Dante (Midnight Mafia #1)

Chapter 1

GINA

“You look like a gal who could use some Champagne.”

I turn. A black-haired girl with dramatic eyeliner and glossy red lips presses a glass into my hand.

“I know who you are,” she says. “The sacrificial lamb who’s going to fix everything between the families.”

“Is that what they’re saying?” I ask before taking a sip.

“That’s the polite version. I’m Angie, Dante’s cousin.”

Angie flashes me a saucy wink before pulling me toward a red velvet sofa with a perfect view of the glittering crowd.

Once we’re settled, she turns to me. “So how does it feel to be married to the most powerful don in Manhattan?”

“Since you know so much about me, you must know it wasn’t my choice. We met formally at the altar tonight.” I lower my voice. “But tell me. Was there a lot of competition for Dante among the local girls?”

Angie widens her eyes and laughs.

“Competition for the most gorgeous, most powerful don in Manhattan history? Honey, when his wife died, every single girl in the five boroughs started circling. Their parents were even worse, shoving their daughters under his nose so he could take a good sniff.”

Just what I thought.

It has only been a week since my father revealed the news.

I’d known this day would come, of course. I’d spent my whole life watching it happen to other girls.

Their fathers would get the phone call. And suddenly, there was a wedding to plan.

My friend’s cousin disappeared for three weeks. Then she returned with a diamond the size of a kumquat and a husband with a matching knife scar and scowl.

The daughters of men in the organization don’t get normal lives.

We don’t get choices.

We don’t even get to flirt and kiss. At least, I didn’t.

When I was a young teen, the minute my mother found out I’d kissed a boy from art class, I was on a plane to a relative’s wine estate in Sicily for the summer.

That’s where I first met him.

Dante Ricci.

Today, my new husband.

It had been at the harvest party. A winery celebration for the hundreds of workers employed at the estate. I didn’t know his name then, but I couldn’t stop watching him move through the crowd.

I had been impressed by the way he shook hands and looked each person directly in the eyes. Regardless of whether they were field workers with callused palms or dignified local politicians.

Then I’d been mesmerized when he took off his expensive-looking silk jacket. And revealed his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing tanned forearms.

He was the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen in my life.

That included movies, TV, and the covers of my best friend Alice’s trove of romance novels.

Watching him, I felt something stir inside me.

It sounds ridiculous, but I sensed our lives would connect.

Like the universe had circled that moment in red, even though there had been no reason for me to believe it could possibly happen.

I mean, he had to have been at least thirty, with the kind of confidence that comes from a lifetime of people obeying you without question.

I was nothing more than a wide-eyed schoolgirl with blond curls and a sea-green stare. The kind of girl grown men didn’t see.

And if that wasn’t enough reason to know Dante would never notice me, there was his gorgeous new wife by his side. And I SAW the way he looked at her…

I knew even then that I would give anything to have my future husband look at me that way. Like she was heaven and stars to him.

Well, she struck me as rude and arrogant.

Especially when she pulled on his sleeve, signaling it was time to go.

He turned, and at that moment, our eyes met. It was the briefest instant, but I remember it clearly, frozen under the full moon.

And then he disappeared.

It had happened so fast, I wondered if I’d imagined it.

I had no idea who he was.

But here I am, seven years later, suddenly married to my Sicilian summer crush.

“So what made you agree to the marriage? Assuming your folks gave you a choice.”

“Oh, I had a choice,” I say.

Though in truth I only agreed when I realized it would be my secret crush, Dante Ricci, I would be marrying.

“But my parents were keen on this match. And they reminded me that by moving to Manhattan, I’d be closer to the Academy of Visual Arts.”

Angie screws up her face. “School? When you’re married to a gorgeous mafia don? Honey, we need to talk.”

We both laugh, and I realize how strange this must sound to her.

“You’re right.” I turn my attention to Dante across the room as he greets friends and family.

I lean closer to Angie. “My mother told me Dante is a widower. Tell me about his wife. Everyone here says how much he loved her. And that I have some pretty big shoes to fill.” I pause. “How did she die?”

“Your mother didn’t tell you?” Angie seems surprised.

“No. I’m not sure she knows herself.”

“Well, they called it an accident.”

“Who does? What kind of accident?”

“The official police report determined she was drunk and walking down a rocky stretch of the beach. She slipped and hit her head on a rock.”

Dante’s first wife, a drunk?

“What beach? Why was she drunk?”

Angie shrugs. “The beach outside the Riccis’ Long Island estate. It was a Fourth of July party. I wasn’t there, so I can’t give you a personal report.”

“Why weren’t you there? You’re Dante’s cousin.”

“Second cousin,” she corrects. “And it was for elites only. My family’s pretty low in the pecking order.”

“Why do you think she was drunk? Was she an alcoholic?” I ask.

“Mary? Not a chance. Probably afraid of what a little too much vino would do to her complexion.”

“So she stumbled and hit her head on a rock,” I say. It’s hard to imagine that beautiful, arrogant woman ending her life in such a banal way.

“Yep. That’s the official coroner’s report. But The Manhattan Social Diary gossip column tells a different story.”

“Manhattan Social?”

Angie looks at me like I was born yesterday.

“Close enough. It’s a gossip column chronicling the scandals of Manhattan’s rich and powerful. It’s syndicated internationally.”

“What did they say?”

“They don’t name names. But last July, they reported that Mary died under ‘mysterious circumstances.’”

“What does that mean?”

“Nobody talks about it.” Angie glances around as if someone might be listening. “But read the Manhattan Social story from last July yourself.”

Hmmm. Dante’s last wife died under mysterious circumstances.

In the novels Alice tells me about, this means the hero killed her.

Or someone else did.

“Should I fear the same fate?” I say, forcing a light tone.

But Angie’s answer—and the way she crosses herself—makes my blood run cold.

“Only if you displease him.”

“You said he loved Mary! If this Manhattan Social suggests he killed her, why? Are you saying she displeased him?”

Angie just shrugs. Then she signals a server carrying Champagne to refresh our glasses.

“Dante may be handsome. But it’s often the beautiful ones who have the blackest hearts. Old Sicilian proverb.”

I look over to find Dante in the crowd. He stands near the window, speaking quietly with three men in dark suits.

Pride surges through me as I take in how gorgeous he looks in his custom black tuxedo, the snake tattoo on his neck peeking out.

Even now, at our wedding reception, I can see the outline of a gun at his waist.

Somehow, that excites me too.

I try to catch his eye. I’m almost sure he sees me, but Dante doesn’t glance my way.

“They call him the Iceberg,” Angie says, noticing my disappointment.

“Why?”

“Because nothing melts him. Especially since Mary’s passing. But now that you’re his wife… maybe you can thaw that cold heart.”

I turn to watch my new husband again.

We’re virtual strangers.

I don’t even know his middle name.

And he still hasn’t looked at me.

Not once since we were pronounced man and wife.