2. Alessia
The muffled pop coming from my gun as I shoot at the paper target is almost as satisfying as when I hit a bull’s-eye. That noise has come to symbolize power and dedication throughout the years. I’m a firm believer that practice makes perfect, and I’ve clocked a lot of hours here to become the markswoman I am today. Plus, there’s nothing quite like blowing off a little steam at the gun range, or a lot of steam, as the case may be. When I think of the deal my father is trying to get me to go along with, my anger spikes and I raise the gun and shoot three more rounds. A wide smile spreads across my mouth when I see my aim is true and there’re three holes in the head of the target.
“Alessia.”
I turn to Enzo standing behind me and remove my noise-canceling earbuds before laying my gun on the table next to me.
“Yes?” My bodyguard holds his phone out to me.
I don’t have to ask who’s on the line, knowing full well that because I wasn’t answering my phone, my father called Enzo to get ahold of me.
I roll my eyes and take the phone from Enzo’s outstretched hand.
“Hello, Father.”
“I see you’re still angry with me,” he says when he hears my annoyed tone. “Shooting didn’t help?”
My father taught me to shoot after…well, after. He thought it would help me not only feel stronger and better able to defend myself if the need arose again, but he said it was a great stress reliever. He became one of my favorite people to go to the range with, always pushing me to do better and learn how to use a multitude of various guns. I didn’t tell him I was coming here today, but he knows me well enough to know where to find me when I’m working out a problem and need to take the edge off. Drugs and alcohol never appealed to me. Shooting on the other hand? That’s probably saved my sanity on more than one occasion.
“Have you decided to call this farce of a wedding off?” I chew the side of my lip as I lean back against the wall of the private shooting lane at my favorite range. Enzo stands just on the other side of the door, trying to give me privacy, but it’s not as though he doesn’t know exactly why we’re here.
My father may be more progressive than any other made man out there, especially considering he’s head of a powerful family, but some things he still holds true, like his right to sign a marriage contract on my behalf.
“Sweetheart, there is a lot riding on this union. You know it as well as I do. Your cooperation”—a snort of laughter escapes me—“will be the catalyst we need to bring down the Cataldis once and for all.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, once again remembering why I’m considering this asinine idea in the first place. I know if I throw a big enough fit over being asked to marry Finnegan, my father will find another way. But uniting two powerful families would take care of all the problems we’ve been running into the last few years at the Boston ports, as well as various other businesses run by my father’s men. It’s perfectly within his right to choose a husband for me. When he brought up the idea to me a little over a week ago, I was dead set against it. He implored me to consider the deal, and I’ve spent every day since doing just that.
“I’m aware, Papa,” I say, softening my tone. “But that doesn’t change the fact that until a week ago, the Irish weren’t exactly high on our Christmas card list.”
Our families don’t have many dealings with the Monaghans, but the few we’ve had are most likely responsible for several of my dad’s gray hairs. There’ve been deals we’ve been cut out of, not to mention their casino has been steadily taking business from ours. I’m not stupid; my family makes money using beautiful call girls in the casinos to lure rich businessmen in. I don’t necessarily love that aspect of the business, but it is what it is and sex sells. The Irish don’t offer anything we don’t, so it’s always been a mystery as to why their tables are full every night of the week and ours seem to have more and more empty seats.
“Times are changing, Alessia, and we need to change with them. If partnering with the Irish is for the good of both of our organizations, then it’s something we need to consider.”
“I’ve done nothing but consider it since you brought it up.”
“Finn wants an answer tonight, so I need you to stop thinking about it and make a decision.”
“Why is he so desperate to have an unwilling wife?”
“Alessia,” my father breathes out. “We need this deal as much as he does. If we have control of the ports, along with the Monaghans, that will change our business dealings and significantly expand our power and territory. The Cataldis are falling apart, and we need to strike before anyone else. With our combined efforts, we’d be unstoppable.”
“And me being the Irishman’s wife would ensure the Monaghans won’t double cross us, yes, I know, Papa.” It’s not like this is the first time he’s used that argument to convince me.
“My sources say he is a man of honor.”
I outright laugh at my father’s description of Finn.
“Really? Because my sources say he’s a womanizing scoundrel.”
Finn and his brother have a certain reputation in the Boston area that reaches all the way to New York. Honor is not a word I’ve heard used to describe him.
“Alessia, you can’t believe idle gossip,” my father admonishes. I imagine him waving his hand like he’s brushing away my concerns. “He’s a single man who hasn’t had a wife to take care of. It’s not like he’s stepping out on his marriage.”
One thing I’ve always admired about my father is his devotion and faithfulness to my mother. That’s not the norm in our world, but my father has always believed a man’s character is defined by his commitment to his vows made before God on his wedding day.
I let out a long sigh and stretch my neck, attempting to relieve the tension that’s settled back in during this conversation.
“Listen, Papa. I need to go. I’m having lunch with Gemma in thirty minutes. We’ll talk when I get home, yeah?”
“Okay, but I need to know if I’m inviting the Monaghan boy for dinner.”
Only my father would refer to the head of the Irish mob as a boy.
“We’ll talk when I get home. I love you.”
“I love you too, piccola demone.”
I hang up with a smile on my face at my father’s old nickname for me. He’s been calling me little demon since I was a young girl getting up to any mischief I could find.
Enzo walks in just after I disconnect the call, confirming he heard the conversation. Putting the noise-canceling earbuds back in my ear before picking up my pistol, I turn toward the fresh target Enzo set up for me.
Giving him a small smile of thanks, I face the target and fire.
“You’ve been at the range,” Gemma comments when she reaches our table at the little bistro fifteen minutes from where I go to shoot. It’s a gorgeous spring day in the city, so I picked a table on the little outdoor patio surrounded by blooming flowers and ivy trailing up the columns of the veranda.
“How can you tell?” I ask, standing from my seat and leaning in to give her a hug.
We both sit and the waitress promptly makes her way over to our table to take Gemma’s drink order. Her ice-blue eyes zero in on my glass of prosecco, and she lifts her brow. “I’ll have the same,” she says, pointing to my glass. The waitress smiles then hurries away.
“You always seem to sit a little taller when you’ve spent the morning shooting. Like the weight of the world isn’t pressing on your shoulders.”
“Am I that stressed out normally?” I ask with a laugh.
“It’s not obvious to everyone else, but I know you too well—you can’t hide it from me.”
I smile at my best friend as the waitress returns with her glass of bubbly, and she takes a sip.
“So, why are we day drinking?” Gemma sets her glass on the table and pins me with her spill-it stare. It’s not as intimidating as she thinks, at least not to me. To the world, she’s a ball-busting beauty with long blonde hair, always perfectly styled in waves down to the middle of her back. When she turns her gaze on any man, they just about drop to their knees, wanting to give her the world. Or they run in the opposite direction because she’s about to verbally cut them off at said knees. With her, it could really go either way, depending on her mood. To me, though, she’s just Gemma, and I love her unconditionally, just like she loves me.
“I need to make a decision about the Irish proposal.”
“The oh-so-romantic one that didn’t involve a ring or even a question from the prospective groom?” Her disdain for what she considers an archaic tradition drips from every syllable.
“That would be the one,” I reply, not wanting to get into all the details of why the proposal makes sense from a business standpoint, not that I could. I’d never talk to an outsider about my family’s dealings. It’s as much for her protection as it is mine.
We both attended Yale, me for a degree in finance and Gemma for marketing. She worked her ass off to be able to afford Yale, working nearly full time and applying for all the financial aid and any small scholarships she could. Coming from a single-mother household, she didn’t have the opportunities afforded to me by my family’s sizable bank account. She never allowed the stigma of growing up poor that some of the rich assholes in our college days tried to attach to her to discourage her in any way. Instead, it made her work that much harder. She didn’t have any sort of backup plan or a rich daddy who was going to hand her a job after graduation. She fought tooth and nail for everything to make ends meet and soar to the top of her class. I’ve always admired her tenacity and the way she attacks every obstacle in front of her. That went a long way in her being the youngest head of marketing for a premier fashion house in Boston.
Gemma and I were assigned as roommates our freshman year, and after deciding dorm life wasn’t for us, we rented a little apartment. She didn’t recognize my last name because my father kept the Amatto name out of the press, unlike the Cataldis. When she first asked about the security I had trailing me between classes, I told her my family was well-off and my father was overprotective. She gave me what I’ve come to know as her signature I know there’s more to the story, but I’ll let it slide look, but she didn’t pry further.
It wasn’t until our second year that I admitted the truth: my father was head of a powerful Mafia family. It could have been the need to be honest with my friend, who had become as close to me as a sister, or it could have been the tequila. I guess we’ll never know, but the next day when I remembered what I told her, I was petrified she’d look at me differently or be one of those weird Mafia-obsessed groupies I used to see around my brother before he passed. Instead, she made us a greasy breakfast and waved off my concerns with a flick of her slim wrist. “Alessia, there aren’t many people who don’t come from families with skeletons in their closets. I’m certainly not about to judge you for yours,” she told me. Since then, I never felt the need to hide anything from her, even if I couldn’t give her every detail about my life.
“Do you ever wish we were back in our apartment and the only things we had to worry about were studying and which party to go to on a Friday night?” I ask, suddenly nostalgic for a simpler time.
She tilts her head back and forth as she sips from her glass. “Sometimes, I suppose. But I’m not the one who has to settle into some arranged marriage for her family’s sake.”
I told Gemma about the proposal with Finn but didn’t go into specific detail. I just explained uniting two powerful families would be beneficial for both of our organizations, and there’s no tighter bond than marriage.
“I never imagined having to make this decision at twenty-eight,” I begin. “I mean, it’s not unusual in my world, but I don’t know, I guess I thought I’d somehow escaped this particular fate.”
Usually, these arrangements were made when the woman was much younger than I am. My father was content to let me use my degree and work alongside him at one of his real estate companies. I never thought hed be pressuring me now, but then again, no one thought Francesco Cataldi would get sent to prison or that his son would be on the run after trying to take out an MC president and the US attorney who put his old man away.
“Then say no,” she says. “I don’t know what exactly you’re going to gain from this, but if you’re having reservations or you’re scared—”
“I’m not afraid,” I interject, knowing where her line of thinking is headed. The one and only serious relationship I had was with a man who didn’t have the same distaste for violence against women as my father or as the Irish are rumored to possess. No one will ever hurt me like that again. I’ve spent hours in the gym and gun range to make sure of that.
Gemma’s eyes soften, and she reaches for my hand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up. I just hate the thought of you tying yourself to a man because it’ll help with some business deal or something. That’s not a good reason to get married.”
My reasons are definitely bigger than just a business deal, but without divulging the issues my family is having and why, I can’t really explain it to her.
The waitress comes to take our order, and we settle into more neutral topics of discussion.
“So, who’s your flavor of the week?” I ask, joking with Gemma about her love life. She never had a serious boyfriend in college, insisting it wasn’t the time to be tied down to one man when there were so many to choose from. Her thinking has followed her well into her late twenties, and I don’t see it changing anytime soon.
“Well…there’s a new guy at that kickboxing gym down the street from my apartment. Oh my God, Alessia.” She sits back in her chair and dramatically fans herself. “You should see the abs on this guy. And the way he spars? So much intensity and precision. It’s hot as hell.”
Gemma used to join me and Enzo when we trained, and she developed quite the appetite for hand-to-hand combat. And the fighters she would spar with.
“Have you worked your charm on him yet?”
She laughs and shakes her head. “We went out for drinks last week, but I’m playing it cool.”
“So, you didn’t invite him back for a one-on-one demonstration of his skills?”
She clutches her imaginary pearls and gasps in feigned shock. “What kind of woman do you take me for?”
“The kind that isn’t a buttoned-up prude like you’re pretending to be?”
“Fair,” she replies, and we share a knowing smile. “But no, there was no one-on-one anything. I don’t know; I’d like to feel a connection for once. Maybe get to know a guy before I kick him out of bed the next morning. Maybe I wouldn’t be so inclined to get rid of him if I actually like someone for their personality and not just the way they look in tight shorts.”
“Don’t knock those tight shorts, sister. There’s nothing wrong with seeing the whole package before you see the package.”
Gemma lets out a bark of laughter, scaring the waitress who sets our plates down in front of us.
“Scandalous talk from a married woman,” she says, arching her brow.
“Not married yet. Also, not dead yet.”
Gemma smiles and lifts her glass. “I’ll cheers to that.”
An hour later, Enzo is driving me home. I’m full and feel lighter than I did at the range. Though Gemma and I didn’t talk more about my potential marriage, I feel better just having spent time with my best friend. She may not agree with the idea of me having to marry for the sake of family, but there’s no doubt in my mind that she’ll stand next to me and support me through it all.
Enzo parks the car around back and I head into the house through the kitchen entrance, grabbing a glass of water before making my way to my father’s office. After two quick knocks, he calls for me to enter.
“How was lunch?” he asks, placing his readers on the desk in front of him.
It strikes me just now how much stress my father’s been under for the last few years and how it’s aged him. I suppose that could be attributed to the passage of time, but seeing him sitting behind his desk with exhaustion lining his face and dark smudges under his eyes, I’m reminded he won’t be around forever. This life has taken its toll on the man who always seemed indestructible. But he’s not. He’s human, with worries, fears, and an unwavering need to do what’s right for his family—the ones that live in this house and the ones that have been working for him since before I was born. The weight of that responsibility lies heavily on his shoulders, and it surprises me that this is the first time I’m seeing it so clearly.
“It was good.” I sit on one of the leather club chairs in front of his oak desk, remembering when I was a little girl and my feet didn’t touch the ground.
Old family pictures line the dark wood-paneled walls. My parents’ extended families are back in Italy, and the photos proudly display our lineage. Though my father’s immediate family has been here for several generations, my mother didn’t come to the United States until after she met my father. He was visiting some of his cousins and saw my mother at the market early one morning. The way he tells the story, she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on, and the second she smiled at him, he was a goner. He came home from his vacation as a married man, and my grandfather was less than thrilled. He wanted my father to marry a daughter of one of the New York families in order to make an advantageous alliance. After five minutes with my mother, though, my grandfather was nearly as smitten with her as my dad. Lilliana Amatto has that way with people. It’s something she’s tried to instill in me. I have a feeling I’ve disappointed her more times than not on that front.
Letting out a quick huff of air, I look at my father. “Let’s talk about the Irish.”
One of my dad’s bushy eyebrows quirks in question. “You’ve made your decision?”
My lips press together as I nod. “I’ll agree to the marriage.” Once the words are out, it feels as though a ball of lead has dropped in my stomach, while my father looks relieved. “But we need to go over the contract before I walk down the aisle. I don’t want any surprises once Finn thinks he has me where he wants me.”
“Somehow, piccola demone, I have no doubt you’ll keep him on his toes.”
“We need Cataldi out of the way for good,” I begin. “Then, when that happens, we need to have co-control over the ports. If Farina wants to use them, he can still pay the same fee he was paying to Francesco. Now that the old man is in prison and Carlo is in the wind, it’s the perfect time to push in.”
My father nods as he listens, giving me his full attention. It’s something he’s always been good about. I talk, and he listens—the respect between us goes both ways.
“Farina doesn’t have the foothold the Monaghans do in Boston, and I need to know he’s going to use that influence to protect our incoming and outgoing shipments as opposed to only caring about his business. No more disappearing merchandise.” My family has been using ships to transport guns and cocaine for as long as I can remember. Lately, too many of those shipments have come up “missing” under Cataldi’s supervision. “I also want a guarantee that there will be no human cargo running through the ports.” Carlo had become particularly fond of that side of the underworld. I refuse to stand for it. If I’m willing to give up my freedom for this deal, I’ll be damned if that continues under my watch.
“It’s a nasty business I’ve never wanted to be a part of, either,” my father states.
No one in this life is going to be nominated for sainthood anytime soon, but even with criminals, there are some lines you should never cross, and selling people to sick assholes is my hardest of lines. Carlo Cataldi doesn’t have the same distaste for it as my father or myself. Sure, our organization deals in prostitution, but the women my father employs are there of their own free will and are well compensated for their time. No one is selling them to the highest bidder to do with as they please. If anyone hurts one of the girls, it’s dealt with swiftly and violently.
“He’s going to want a Catholic ceremony,” my father states. “His mother is devout, and if I know anything about Irish boys, they never want to disappoint their mamas.”
I nod in agreement. “That’s fine, but I want it at St. Michael’s. If I have to sit through a marriage mass, I’d feel better with it being at our church.” I’ve been attending mass there since I was a baby. I’m sure my dad can make a sizable donation to the church to forego any of the premarriage counseling.
My dad notes it on the paper in front of him then raises his gaze to me. “We should discuss children.”
My mouth goes dry with the thought. “Why?” Its a stupid question. Of course, there needs to be an agreement on having kids. Finn and I will be expected to do our part to carry on the family name.
“This isn’t two people falling in love, getting married, and deciding to start a family type of situation, sweetheart. Nothing about this is typical, except in our life. Having a clause in regard to children is standard.”
“How often do people agree not to have children?”
“I’ve never heard of it, but if the thought upsets you that much, I’ll leave it out. The Irish don’t usually put together marriage contracts like this, so he may not even notice.”
“We’re going into this lying already?”
“Not lying, just leaving out a clause they probably wouldn’t have even thought about.”
There was a time in my life when the idea of having kids was exciting, and there was a man I thought would be the father. Both of those fantasies were ripped from me in one night.
“Leave it out. If he says anything, then I’ll consider it.”
My father nods and sets his pen down. “Thank you for agreeing, Alessia. I know how hard this was for you.”
It is hard, but the relief on my father’s face is what makes me believe I made the right decision. I’m a woman in a world run by men. There isn’t anything I can do to change that, even if my father allowed me to live my own life for as long as possible. I have an obligation to him and our family. But that doesn’t mean I’ll be a doormat, and heaven help my future husband if he thinks otherwise.