3. Finn
“I’m still not sure about this,” Cillian grumbles in the passenger seat as we head down the highway to meet my betrothed.
I’m getting fucking married.I roll my eyes at the thought.
“What’s got your panties in a twist, Cill?”
Cillian lets out an irritated huff, shaking his head as though I asked one of the dumbest questions possible. “Where to begin? One, she’s a spoiled Mafia princess—”
“I thought you liked the idea of me having a little Suzy Homemaker waiting by the hearth for me to come home.”
I catch the hard side-eye he’s giving me when I briefly glance in his direction.
“Second,” he continues as if I hadn’t spoken, “just because you marry the girl doesn’t mean he’s any more trustworthy. Who’s to say Mario’s not using her to fuck us over? Having her live in your house and ‘accidentally’ stumbling across certain files or overhearing conversations then running back to daddy dearest?”
“I don’t keep anything at the house she could stumble across. Besides, how many men in the Mafia do you know of who use women to do their dirty work? I doubt Amatto is much different when it comes to his daughter. At least in that aspect. He’s more interested in getting control of the ports.”
“Which he’s sharing with you. It’s not a stretch to consider he’ll try to muscle you out.”
“That’s where my marriage comes in. It’s highly unlikely the man would be quick to screw us over if I have his daughter living in my home.”
“I wouldn’t bank on that. Our organizations have never really seen eye to eye, Finn. The way they conduct business and the way we do are miles apart. It seems reasonable his daughter is nothing but a bargaining chip to him. He doesn’t want you taking over the ports on your own, and he’s willing to give away his daughter because he knows you pose a threat to his power. He knows he can’t take it by force. Seems to me he isn’t interested in how his daughter feels or what happens to her at your hands, especially if he’s that quick to ship her off.”
“Jesus, Cillian. You make me sound like a monster.” My hands tighten around the steering wheel as I become increasingly annoyed with Cillian’s badgering on the subject.
“I know you, but he doesn’t. The Italians have made no bones about their distaste for us. Now he’s turning his daughter over to someone he thinks is dirt on his shoe, and we’re supposed to trust he isn’t planning on screwing us over?”
Everything Cillian is saying is true. But my family has been waiting to take out the Cataldis for as long as I can remember. With the old man being in prison and Carlo on the run, we’re finally in a position, with the help of Amatto, to destroy them.
“Listen, I understand the history with the Cataldis and why you want them gone, but I wouldn’t be a good lieutenant if I didn’t bring up the very real possibility that this could blow up in your face.”
My father made a vow to my mother at the funeral of her only sister. My parents believe she was murdered on the order of Francesco Cataldi for something as innocent as falling in love with the wrong man. Her son went missing that same night, and for years, my mother looked into the face of every blue-eyed, dark-haired boy for a resemblance to her sister. They couldn’t find evidence, but considering the father of her child was Francesco’s right-hand man, it made sense. Francesco was not the type of man to see that as anything less than a betrayal against him. My father promised my mother that he would make sure they paid for taking away her sister and her baby. So yeah, I’d say we have history. Back then, my father wasn’t in the position to destroy him and his empire the way I am now. We have more money and more power than we did during my father’s reign. The Cataldis, on the other hand, have been weakened. It’s the perfect time to strike. We’ll take them apart brick by brick and watch their kingdom crumble. Marrying the daughter of a power-hungry Italian is only one of the many moves I’ve been making.
Pulling up to the Amatto estate and seeing the giant house in front of me is exactly what I imagined it would look like, down to the gaudy fountain in the front of the house.
Cillian lets out a low whistle beside me as we stare at the three-story home in front of us.
“And here I was thinking your house was ridiculously huge,” Cillian mutters.
“This place is like a fucking palace,” I say, taking in the Italian palazzo-style home. Arches frame every window, and the dark stonework on the house showcases the vibrant green of the towering shrubs planted next to the house. The tall stone columns stretch from the marble steps to the sloped roof, and two guards walk from behind their considerable width toward our car. I didn’t even see the fuckers when we pulled up, that’s how wide the columns are.
Jesus fucking Christ, I feel like I’m in another country still ruled by medieval kings and queens instead of an estate outside of Worcester, Massachusetts.
Cillian rolls his window down as the guards approach, leaning down and looking inside the car.
“We’re here to see Mario.”
The guard straightens but keeps his hand on the gun holstered on his side. The other guard keeps his finger close to the trigger of the shotgun he grips in his hands. Guard number two directs us where to park with the end of his shotgun and waits behind the car for us to exit.
“Warm welcome,” my lieutenant comments as we follow the two men to the front door.
“Can’t say I’m surprised.”
Amatto doesn’t like us too much. Hell, none of the Italian families do. They view us as nothing more than street hoodlums with no smarts, only brawn. At one point in history, that was true of the Irish mob, but things have changed across the East Coast. We got smarter and more organized. Instead of spending all our time fighting with other Irish families, we learned to coexist in our own territories. My family happens to control Boston but not the Port of Boston which has been held in the Cataldis tight grip.
Until now. this new alliance with Amatto will guarantee that.
Cillian and I walk through the arched doorway, and we’re led through the massive foyer then down a short hallway to a sitting room with walls made of bookshelves and row upon row of old books lining the shelves. My mom would get a kick out of this place. She always tells Dad she wants him to build her a library in their house.
“Mr. Amatto will join you shortly,” one of the nameless guards tells us.
Cillian looks around the space, walking up to one of the bookshelves and surveying its contents.
“Do you think this guy has read all of these?” he asks, eyeing the range of novels.
I shrug, not really interested in the reading habits of the Mafia don.
I take in the large space and the ornately carved wooden couches with thick leather cushions spaced throughout the room. One wall isn’t covered in bookshelves; instead, it’s painted with a mural that looks like something you’d find in the Sistine Chapel. Upon closer inspection, I realize it’s a replica of the famous ceiling of the chapel. Jesus Christ, this man has his house decorated like he has money to burn. Everything is plush and expensive, including the books Cillian can’t stop drooling over.
“These are mostly in Italian,” he says, taking a book from the shelf and opening it.
“Yes, my father was a collector,” I hear from the doorway of the library.
We turn toward the voice and see my future father-in-law standing tall with his wife by his side, her arm looped through his as they take us in.
Cillian returns the book to the shelf as the Amattos approach.
“So nice to meet you, Finnegan,” Amatto’s wife says in a faintly accented voice, welcoming me and Cillian to her home.
“You as well, Mrs. Amatto,” I reply.
She waves her hand as a friendly smile graces her light-pink lips. “Please, call me Lilliana. We’re going to be family soon.”
I smile because I don’t want to be rude to the woman, but the contract hasn’t been signed. As much as Mario Amatto wants this deal to take place, I’m not about to be bowled over by him because he thinks I’m desperate for this alliance.
“Please have a seat. Alessia should be down shortly,” Mario says. “Would you like a drink?”
Cillian and I sit on one of the lush leather couches while Mario fixes himself a scotch neat.
“Would love one, thank you. But I do prefer Irish whiskey.”
“I’m afraid I only have scotch. I can ring one of my men to see if they can scrounge some up for you.”
Leaning back on the couch, I wave my hand in his direction. “Don’t go through any trouble. I’m sure what you’re having is fine.”
Yes, I’m sure the expensive scotch housed in a crystal decanter is perfectly delicious. I just wanted to make a point to remind him who he’s dealing with. Not some smooth-talking Italian mafioso, but a no-bullshit Irishman who isn’t going to put up with being steamrolled and isn’t afraid to call him out if he tries.
“I’d love one too, Dad.”
I look toward the doorway again and see the woman of the hour. Holy shit, the pictures I saw of Alessia Amatto did not do her justice. They must have been taken years ago because the pictures I saw were of a girl who looked far more innocent than the vixen standing before us.
Her dark hair is styled into soft waves that beg to be mussed up by my hands, and she’s wearing a fitted red dress that shows off her trim waist and tightly holds to her rounded hips like it’s a second skin. It’s as though some higher being asked what I would find most attractive in a woman and then molded Alessia to my specifications.
While all of those thoughts are swirling in my head, I work damn hard to keep the mask of indifference I wear most days firmly in place. If I don’t, I might start drooling over those curves and have a hell of a time not getting lost in the green eyes that hold fire and mischief behind a look of being the ice princess she’s known for. It doesn’t matter how attractive she is. I’ve never been one to come undone over a pretty face, and I’m not about to start now, no matter the visceral reaction I’m having to the stunning beauty before me.
“Alessia, come meet Finnegan and his man Cillian,” her father says as he pours another glass of scotch.
Cillian and I stand from the couch, and Alessia walks straight to Cillian, leans in, and kisses both his cheeks. “So nice to meet you, Finnegan,” she says, batting her thick eyelashes at my lieutenant.
I clear my throat. “I’m Finnigan, that’s Cillian,” I inform her with a smirk on my face. As if I don’t know exactly what she’s doing.
“Oh,” she says with a light laugh and backs away from my uncomfortable-looking lieutenant. “I’m so sorry. All you Irish boys look the same to me.”
“Alessia,” her mother admonishes. “Don’t be rude to our guests. Finnegan is going to be your husband.”
“Please, call me Finn,” I say to Lilliana.
Alessia rolls her eyes, and a tinkling laugh follows. I shouldn’t like the sound of it so much, especially considering she just tried to emasculate me and the entire male side of the Irish population.
“I was kidding, Mama. I’m sure Finn knows that.” She shoots me a saccharine smile and tilts her head. “But the husband part hasn’t been decided on, now has it?”
Mario hands Alessia a scotch, and she nods her thanks.
“Yes, yes, we’ll discuss all of that after dinner, my dear. No need to keep the cook waiting.” Mario holds his hand out for his wife and leads her out of the room.
Being the gentleman no one has ever accused me of being, I do the same with Alessia and place her hand in the crook of my arm.
“Sorry you don’t have a companion this evening, Cillian. Next time, I’ll be sure to have one of my cousins here,” Alessia says.
“Will she have a hard time telling us apart like you pretended to? It might get awkward seeing one of your family members kiss your husband.”
“I would never be jealous over a man. Besides, I’m sure by then I’ll remember which of you is which.” The smile she sends isn’t cold, but it is challenging.
“Are you trying to make yourself as unappealing as possible to me, sweetheart?” I ask in a low voice.
“You know as well as I do, my face could be covered with hairy moles, and you would still find the idea of marriage to me enticing. It isn’t me you’re after, but the power my father can offer you.”
I keep the surprised look off my face, but to realize she knows the parameters of this deal her father is offering takes me by surprise.
“We don’t have to be enemies. That doesn’t exactly make for a happy marriage.”
Alessia’s shrewd green eyes study me as she considers my statement. “We don’t have to be friends either, and happiness is overrated.”
She stops behind her chair, and I pull it out for her.
“That’s your call, sweetie. Just remember, we’re both getting something out of this deal and if you continue, I may not be so inclined to sign a marriage contract.”
Fuck, I’m beginning to wonder if Cillian was on to something with his warning during the drive here. I always assumed Mafia princesses were raised to be meek and gentle, not whatever this is. Her comments aren’t untrue or outright mean, more like she’s a little resentful she’s in this position to begin with.
We all have a seat at the large table adorned with a stunning centerpiece of fresh flowers and plates of meat and cheeses in front of us. Between the baroque wallpaper and ornate crystal chandelier, I’m beginning to sense a theme throughout the house, and it’s one that screams old money. I’m not poor by any stretch of the imagination, but my family comes from humble beginnings. It’s more than apparent the Amattos do not.
One of their staff members fills each of our glasses with red wine while we nibble on the assortment in front of us.
Alessia’s mother takes the opportunity to regale the table with stories about what a sweet girl her daughter was growing up and how she loved to dance and sing and chase after her brother. I don’t ask where Giovanni is. He died nearly ten years ago. So many rumors circulated over the cause of his death—he owed a rival family money and was shot when he refused to pay, a lovers’ quarrel, maybe a secret relationship that ended badly. The rumors are endless. Mario remained quiet on the subject at the time, so stories ran rampant. I never delved into it myself since it didn’t have anything to do with my family.
After the meat and cheeses are cleared, a delicious-smelling pasta is laid before us. Jesus. I would gain a hundred pounds in a year if I ate like this every day.
“My mother’s recipe,” Lilliana says.
I take a bite and groan in appreciation. “Absolutely delicious.”
“I’ll make sure Alessia has my old recipe book when she moves into your house.”
A tight smile forms on my lips. “Well, according to Alessia, that hasn’t been decided yet.”
Mario waves his hand. “We’ll discuss all of this after dinner. No need to worry about business when we’re in the middle of our meal.”
The look he shoots Alessia doesn’t go unnoticed. It makes me wonder how much has actually already been decided on and if Alessia is aware of how badly her father wants this marriage to happen.
Our pasta plates are cleared, and servings of the most delicious-smelling veal are laid before each of us.
“Where did you go to college, Finn?” Alessia asks.
Cillian laughs before I can answer, and Mario narrows his eyes at his daughter.
“I didn’t. There isn’t much need for higher education in our line of work.” I can tell she’s trying to make me sound like an uneducated street punk. “My father taught me what I needed to know about the business. He took a trial-by-fire approach to my training.”
“How did that work out for you?” she asks.
“Pretty well, considering I’m here to discuss marrying a spoiled Mafia princess because her father knows how powerful my family is. And the fact that, together, we’ll very well be unstoppable.” Cillian, Mario, and Lilliana’s eyes ping-pong between Alessia and me.
“What good is a piece of paper when you have the respect of some of the most resourceful and dangerous criminals within the state? I had better things to do with my time than read a bunch of dusty books by dead guys,” I continue before taking a bite of the mouthwatering veal in front of me. Damn, Mario’s cook is a fucking genius with a slab of meat.
“Did you go to college, Alessia?” Cillian asks in an attempt to ease the tension at the table.
“I did.” She sits straighter in her chair with a proud smile on her red lips. “Yale, then Wharton for my MBA.”
“How is that working out for you?” I take a sip of wine and Alessia looks at me like she’s trying to telepathically make me choke on it.
Most women in this life don’t work a day in their lives, and I doubt she’s any different. Sure, she can talk a big game with her fancy degrees, but does she really know how to play?
“Actually, Finn, Alessia’s been a great help to my business. She’s assisted my accountant and financial advisers in several more delicate business matters. She works for our real estate development company as well. She’s quite knowledgeable when it comes to financial strategy.” Mario smiles at his daughter.
“So you spent all that money to be a glorified accountant? Good to know I’m marrying a woman who can balance a checkbook.” I’m being a dick. Actually, learning this about my soon-to-be wife is impressive, but like hell will I show her that.
“Well, like I said earlier, nothing is set in stone,” Alessia says, taking a sip from her wineglass and shooting me a brittle smile.
Looks like I struck a nerve. Obviously if she went to Yale and Wharton, she’s smart as hell and would probably have some fancy, high-paying corporate job if she weren’t the daughter of Mario Amatto. But she needs to learn if she wants to take little digs at me, I’ll bite back.
Cillian gives me a subtle kick under the table, and when I meet his eyes, they’re imploring me to shut the fuck up. This marriage will cement my family and the Amattos as two of the most powerful organizations on the East Coast, and the look in Cillian’s eyes is telling me I’m one word away from fucking it all up. That’s fair, but damn, that girl is good at getting under my skin. It’s no secret the Italians have always looked at us like we’re dirt beneath their shoes. We aren’t running some penny ante gang like the ones we’ve pushed out of Boston, but the Italians have never treated us with any kind of respect. That’s been fine and dandy with me through the years. Let the assholes underestimate us. We’ve proven time and time again that we can hold our own. Which is why sometimes my mouth likes to run away with itself. Even if it’s not the most opportune moment.
“Your family is Catholic, yes?” Lilliana asks, trying to direct the conversation into more neutral territory.
“Yes. My mother wouldn’t allow us boys to miss a Sunday mass.”
“I look forward to meeting her. I’ve always wanted Alessia to marry in the faith and raise children with the same beliefs she grew up with.”
Alessia looks at her mother and her jaw tics with irritation. Looks like this isn’t the first time Lilliana has mentioned children in her daughter’s presence. Though I’m not opposed to having them if that’s what she wants, kids aren’t a deal breaker for me. My mother, on the other hand…
A member of the serving staff comes out to clear our plates and another lays the most delectable-looking cake in front of each of us.
“Tiramisu. It’s our cook’s specialty.”
I take a bite, and the chocolate coffee flavor explodes on my tongue. Shit, maybe I should marry their cook instead of their ball-busting daughter.
“Does this recipe come with the marriage contract?” I ask, taking another bite of the decadent dessert.
“Sorry, it’s her most guarded secret. But don’t worry, I’m sure the contract will entice you more than the tiramisu,” Mario replies.
I guess we’ll see about that.