10.Sebastiano
My head is still spinning as I try to process the plot twist to brunch.
This wasn’t the outcome I had anticipated, but the idea that I had just secured my title and would be one step closer to leading laFamilia made the decision straightforward. The grand plan was all that really mattered to me.
Fuck, something about the way Peter was manhandling Mia didn't sit right with me. The look in her eyes spoke volumes. I’m not exactly sure what Peter fucking Russo would have done to her if she left without an engagement, but I know it wouldn't have been good.
While I have a reputation to fuck 'em' and dump 'em,' I would never hit a woman or allow one to be hit. Call it double standards, if you will, but that is where I stand. At least when I fuck them, it ends with us both being satisfied.
I've heard of Mia Russo somewhere in passing, but I can't put my finger on who was yapping about her. Maybe some random bullshit at a bar or a passing comment from one of my father's ass-kissers. Nevertheless, the image I have of her is crystal clear––a goody-two-shoes ballerina who probably went to some fancy-ass art school. The kind of chick who'd make any parent proud, the epitome of grace and discipline.
And here I am, the antithesis of everything she represents. I'm not one for dancing on tiptoes or attending fancy-ass galas. My world revolves around deals in smoky back rooms, not pirouettes on stage. But that's the thing about arranged marriages––they rarely consider compatibility or chemistry. It's all about optics, alliances, and power.
So, Mia becomes the pawn in my father's grand game of chess––a strategic move to solidify our family's standing in the underworld. She'll be the trophy wife, the perfect accessory to my role as the future don.
But deep down, beneath the facade of indifference, there's a resentment brewing within me. The thought of being shackled to someone I don't love, someone who doesn't understand the first fucking thing about me, fills me with a mixture of anger and resentment. Yet, I bury those feelings beneath layers of bravado. After all, this is the life I was born into, the path I'm expected to follow.
I’ll dance to the tune of my father’s deal. Because in this world, sometimes you have to spend a little to gain a lot, even if it leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.
Now that Mia and I have a deal between us, we leave the bathroom and head back to the office, each step feeling like I'm trudging through quicksand. It's time to spill the news—a marriage shoved down my throat like some punishment for sins I didn't commit. And there she stands, by my side, her hand slipping into mine like we're some fairytale couple.
As I swing open the door, the cold reality of our situation hits me. It's a bitter reminder of the imploding truth we're facing, and all I can do is grit my teeth and bear it, playing the part of the don I'm supposed to be.
My eyes lock onto Dad's as soon as we enter the room, and I give him a curt nod, a silent signal confirming our deal as if our handholding wasn't telling enough.
"That's my boy," Dad exclaims, clapping me on the back with a force that makes me wince inwardly. "I knew you two would hit it off." His words land like a punch to the gut, and I swallow back the bile rising in my throat, forcing a tight-lipped smile to mask my true feelings.
"Mia, you are a vision of beauty, truly a perfect match for my son," he continues, his words dripping with satisfaction. Each word spoken is like a slap in the face, a cruel reminder of the shackles binding me to this fucked-up charade.
I bitterly square my shoulders and roll my eyes at his enthusiasm, suppressing the urge to tell him where he can shove his approval. Instead, I offer a tight-lipped smile and a nod, acknowledging his words without truly accepting them.
In his perception, Mia embodies flawlessness. She's tall, a bit too skinny for my taste, but she’s got a hot body. Every curve of her figure screams sex appeal, drawing attention like a magnet. Her hair's this cascade of gold, framing her face like a halo. And her eyes—deep blue pools that could drown a man with their innocence, but they hide a load of secrets.
But my old man's picture-perfect image of Mia is a load of bullshit compared to what I saw last night. Behind that innocent facade is a woman who isn't afraid to dive into her desires. She strutted around in that barely-there dress, owning every inch of the dance floor, making out with strangers like me. It was like it was some kind of game. Yeah, I might be a hypocrite, but I'm not pretending to be some moral saint.
The Plastic Bride of Chucky squeals in delight, way too fucking loud, when I give my nod. Seeing this trainwreck makes me realize this outcome could have been worse. Thank God Dad has better taste in women, especially with disasters like her running the streets of Chicago.
Karen, or my preferred name for her Fake Barbie, embraces Mia in a tight hug before turning to me.
She better not fucking touch me.
Before she can sink her claws into me, I take a step behind Mia. Usually, I wouldn't use a woman as a shield, as it goes against the codes of the Commission, but this will be my only exception.
Signaling to my father, I motion my left ring finger. One silver lining in this whole ordeal is that I don't have to be bothered to pick out a ring. My father, ever the efficient planner, goes to the top drawer of his desk and retrieves a blood-red velvet box. I take the box from him and toss it in Mia’s direction with a careless flick of my wrist. We're engaged now, and she can just put it on. I don't need to see it or care to look at it; I'm sure it’s over the top.
Only she doesn't catch it. For a dancer, her reflexes are slow. The box clatters to the floor, a gaudy diamond ring bouncing on the hardwood. Folding my arms across my chest, I cock an eyebrow, waiting for her to pick it up. She sinks to her knees, peering up at me through her thick lashes, her eyes a mix of defiance and submission, and I can't help but think about shoving my cock between her lips.
Maybe having her around won't be so bad after all.
Walking down the stairs to go to what I guess is my engagement party, the bar is my first stop. Enzo, that smug bastard, stands there, holding out a drink as if he's been waiting for me. Without hesitation, I gulp down the amber liquid in one go, relishing the burn as it slides down my throat.
"Congrats, man. Where's the lucky lady?" the prick asks, just as Nico walks up to join us. I gulp down my second drink before answering, preparing myself for the bitter remarks that are about to follow.
“Who did Don Antonio have to force to marry your ass?” Nico asks bitterly, a reminder of the resentment simmering beneath the surface. If I had turned this offer down, it would have been his party, not mine. If I didn't have an ounce of pity for the fucker, I'd probably punch him.
“Are you gonna keep us waiting, man?” Enzo's impatience cuts through the tension, his excitement about his promotion overshadowing any interest in my engagement. There's nobody else I trust more to be my underboss than this dickhead. We fight like brothers, but I trust him with my life.
"There she is," I state coldly, motioning to the edge of the room where my dad is parading my fiancée around like a prized show pony for all the families in the Commission to ogle. Alessio from Philly sits there, looking like he's got a stick up his ass for no damn reason, while Luca, who flew in all the way from Cali, eyes her like she's the main attraction at a circus. The only one with the balls to approach her is Cal.
I wonder if he remembers her from the club?
He trailed her home last night, making sure none of Petra’s men followed her.
Although we are one under the Commission, every Don guards their own interests and turf because it's our birthright. While we usually stick to our own shit, we stick together and share resources. Our alliance isn't just important. It's crucial, giving us a strategic edge across the underworld's seven territories.
Mia remains composed, entertaining the old man who wants everyone to know who she is. Gio barely looks up from his plate long enough to acknowledge anyone. At the same time, Gian and Valachi exchange a quick handshake with Mia before diving back into their conversation like a couple of chatty assholes. It seems this union is a bigger deal to my dad than I initially thought it was.
“Mia," Nico calls, eyes rounding in surprise. “Mia Russo,” he repeats like I don't know her name.
“Yes, Mia Russo is the woman I will be marrying,” I respond sharply, my patience wearing thin with Nico's attitude. The guy is going through something, but he better tighten up and realize who he's talking to.
“You good, man?” Enzo asks, trying to break the tension that Nico clearly just started.
What the fuck is wrong with him? Is this still over the title?
Nico has had his eyes on my position for as long as I can remember. And rightfully so—if his dad hadn’t died, he would be the next Morelli Don. Sadly, Uncle Gino was taken out by Russian scum, Orlov Mogilevich. After Orlov killed Gino in a deal gone bad, it started a massive war between the Italians and the Russians. My dad, being the next eldest living Morelli, took over and has led la famiglia ever since.
Nico was just a baby when his dad died, so the title ultimately passed to my father. Nico's had a chip on his shoulder about it since he was a teenager.
Traditionally, to become a Don, you have to be a made man, a process that begins once you turn eighteen and are deemed a man in the eyes of the family. Only a made man can move up the ranks, a privilege reserved for those of full-blood Italian descent who have passed the induction and taken the Mafioso Oath. Once made, you're nearly untouchable, and your status solidified within the hierarchy. Even if you screw up, approval from The Capo Di Tutti I Capi, the Boss of all Bosses, is required for any consequences to befall you. But getting that approval isn't guaranteed; I've heard stories of requests backfiring and causing the Mafioso his life.
When Nico heard about Capo Di Tutti I Papi, Cal Luciano back in New York City, he thought the elders would do the same for him and take over when my father stepped down. But being that Dad had a full-blooded heir––me––the elders declined his request, pissing him off. And he's been more of a pain in my ass since.
“I’m good,” Nico mutters more to Enzo than to me, his expression unreadable. “Congrats, I wish you the best and all. I wish I could stay longer to celebrate more with you, but I gotta go take care of some things,” he deadpans. "We'll catch up later, and I can meet the new ball and chain,” he adds casually before making his exit and leaving unspoken tension lingering in the air.
"Jealousy is a bad fucking look. But I do need to meet the new Mrs. Morelli. Poor woman doesn't know what she's in for, being married to you," Enzo quips, his smirk betraying his amusement.
I chuckle, adopting a relaxed stance as I lean against the bar. "She seems too busy to deal with the likes of you," I retort, injecting a hint of humor into the exchange as I glance back at my father, still busy introducing her to the whole damn room. Our banter serves as a temporary distraction from today's nonsense.
The low chatter of conversations forms a distant backdrop. With a lowball glass of amber liquid in hand, I take a sip while Enzo, ever the dickhead, sips his drink with a smirk lingering on his lips.