Bride for the Mobster (Lords of New York #1)

Chapter One

Sofia

A low wind blows past the red maple tree outside the window, and I watch the moment a leaf detaches from its branch.

It pirouettes, a fiery crimson against the backdrop of the crisp blue sky.

I watch as it dips and sways gracefully before landing on the ground.

I burrow deeper into my armchair, watching as it blows away, swaying out of sight and into the depths of the city.

A city I intend to explore once I finally move out of my parents’ house and into my own place.

I smile as the thought slips in, my eyes fluttering closed as I soak in the muted chatter around me and the gentle melody of a Chopin nocturne drifting through the lounge.

Despite everything, I’m going to miss some of this when I finally move out—the music, the elegance of the space, this view.

The lounge is my sanctuary in this cold house.

Its true magic lies in the floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a perfect view of the ancient maple tree outside.

I’ve stolen moments here during holiday breaks from school, first boarding school in Switzerland and then university in Europe, noting the season-changing colors of the leaves from visit to visit.

“Are you really going to keep staring at that tree all day?”

Elena’s voice pulls me from my thoughts, and I turn around to find five pairs of eyes staring at me.

Three belong to my sisters Elena, Gia, and Bella, and the other two to my twin cousins, Matilde and Arianna.

From the expressions on their faces, it’s clear this isn’t the first time one of them has tried to address me.

“What?” I ask defensively, sitting upright to face them. “Why are you all staring at me like that?”

“You didn’t hear a word we just said, did you?” Elena, my closest sister at twenty-two, asks, her pretty blue eyes narrowing on mine. “We were talking about you, Sofia. You know, about your plans now that you've finally completed your master's."

Oh right.

I look away from their eager faces and back at the tree outside, questioning if I’m ready to share my plans with them. At some point, I'll have to tell my family that I plan on moving out and experiencing life on my own, like that red maple leaf moments ago

I’m choosing to pursue a dream my parents dismiss as a “hobby,” and I know it’s not going to go over well.

“Sofia?” Gia’s soft voice brings me back. “It’s okay if you don’t have any plans yet.”

“I found a job,” I blurt, figuring I might as well start with my siblings and cousins, as practice for when I break the news to my parents. I watch with amusement as the curiosity in their eyes turns to shock.

Elena is the first to snap out of it. "Is it at one of Dad's companies?"

I swallow hard. "No," I say, playing with the ends of my hair so I have something to do with my nervous hands. “I found a job at a prestigious fashion house in the city. I submitted my portfolio, and they offered me a position as a junior designer. I start in a couple of weeks.”

Silence.

"You haven't told Dad, have you?”

"No, I haven't," I say truthfully. "I plan on making the announcement at dinner tonight.”

Along with my intention to move out of my parents’ house.

This is the part I’ve been looking forward to the most. Being independent and experiencing life on my own.

A job, a little studio apartment in Soho, and making normal friends.

For once, I want to share meals with people and talk about things outside of whose father owns the biggest yacht or which celebrity is attending whose birthday party.

“But you have a business degree too,” Elena says quietly. “

“I’m sure I can apply the knowledge at the fashion house in Midtown—”

“Midtown? But that’s—”

“Yes,” I cut Elena off with a nod. “It’s far enough that I’ll need my own place.”

Another long beat of silence follows before Gia’s voice cuts through. “Mom and Dad are not going to like it.”

No, they won’t. But it’s something I need to do. I want to experience life outside of the gilded cage my father's money provides. His rules. His expectations. His world where daughters are currency.

Living abroad showed me that no one expects much from you when you’ve never known struggle. When everything was handed to you on a silver platter. Those low expectations should have discouraged me from working hard, but they didn’t.

The eldest daughter of a new-money multi-millionaire should be hopping from city to city, spending her daddy’s money until she lands in the arms of another wealthy man and then spend his money too.

Why push yourself?

Why would a girl, born in wealth, pushed into the best private schools and given everything she could ever want…crave an ordinary life?

My father sent me abroad for one reason only: to become the perfect trophy wife.

Boarding schools in Switzerland weren't about education—they were about polish.

Learning which fork to use at important dinners, how to speak four languages fluently enough to charm business associates, how to dress for every occasion.

The MBA was his idea, too. Not because he wanted me working, but because wealthy men prefer wives who can discuss markets and portfolios at dinner parties without embarrassing them.

The fashion degree? That was my rebellion.

He allowed it only because he assumed I'd use it the way my mother uses her modeling background—as an attractive footnote on my resume, nothing more.

He never expected me to actually want to use either degree.

To him, education is just another accessory, like my mother's diamond necklace.

Something to make his daughter more valuable on the marriage market.

But I want more than to be decorative.

I want a real job where I design clothes, not just sketch them for fun? A studio apartment where I pay my own rent? My father would see it as rebellion. Worse, as humiliation. What would his associates say if Giovanni Marino's daughter was working like some common girl who needed the money?

I can already see the sneer on my mother’s face at the mention of leaving behind all the luxuries my father's house provides to fend for myself.

She'll remind me that girls from good families don't leave home until they marry.

That my job is to be beautiful, accomplished enough to impress, and available for whatever match my father arranges.

No, my parents are not going to like it when I tell them my plans.

“I’ll tell them at dinner,” I say again, more to myself this time.

"Why don't you tell Mom first?” Bella, the youngest at seventeen, chirps and my head whips up at her words. “She’s on her way here.”

My heart stutters, and I straighten in my chair when Mom’s perfume hits me.

That expensive floral scent she's worn since I was a little girl.

A rich, complex blend of dark florals, hints of orchid, layered over warm, sensual amber.

It's a scent that clings to the air, bold with a calculated allure like the woman that wears it.

Then she steps in, holding a crystal vase of flowers.

She’s a vision of elegance and ice. The poise she’s had from her modeling days, before she gave it all up to marry my father.

Her brown hair is pulled back so tight it looks painted on, not a strand out of place.

Her lipstick is a perfect crimson slash across her face, those green eyes cold as they sweep the room.

She’s always kept her nails long and sharp, painted blood red to match her lips.

Watching her, I’m reminded of why I wanted to study fashion design. I wanted to create the beauty she embodied. Except I didn’t want to follow in her footsteps and become a model. No, I wanted to be the one dressing them.

Hell, I designed the dress she’s wearing tonight, and it looks stunning on her.

A sleek, emerald green silk sheath that falls just below her knees.

The fabric drapes perfectly over her figure and pairs beautifully with the black stilettos.

My eyes rest on the delicate diamond necklace at her collarbone.

Her favorite necklace, which she only ever wears for important occasions.

But then again, every day is an important occasion for my mother.

“What are you girls doing in here?” she asks, her voice clipped as she walks in with her flowers. “You should be helping set the table. We’re having company for dinner tonight.”

“Right, we should get to that.” I start to get up, but a hand yanks me back down to my seat. I turn to find Elena’s eyes narrowed on mine.

“Tell her,” Elena mouths.

I shake my head. “It’s not the right time—”

“Do it now, Sofia,” she pushes and we both watch as Mom sets the vase on the side table, adjusting the blooms with those long red nails. “Tell her now!”

The other girls nod and I watch with horror as they all get to their feet and announce that they’re going to help set the table, leaving me to face my mother alone. “Good luck,” Gia offers with a smile as she follows them out.

“Are you going to tell me what you and the girls were whispering about?” Mom asks when we're alone, her back turned to me as she fusses over the arrangement.

Right.

Slow breaths, Sofia.

“So…” I clear my throat and climb to my feet, fighting the urge to wring my fingers.

I’m twenty-four, for Christ’s sake. It shouldn’t be terrifying to share my plans with my parents, but I am about to go against their expectations.

I owe them this conversation, I tell myself.

“I’ve been thinking, Mama. About what I'm going to do now that I've completed my master's.”

She turns around, pinning me in place with those green eyes so like mine yet utterly different. “And what would that be, cara?”

“I think it’s time I started working… in the fashion industry.”

“Not this again,” she says with a frown, turning back to her flowers.

"I'm serious, Mama. I've already found been offered a position at a fashion house in Midtown, and I’m looking for a place to move—”