The Mafia Marriage Contract (Blood Debt Brides #1)

Chapter 1 Livvie

LIVVIE

I should be celebrating the happiest day of my life.

Instead, I’m walking straight into my own execution.

The aisle stretches ahead like a guillotine line, the smell of burning incense competing with my Chanel perfume. Every slow step I take is a silent agreement to a marriage I never asked for. To a life I didn’t choose.

Colored light spills in through the stained glass windows, painting my puffy white dress in streaks of crimson and gold. The irony of blood and fire isn’t missed on this hateful day.

My arm is looped through my father’s, his grip firm and inflexible—more for control than reassurance. His stride is measured, escorting me through the guests toward the altar.

Cormac O’Callaghan doesn’t believe in dramatics or insubordination. He revels in power and wealth, and today, I’m his choice of currency.

I ignore the faces staring at me from the pews and try to shut out the string quartet who get to play freely when I don’t. They have no idea what I’ve sacrificed.

Every guest packed inside this cathedral is here to witness my descent into hell.

I can’t be saved.

On this monumental day, they’re all here to acknowledge the merger of two empires. Irish and Italian mafia royalty sealing a blood pact with a designer gown, golden wedding bands, and ridiculous vows.

They consider me a Viacava prize. The eldest princess being passed from one kingdom to another.

In truth, Kingston and I are both chess pieces. And this wedding is bullshit.

When we reach the altar, my father places a light kiss on my cheek and steps back. He returns to the front pew, sliding into his seat without a word.

And that’s when I sense the piercing sea-green eyes of my father’s head of security.

Roman Keane.

He’s not loud in his movements. Not obvious. There’s just a subtle click of his placement as he moves into position behind my father, a silent shadow dressed in all black.

His posture is textbook professional with his straight spine, hands clasped, eyes scanning, but something about him is… tight. Contained in a way that screams danger.

Glancing over my shoulder, I catch his intense stare, taking in the cut of his stubbled jaw, the set of his square shoulders, and the tension radiating off him in waves.

He’s not here for me, though. Not anymore.

And yet… his eyes drill into my dress and how my auburn hair is pinned under a jeweled tiara.

Kingston Viacava clears his throat beside me like he’s already bored.

Even in high heels, the godlike groom still towers over me. My gaze wanders over his black suit and inky dark hair slicked back from his tanned brow. He symbolizes sin with a quick trigger finger. A gangster who could murder a man with one look and coerce the priest into blessing him afterward.

His expression is blank, like it always is when he bothers to look at me. Kingston is cold, controlled, and completely calm given the situation we’re both locked into. Not even the faintest flicker fractures his handsome facade when our eyes finally find each other.

I stand tall, shoulders drawn back, chin high in defiance. Today this mafia princess will become a queen. But I’ll never be his queen and I’ll never bow to him as my king.

One wrong touch, one wrong word, and I’ll explode.

The priest begins speaking. Something about unity, faith, devotion. I hear none of it under the roar of blood in my ears. My jaw is clenched so tight it aches.

I’m not afraid, though.

Rather, I’m furious.

Kingston leans into the side of my face. His breath brushes my cheek, warm and infuriating.

“Say the vows, princess. Unless you’d rather be buried in that dress,” he says in a growl just above a whisper.

I offer him a saccharin sweet smile, laced with a hint of disgust.

“Bury me then, asshole,” I whisper back. “At least I’ll die never having endured you as my husband.”

His lips twitch like he’s amused, but I see it—the tension in his jaw, the way his hand curls ever so slightly at his side. He didn’t like my counter. Didn’t like an O’Callaghan standing up to a Viacava.

I don’t have to look over my shoulder to know our families are watching our every move.

My father sits in the front pew like a king on his throne, his expression carved from granite. His silver hair is neat, tailored black suit impeccable, ringed fingers clasped in front of him as if he’s presiding over a business meeting instead of his daughter’s wedding.

In the aisle next to him, Lorenzo Viacava, Kingston’s father, is just as glacial. He holds the silver handle of a cane, gold watch gleaming beneath the sunlight pouring in through a skinny framed window.

Neither man smiles at the union. They don't need to because they’ve already gotten what they needed. Our compliance.

Truth is, this elaborate wedding isn’t about love. It’s about strategy. A way for the Red Tribunal to control our families.

The priest starts the ceremony and chants a bunch of phrases that should mean something.

“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

That’s it. No rumble of thunder or flash of lightning. No heavy rainstorm to symbolize the unshed tears within me. Just seven words that end one life and signify the start of another.

I brace myself, expecting Kingston to turn away and keep his clenched hands at his sides like they were through the entire ceremony. But the moment the priest backs up, he steps into me, slides one hand around my waist, the other curling possessively around the side of my neck.

Then he kisses me.

Hard.

It’s not sweet and definitely not romantic. It’s more of a showpiece statement.

The crowd erupts in applause, some louder than others. I hear his brother Bronx’s low whistle somewhere behind us and the click of paparazzi cameras.

But all I can focus on is Kingston’s mouth. How it’s warm, the pressure firm, and the man far too confident in his ability.

Minty-flavored lips sweep over mine again before he pulls away—just enough for his breath to coast over my skin as he mutters, “Eyes are on us, princess. Be a good girl and play your part.”

My fingers twitch at my sides, resisting the urge to slap him. I want to shove him off me and spit in his face for daring to touch me without my permission. Even if he’s my husband and I’m his wife.

But my damn knees are traitors.

They don’t buckle, but they dip, just enough for me to curse myself for the weak reaction. For letting him taunt me.

I school my expression, letting the flutter in my chest pass, and rise to my tiptoes, kissing his cheek with a mocking laugh, pretending I’m into it.

The crowd eats it up.

Of course they do.

All they see is a magazine worthy couple. A dolled-up bride and her brooding groom offering a glimpse of passion. They believe in the fairy tale even though it’s draped in blood debts and pure silk.

I smile but it's all teeth.

A low chuckle sounds as we walk arm in arm past the front row.

Bronx Viacava.

The wild one. The younger brother with a devil’s grin and a reputation that keeps the FBI busy. Wearing a black tux, he stands and slaps Kingston on the arm, his bow tie undone like he couldn’t even pretend to care.

He leans in just enough for his voice to carry over the bustle of guests. “She’s gonna eat you alive, bro.”

I don’t turn to give him the satisfaction of a glare.

The man holding my hand has no clue whom he just tied himself to.

Kingston doesn’t miss a beat as he deadpans back, “I’ll enjoy watching her choke.”

Bronx lets out a low laugh, clearly delighted.

Kingston squeezes my hand a little tighter and guides me down the front steps as if he’s done this a hundred times. The perfect suave gentleman who’d put a knife to my throat if we met in different circumstances.

The car ride is quiet. Neither of us speaks our mind even though we're alone. There’s no point hashing out the facts. We’re married now. And we both understand our wedding was orchestrated by powerful men who move pieces in the dark and call it legacy.

Outside, Manhattan whizzes past in a blur of lights and shadows. Inside the chauffeur-driven car, the atmosphere is suffocating while we refuse to look at each other.

Kingston sits beside me, composed as ever. One arm resting across his thigh, the other draped over the leather armrest like he owns the whole damn city. And he does. New York is the playground for the notorious Viacava men and their puppets.

Despite his silence, I catch the flick of his gaze, how it slides across my bare shoulder, lingers at the curve of my collarbone, then drifts back to the window like it never happened.

He’s trying to look unaffected. Like the ring on his finger doesn’t weigh a damn thing or the vows we exchanged—spoken with invisible guns to our heads—aren’t carved in stone and the contract sealed with the Red Tribunal’s wax crest.

His jaw ticks when I shift, the silk of my gown whispering across the leather upholstery. I adjust one of the diamanté straps to test if his attention returns again.

Still, he doesn’t speak.

Not until the looming silhouette of the Waldorf appears ahead, its rooftop glowing, the entire hotel glittering like it’s dressed for royalty. Which, tonight, it is.

Only then does he finally turn to me.

“You know what’s waiting inside,” he says.

I hum, tilting my head. “An open bar and at least two dozen people I’d rather throat punch?”

“Eyes. Are. On. Us,” he says, each word heavier than the last. “We smile at each other. We dance together. We act like we wanted to stand at the altar. Because if anyone suspects this truce is unstable, everything our families have built will come crashing down.”

I let the silence stretch, knowing he’s right.

“Yeah, I get it. You want me to parade around as a happy, obedient bride,” I mutter. “What a dream.”

His gaze sharpens, but he doesn’t rise to the bait.

“You’re not my bride now, Livvie,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “You’re my wife. Try not to start a war before dessert.”

I arch a brow, lips curling. “No promises.”

He exhales a light chuckle, then glances back out the window, his reflection lit by the city’s glow.

They’ll want a picture-perfect couple tonight—an image of unity between two blood-soaked dynasties.

Instead, we’re a fuse and a spark. And if they’re not careful, we might blow the whole thing up before the cake’s cut.