1. Vittoria
ONE
Vittoria
“ R emember what I said,” my father says in a low voice as he helps me out of the car. His hand tightens slightly around mine—enough to warn, but not enough to hurt. “Do not mess this up, Vittoria.”
I swallow hard, plastering a small, albeit fake, smile on my face. “Of course,” I say, though my tone is a little harder than I had intended.
My father's eyes narrow slightly, but he says nothing more as we approach the grand entrance of the Mariano estate. It’s cold out; there’s snow on the ground, and flutters continue to fall. It’s beautiful and if I had the time, I’d admire it. But right now, I don’t—I have other matters on my mind. The gravel crunches beneath our feet, and the snow wets our shoes as each step brings us closer to the lion's den.
I smooth down my emerald green dress, feeling the weight of expectations pressing down on my shoulders. This dinner party isn't just a social gathering; it's a show. I’m set to marry the head of the Mariano family here in Boston. The union is to secure a powerful alliance between the two families that spans across the Atlantic Ocean. And I'm the pawn being moved across the board.
A part of me is glad that I’m moving halfway across the world, my father isn’t the nicest of men. He gets a little rough when things don’t go his way and I’m his favorite target. My brothers are older than I am, and they’re both broader and taller than our father. I get that he can be stressed sometimes, but I shouldn’t have to be the one who takes the brunt of his aggression.
I’m going to miss my best friend the most—Alastríona. She’s been my best friend since we were little girls. God, being in a different time zone than hers is going to be hard, not being able to see her every day is going to be even harder.
As we reach the ornate double doors, I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what's to come. The butler greets us with a polite nod, ushering us into a foyer that screams money and doesn’t look homey at all—in fact, it looks like something out of a museum.
"Domenico!" I hear someone call out in a cold and detached voice. I turn toward the sound and come face to face with my soon-to-be husband, Cesare Mariano, the head of the Mariano family. "Vittoria," he greets with a slight nod of his head.
"Mr. Mariano," I say, my voice steady despite the nerves fluttering in my stomach. I’ve been taught to respect my elders and to obey what a man says. I know our world and the ways in which women are supposed to behave.
His eyes appraise me, and I feel like a prized mare being evaluated at auction. He runs his gaze down my body, and it takes everything in me not to recoil. He turns to my father and greets him, the two begin to talk quietly and I tune them out.
Cesare is forty-two, he lost his wife last year to a crazed asshole who was taking out powerful families around the world. Beatrice Mariano had been married to Cesare for twenty-one years; they have six children. The eldest, Lorenzo, is twenty, next are the twins, Ciro and Elisabetta who are almost nineteen, then Giovanni who is eighteen, and the two youngest are Sofia and Valentina, who are sixteen.
I’m set to marry Cesare, after the last year’s craziness—when one of his own that went on a killing spree—he and the rest of the Boston Elite Syndicate needed to strengthen their ties with the criminal underworld. For some reason, I was the unlucky girl who drew the short straw to marry the man who is almost twenty-five years my senior.
Cesare's hand finds the small of my back, guiding me further into the huge mansion. I resist the urge to shrug it off, knowing my father's watchful eyes are upon us.
"Come, let me introduce you to the children," Cesare’s voice still cold as ice.
We enter a lavish sitting room where five of his children are seated. Their conversations halt abruptly as we enter, all eyes turning to me. I recognize them immediately from the dossiers I've studied: Lorenzo, the twins Ciro and Elisabetta, Giovanni, and Sofia. Valentina, the youngest, is absent.
"Children," Cesare announces, "this is Vittoria, my future wife."
The word hangs in the air like a bad smell. I force my smile wider, ignoring the looks of disdain and curiosity directed my way. Lorenzo, the eldest, steps forward first. He's handsome, with his father's strong jaw and dark eyes. Those eyes now regard me with thinly veiled contempt.
"Welcome to our home," he says, his tone clipped. "I hope you'll find it... comfortable."
I nod, knowing full well the double meaning behind his words. This isn't just their home—it's about to become my gilded cage.
The twins approach next, mirror images of blonde hair and icy blue eyes. Ciro's handshake is firm, almost challenging, while Elisabetta's is limp and dismissive.
Giovanni hangs back, his gaze analytical as if trying to solve a particularly tricky puzzle. Sofia, the youngest present, doesn't even try to hide her disgust.
As Cesare leads me around the room, making stilted introductions, I can't help but wonder where Valentina is. Is she hiding, revolted by the idea of meeting her father's child bride? Or has she found a way to escape this suffocating dinner that we’re about to have?
I envy her, wherever she is. As Cesare's hand tightens possessively on my waist, I realize that my own chance at escape has long since passed. I'm in the lion's den now, and there's no going back.
The tension in the room is palpable as we move towards the dining area. I can feel his children's eyes boring into my back. Their snide remarks—calling me a whore and a gold digger are made in Italian. I get it; they assume I don’t speak the language. But fuck them, I do. My father ensured that we knew the languages of our parents. I’m fluent in Italian and Irish—not to mention German, Spanish, and Mandarin. My mam wanted me to be able to hold my own, to be adept in multiple languages so that I could have an advantage. She had hoped for a different life for me, but it was never on the cards. My father always planned on using me as a pawn in his world. Cesare's hand remains firmly on my waist, a constant reminder of my new reality.
As we enter the dining room, I'm struck by the sheer grandeur of it. A massive crystal chandelier hangs above a table that could easily seat twenty. The china gleams, and the silverware sparkles under the warm light. It's beautiful, but cold—much like everything else in this house.
"Please, sit." Cesare gestures to the chair at his right. I obey, carefully arranging my dress as I take my seat. My father sits across from me, his eyes still sharp and watchful.
Just as the first course is about to be served, the dining room door swings open. A girl, no older than sixteen, bursts in. Her dark hair is windswept, and her cheeks are flushed. This must be Valentina.
"Sorry I'm late," she says, not sounding sorry at all. Her eyes land on me, and for a moment, I see a flicker of something—sympathy, perhaps—before it's replaced by a carefully neutral expression.
Cesare's jaw tightens. "Valentina, so nice of you to join us. This is Vittoria, your future stepmother."
The word 'stepmother' is practically sneered, and I watch as everyone tenses—it’s a damn joke. I'm barely older than Valentina herself. I’ve just turned nineteen, for God;s sake.
"Hi," Valentina says, sliding into the empty seat next to me. "Welcome to the family."
There's an edge to her voice that I can't quite place. Before I can analyze it further, the first course arrives.
Conversation during dinner is stilted and formal. Cesare and my father discuss business in low, serious tones. Whereas the children all continue to speak in Italian, talking about my looks, my hair, my accent, and my body. It takes everything in me not to bark back a retort: I’m supposed to play nice. As my father cautioned me many times on the plane, I’m not to open my smart mouth.
"So, Vittoria," Lorenzo suddenly speaks up, his voice cutting through the tension. "Tell us about yourself. What are your... interests?"
The way he says 'interests' makes it clear he doesn't expect me to have any of substance. I take a sip of water, buying myself a moment to compose my thoughts. I really despise how I’m being treated, I understand that their mother died only a year ago, but I am not at fault for any of what’s happening, if I had my way, I wouldn’t be here, but I don’t—just as they don’t.
"I enjoy reading," I begin, my voice steadier than I feel. "Particularly classical literature. I'm also fond of art and have been studying Italian Renaissance painters."
"Really?" Valentina asks, leaning in. "Who's your favorite?"
"Botticelli," I reply without hesitation. "His work is so intricate and full of hidden meanings."
For a moment, Valentina's carefully crafted indifference slips, and I see genuine interest in her eyes. But before she can respond, Cesare clears his throat, effectively ending the budding conversation. "Vittoria's education has been... adequate," he says dismissively. "But her primary role will be as my wife and the mother of my children."
The words hit me like a slap. I feel my cheeks burn with humiliation, but I force myself to maintain a neutral expression. Across the table, I see my father nod approvingly at Cesare's words.
Valentina's fork clatters against her plate, the sound jarring in the sudden silence. "Excuse me," she mutters, pushing back from the table and rushing out of the room.
Cesare sighs heavily. "You'll have to forgive Valentina," he says to me, his tone condescending. "She's still adjusting to the idea of a new... maternal figure."
I nod mechanically; my appetite completely gone.
“Now, we have more pressing matters to attend to,” my father says, his voice dry and his eyes boring into mine. I brace for what he’s about to say; knowing my father, it could be anything. "We should discuss the wedding arrangements."
My stomach churns at the word 'wedding.' I've known this was coming, of course, but hearing it discussed so casually—as if it were a business transaction rather than the rest of my life—makes it all too real.
"The ceremony will take place in three weeks," Cesare says, his tone leaving no room for argument. "That should give us enough time to make all the necessary preparations."
Three weeks until I'm bound to this man for life. I struggle to maintain my composure, focusing on the intricate pattern of the china plate before me.
"Excellent, it’ll be a Christmas wedding," my father agrees. "And the venue?"
"Here, of course," Cesare replies. "The gardens will be covered in snow by then. It'll make for a picturesque setting."
"And what about Vittoria's dress?" Elisabetta suddenly interjects, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "I'm sure she'd look simply stunning in mother's gown, don't you think, Father?"
The table falls silent, the tension so thick you could cut it with a knife. I hold my breath, waiting for Cesare's response. His eyes narrow dangerously, and for a moment, I fear he might lash out at his daughter.
Instead, he turns to me, his gaze calculating. "What do you think, Vittoria? Would you like to wear Beatrice's wedding gown?"
It's a test, I realize. A cruel, impossible test. If I say yes, I'll be seen as trying to replace their mother. If I say no, I'll be disrespecting her memory. There's no right answer, and they all know it.
I take a deep breath, choosing my words carefully. "While I'm sure Beatrice's gown was beautiful, I think it would be more appropriate for me to have my own dress—perhaps something that honors both our families' traditions."
Cesare's eyebrows raise slightly, the first hint of genuine surprise I've seen from him. My father's eyes narrow, but he says nothing. The children exchange glances, their expressions a mix of shock and begrudging respect. I take a small breath, relieved that I managed to avoid any more upset for them.
"A diplomatic answer," Cesare finally says, his tone unreadable. "We'll discuss it further with the wedding planner."
The rest of the dinner passes in a blur of forced small talk. By the time dessert is served, I'm exhausted, my cheeks aching from the effort of maintaining my polite smile.
As we prepare to leave, Cesare pulls me aside. His grip on my arm is firm, bordering on painful. "You did well tonight," he says, his voice low. "But remember, Vittoria, in this family, we value obedience above all else. I expect you to fall in line."
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. As we walk toward the car, my father's hand on my back, I catch sight of Valentina watching from an upstairs window. Our eyes meet for a brief moment, and I see a flicker of pain in them before she disappears from view.
In the car, my father is unusually quiet. It's not until we're halfway to the house he has rented while we’re here in America that he finally speaks. "You're playing a dangerous game, Vittoria," he says, his voice cold. "Don't think I didn't notice your little act of defiance over the wedding dress."
I stare out the window, watching the city lights blur past. "I was just trying to?—"
"I don't care what you were trying to do," he cuts me off. "Your job is to please Cesare, nothing more. Do you understand?"
I nod, swallowing hard. "Yes, Father."
As we pull up to our house, I can't help but feel a sense of dread. In three weeks, I'll be free of my father and I can’t wait. But as I recall the calculating looks from Cesare's children and the possessive grip of my soon-to-be husband, I realize that my battle is only just beginning.