear security and take a private elevator to the luxury penthouse in Chicago’s newest high-rise.
The Eleven—formerly known as the Twelve but minus one capo now—need Carlo’s money and influence to push their casino expansion into the Midwest. That’s the only reason the Accardos—unaffiliated and barely more than second-rate associates—were spared years ago, after Carlo’s brother ran his mouth to the wrong people and nearly got the whole family wiped out.
He died for revealing famiglie secrets, and the Accardos were left disgraced and shunned because of his actions.
Still, Carlo survived and built an empire while he waited to buy his way back into their good graces.
His money is why my father agreed to this marriage.
My father nudges my side. “For fuck’s sake, smile.”
I grin stupidly at the elevator camera that has him so concerned. Complacent, like I’ve accepted my fate.
The elevator chimes, and the door opens. My father grips my elbow and leads me inside. “Holy shit,” he exclaims at the gaudy spectacle before us.
Everything is gold. From the floor tiles to window trim, the three chandeliers to the wall sconces, the furniture to the backsplash in the kitchen to our right.
A life-sized statue of a naked woman with a snake curled around her bosom dominates the open living space.
The monstrosity is gold—I think, maybe, real gold.
I hold my hand over my eyes like I’m blinded.
Is this man for real?
My father eats it up. “This place must be worth a fortune.”
I can see him calculating numbers in his head, and the rage coiling inside me could give the golden snake some competition. “What makes you say that?” I sweetly manage to ask.
He looks at me like I’m stupid. Always underestimating me.
The promise of easy money is his drug. How to get it and how to gamble it away. Wash. Rinse. Repeat. What he hasn’t done is gamble with my life. No, he simply bartered it away like it cost him nothing.
A man appears. “Follow me,” he orders in a clipped tone and stalks away.
“Nice of Carlo to greet us.”
“Quiet,” my father snaps, expecting trumpets and getting a subtle Italian salute.
We trail behind the man, down a long corridor, and enter an enormous office that reeks of stale cologne and body odor.
I burrow my nose into my scarf. Carlo has weird beliefs, one being he believes bathing washes away a man’s mojo, which affects his ability to get an erection. Sure, his bad BO is gag-worthy. But the idea of having sex with him is worse.
I get my first glimpse of him as he sits behind a desk, and he’s everything I’ve dreaded and worse.
His face is doughy and sagging, with deep lines etched from years of hard living.
A patchy scruff of graying beard does little to hide the pockmarks across his skin, and his small, watery eyes sit beneath heavy lids that make him look tired and mean.
He’s in deep discussion with a tall man standing to the right. Settemo, must be.
Neither acknowledge us.
My father shifts on his feet.
“Did the commission do what you asked them to do?” Carlo demands.
“Yes. They’re revising their policy as we speak,” Settemo replies. “If too many investors withdraw contributions at once, the funds will be frozen for up to a year while every party is investigated.”
“Excellent. Letting that much money rot in a frozen trust would bleed anyone’s bottom line dry, no matter how deep their pockets. If we ever need to pull out, we’ll move first.”
Not known for his patience, my father clears his throat, earning the glare of both men.
“This is Matteo Lombardi,” Carlo announces to Settemo. “West Coast capo to the Eleven. The man responsible for convincing Don Lucchese to pardon our sins.” He practically spits out the last word, anger simmering.
A man with a grudge.
I tuck the little morsel of information away.
“Matteo, this is my nephew and heir, Settemo Accardo.”
My father hurries forward, hand extended.
Settemo doesn’t lift an arm, completely ignoring him, and instead zeroes in on me.
He rakes his eyes over my body, bold and calculating.
A chill drills down into my core. His gaze makes me feel like I’ve been stuffed inside a freezer in the back of a butcher shop, bodies hanging off hooks beside me.
I raise my chin slightly, defensively, aware how I look in my bubble gum pink dress, matching heels and lip gloss, and well-rehearsed smile. No way he sees past it. Arrogant men never do.
His lips twist, as his eyes darken with an emotion I can’t quite put my finger on.
He’s the boy who broke his toys.
I understand now why my father warned me.
“Sit,” Carlo tells my father, voice cool and flat. “I’ve a few additional requirements before we finalize our arrangement.”
My father sinks into the chair and begins reading the document Carlo has prepared. His spine straightens. “What’s this?”
“A payment arrangement for your overdue debt.”
Curious, I drift forward, close enough to peer over his shoulder. My breath catches.
Three million dollars.
That’s my price tag?
My father slowly pulls a folded paper from his wallet. “I only borrowed …” He squints at the faded numbers while I try to process the hurt unfolding in real time. Blood money, that’s what this is, with my blood, my body, my life, as collateral. My future bartered away for cash already spent.
“My note says just under one point three million,” he mumbles.
I feel like I’ve been gutted. Not just cut open, but carved deep enough to reach the soft, hollow places where that hopeful little girl used to live.
Carlo extends his hand. “Let me see that.”
My father hesitates, then hands him the paper.
Carlo lifts it slowly, eyes hard, and tears it to shreds. “What you owe is what’s written there,” he says, tapping the new document without looking up. He gets off on humiliating him, doesn’t he? Making a capo in the Eleven kiss his ass? Holding a deep grudge against the famiglie, are we?
My father’s face turns blotchy with outrage. “We had an agreement.”
“An understanding,” Carlo corrects, his tone ironclad. “Things change.”
I watch, wide-eyed, as my father lurches to his feet. “An understanding?” he snaps, almost spitting the words.
Stupid, stupid man.
Settemo moves closer. So does Carlo’s man.
“You can’t—”
“Oh my God. Those are the prettiest pink curtains I’ve ever seen,” I exclaim, gesturing to the window behind Carlo’s desk, saving my father’s neck. “Did you know my favorite color’s pink?”
Carlo’s expression twists, the look of horrified surprise priceless.
“The curtains are gold, you stupid bitch,” Settemo rumbles. “My uncle’s allergic to goddamn strawberries and hates all shades of red.”
Much like his questionable hygiene, Carlo’s obsession with gold and loathing for anything red or pink is well documented.
The moment rumors of our engagement began circulating, I began weaving pink into my wardrobe, hoping he’ll recognize we’re incompatible.
My father hates the color too, making each outfit a double-edged strike.
Every outfit is deliberate, a quiet rebellion I derive immense joy from.
The news of Carlo’s strawberry allergy is new, something even my online digging hadn’t uncovered.
My father mutters beneath his breath as he signs the new documents, then places the pen next to them.
Carlo looks pleased as punch. “I’ll expect you back in Chicago in two weeks for the wedding.”
I clear my throat. The opportunity I’ve been waiting for has arrived. “Two weeks? Won’t that be disrespectful?”
My father pins me with a glare.
Carlo files the papers into his desk, clearly dismissing us. “Disrespectful to who?” he asks, like my answer won’t make a lick of difference.
“Sebastiano Beneventi.”
His head snaps up.
“Father, don’t you remember? You had me RSVP to his wedding invitation.”