Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
Tommy
“This is a horrible idea.”
I’m staring at my mother as though she’s sprouted a second head. It’s hardly the first time I’ve looked at her like this in my life, but this takes the motherfucking cake—cake with fucking frosting.
“Tommaso, don’t catastrophize. The woman’s father agreed to the marriage, so it’s done.”
I feel sorry for whoever she is. Marrying my uncle will be life in prison without parole.
Don Manfredo Vizzini is not a catch. Despite his wealth and power as Boston’s Mafia leader and good looks, he’s a man any woman should run far, far away from.
My mother knows that about her brother. She’s said as much in private.
How she’s so flippant now is beyond me. We’re at my house, so I know we’re somewhere private.
My walls don’t have ears. We can be honest here.
“And if she finds out about Zoe and Sophia before the wedding? Do you think she’ll say yes in front of a goddamn priest?”
“Language.”
I force myself not to roll my eyes, but she’s right. I probably shouldn’t take the Lord’s name in vain when mentioning his living representative on Earth. But I’m about as lapsed a Catholic as you can get.
Motherfucking goddamn priest.
“Language, Tommaso.”
The woman’s always been a mind reader.
“Mama, I’ll go to Chicago and bring her back here. But I refuse to be her keeper. I’m not Cupid. I won’t try to convince her he’s loveable. If she refuses once she meets Uncle Mano, I won’t drag her down the aisle.”
I won’t shoot her either. Not with a gun or a fucking love arrow.
This is a horrible idea.
“You won’t have to. I’ll give her a firm push. She doesn’t decide.”
“This is medieval.”
I know as well as anyone that arranged marriages still happen within syndicate families. In this case, the Chicago don’s daughter is marrying the Boston don. Both men—inaccurately—believe this marriage will unify them and strengthen them against the Mancinellis down in New York.
Vicenzu Mancinelli is the fucking devil in disguise.
The man is batshit bonkers. His parents named him for victory, and the man believes he deserves every one he’s had.
We’re all waiting for him to die, so his son, Salvatore, will inherit.
Plenty of people would gladly help Salvatore, but he’s killed too many to protect his father for anyone to think they’d be doing Salvatore a favor.
Needless to say, my uncle and Don Giacomo Rizzo are fucking morons to think they can do shit to stop the Mancinellis. This marriage is going to ruin Giacomo’s daughter’s life for nothing.
“Tommaso, pay attention.”
“Sorry, Mama.”
“Stop pitying a girl you’ve never met. She might be Mano’s soulmate for all any of us know.”
“He’d have to have a soul.”
“Enough. He’s still your uncle and your don.”
“And you’re my mom and his sister. You should understand my concern.”
“You don’t know the woman. And don’t tell me you can still have compassion for her as a person. That’s never been one of your stronger qualities.”
My left eye twitches as I force myself not to glare at my mother or think profane things about her.
If I don’t have compassion, it’s because she, along with my father and uncle, drained it out of me.
My mother and father used their words, and my uncle used his fists.
Either way, it isn’t a trait they felt Boston’s future don needs.
With two dead wives already and no sons, I’m the Vizzinis’ underboss by default.
I’m the oldest nephew, so it falls to me.
Maybe if Zoe and Sophia hadn’t died of suspicious circumstances, then I wouldn’t care what happens to this faceless woman.
I haven’t even seen a photo of her, but she’s still human.
I suspect my mother is the only person who knows how Uncle Mano did it, but I’m certain my uncle killed both women when alliances with their families no longer did him any good.
“Mama—”
“Basta!” Enough. “You will be on that plane in an hour. If you don’t go now, you won’t make it to the airport on time. If you waste that jet fuel, your uncle will make you pay him back.”
Him.
It’s not a personal expense. It’s money that comes from the syndicate’s finances that run our family’s organization. But he would charge me, and he would pocket the money. The fucker embezzles from his own family and all the people who rely on us.
“Yes, Mama.”
I’m fighting a losing battle. I might be the underboss and heir to the second most powerful Mafia organization on the East Coast—hell, the U.S.—but when my mother—the don’s sister—speaks, I still have to shut up and listen.
Then do what I want behind her back.
Beatrice Vizzini isn’t a woman to underestimate.
She’s five years older than my uncle, so when my grandfather died, she took the reins.
Uncle Mano was sixteen and ill-equipped to be Mafia don in anything more than name only.
Behind the scenes, Mama controlled everything.
She knew time was her only limitation. When Uncle Mano reached twenty-one, she’d already trained him to lead better than any of his advisors could.
He took over, and no one noticed the difference.
My father—Uncle Mano’s best friend—might have known how my aunts died, but it wouldn’t surprise me if my mother put the bug in my uncle’s ear to off them.
I never had a chance to ask Papa before he died four years ago of colon cancer.
“Bring her straight to my house. It’ll feel more welcoming than a hotel.”
“Yes, Mama.”
If people didn’t know any better, it would sound like my mother still leads me around by the ear.
This is the price of peace for right now.
She knows she only has so much control over me, and it’s far less than she had over my uncle when he was my age.
When he was twenty-nine, he was still following her orders.
Eventually, they became suggestions—that he still usually takes.
I often ignore her suggestions, and she knows ordering me around brings out a stubbornness no one wants to witness.
“You should be back in time for dinner.”
“Today?”
“Yes, today. It’s an out and back trip.”
“That’s not what Uncle Mano said. I’m supposed to be there for three days to make sure she packs everything, and it all gets loaded on the moving truck tomorrow. I’m also supposed to receive her dowry, and have it appraised before I leave. I’ll see you on Friday, Mama.”
I lean forward and kiss my mother’s cheek before standing. She doesn’t rise immediately, but she does with a sigh when I hold the garage door open for her. It’s safer for her not to park in the driveway when she comes over. It’s too exposed.
This is a horrible idea.
That’s on a loop in my head as I pack and head to the airport. It only gets louder throughout the flight. It’s screaming as I walk down the jet’s steps.
* * *
She’s stunning. Absolutely gorgeous.
And not even remotely my uncle’s type.
The woman standing before me has pixie cut hair—like Victoria Beckham but hotter—that’s a shade of red my uncle will undoubtedly call carrots to her face.
He prefers long, dark hair. She has curves for days.
She’s the definition of an hourglass. Uncle Mano prefers supermodel long and lanky with fake tits.
I’m certain Stella Rizzo’s are real. And worst of all, she’s muscular.
She can put up a fight. That might be enough to end the contract.
I doubt it, but it might. He’s more likely to see her as a challenge to bend to his will. It makes me feel sorry for her all over again. Doubly, now that I’ve seen her.
“Welcome to Chicago, Mr. Vizzini.”
“It’s Tommaso.”
My parents were married when I was born, and my father’s on my birth certificate.
But my force-to-be-reckoned-with mother insisted my father’s last name became my middle name, and her maiden name was my last name.
Even two and a half decades ago, she knew I’d one day be the don.
I need the Vizzini name to make my inheritance uncontestable.
“Welcome.” Stella sounds anything but.
“Thank you. I’m here to meet with your father.”
“I know. He’s waiting for you in his office.”
She grimaces at the first two words and looks like she’s leading me to my doom as she turns toward the study.
“He won’t care that it’s practically a hurricane, so don’t bother using the weather as an excuse. Just apologize, then let him rant. It’ll go easier on you if you don’t try to explain.”
She glances over her shoulder at me as she speaks. She lifts her chin, and I think her shoulders go back a smidge before she knocks. Is she bracing herself? I’ve met Gio many times, and I’ve heard him speak fondly of his children. Was that all for show, and he’s a jackass to them in person?
“Papa, Mr. Vizzini is here.”
“I saw his car finally pull up.”
All right then. She didn’t exaggerate.
“I apologize, Don Rizzo.”
His gaze darts to his daughter before he nods at me.
“I suppose the storm rerouted your flight.”
That wasn’t a question, so it’s my turn to nod, but I remain quiet.
Stella slips past me while her father gestures for me to take a seat in one of the overstuffed leather armchairs.
The deep brown with silver studs kind. His study screams masculinity with its dark woods, the bankers’ green lamp shade lights, the lingering cigar odor. He has an image to maintain, after all.
I’ve been inside Salvatore Mancinelli’s home office since we’re peers.
The man is a minimalist. His image comes from him, not his furniture.
I prefer his style. Neither of us needs a desk to hide behind to be intimidating.
I sense Gio realizes that when he walks around to the chair across a coffee table from me.
He passes me and notices how much larger I am than him.
He’s not a man still in his physical prime even if he’s still all mentally there.
Uncle Mano is the opposite. All brawn and not enough brains.
“Tommaso, thank you for making the flight out here and agreeing to accompany Stella to Boston. If I didn’t have a city council meeting next Monday, I would take her.”
Diplomatic.
I came to make sure she can’t get away.
“We look forward to having you and la madrina there.” Godmother.
“We’ll arrive in time for the engagement party and the wedding.”
They’re a week apart.
“My family looks forward to seeing you both.”
He stares at me for a moment before he smiles. If I didn’t know better, I might think he dreads seeing my family.
“I have the finalized contracts for you and the appraiser’s report.”
“I’ll review the contracts. I’ll compare my appraiser’s report to yours and be sure there aren’t any discrepancies.”
“I saved you time and your uncle the expense. The report is thorough.”
“Ms. Rizzo and I don’t leave for another three days. There’s plenty of time. I have an appointment set for tomorrow morning. There shouldn’t be any conflict.”
I make it sound like I mean time, but he knows it’s a veiled threat.
I’m an international trade attorney, so I’m fully capable of reviewing a contract that includes domestic and foreign goods, and I know all sorts of appraisers in most major U.S.
cities. One call set everything up for tomorrow’s appointment.
Gio opens his mouth—likely to argue—but snaps it shut when someone knocks.
“Entra.”
Is he trying to impress me? Intimidate me?
I know the man doesn’t speak fluent Italian.
I’ve heard his imitation of it. Shitty Itanglish.
My Italian’s been better than his since I was eight.
I thought I could impress him the first time we met since I wanted to be so mature—as one believes one is at that age—but he couldn’t understand most of what I said.
I came across as a show-off instead. My dad had to rescue me and sent me off to play in my room.
“Thank you, Stella.”
I stare at the coffee table where she lays a tray with wine and charcuterie.
“You’re welcome, Papa.” She turns to me, so now I have to look at her. “Would you prefer coffee or something else, Mr. Vizzini?”
“I think we can forego the formalities since we’ll be family in two weeks.”
That makes the bile rise in my throat.
“I’m fine with wine, Aunt Stella.”
I might vomit.
She flinches and jerks away. It’s barely noticeable, but for two men who’ve survived what Gio and I have, reading body language is both a skill and an art. I watch her father from the corner of my eye, and he finds it just as jarring as she did.
“Let me know if you change your mind—Tommaso.”
Her expression changes, but I don’t understand it. I wonder what it means.