Mafia Bride's Mountain Men (Mountain Men Reverse Harem #6)

1. Maria

Maria

“You just have to be kidding me, Papa.” I stare across the small kitchenette of our tiny apartment, the mug of hot chocolate in my hand entirely forgotten.

What the hell has he been discussing with Sal?

I know they met last night. Sal—or Don Salvatore Moretti, to give him his full title—is both the local mafia head and my father’s oldest friend.

They trace that friendship all the way back to their primary school days, when as two five-year-olds they managed to get into as much trouble as two kids that age could possibly achieve—or more, if you believe even half my father’s stories about growing up in sixties “happening” Brooklyn.

Still very much a grimy, working-class neighborhood back then, though even at that time there had been talk of preserving the brownstones and turning the area into something more.

Funny, really… my father, an impoverished piano restorer and tuner, close friends with perhaps the wealthiest man within six blocks in any direction. They’d drifted apart over the years, of course, so it had been a surprise when the old man told me his old friend Sal wanted to see him.

“He’s really dying?” I ask, putting down my hot chocolate so I can serve the pasta e fagioli—ditalini pasta cooked with white beans, garlic, onion, and crushed tomatoes, and my father’s favorite weekday supper. Just as well, really, since it’s about all we can afford.

He’s already on his third Negroni. Thankfully, the gin bottle’s getting low, so he’ll only be able to squeeze in a couple more after dinner as the “digestivo” he says his stomach simply has to have.

I hand him his bowl, taking the other, smaller serving for myself. He smiles as he takes it. Say one thing for Papa—he enjoys his food nearly as much as he appreciates his drink.

“Yes, my angel. He really is dying. Lung cancer. He told me the medical name. Something like… metatastic abracadabra, I think.”

“Metastatic adenocarcinoma,” I correct him automatically. I’d read about it at the health center where I have my daytime job. A boring admin role, nothing clever, but between that and my night-time waitressing it pays the bills. Pretty much, anyway.

“Yes, yes. Anyway, apparently, it’s fast-acting.

He thinks he hasn’t much time left. That’s why he wanted to see me.

Partially to say goodbye, and partially…

the other thing.” His voice trails off, awkwardly.

He knows what I think about Tony. Why on earth has he agreed to this ridiculous plan of Sal’s?

“Well, Papa, let me be clear,” I say between mouthfuls. “I’m not marrying Tony.”

“But Maria, darling, he’s a fantastic catch. He’s Sal’s only son. The heir to the Moretti family. You’ll be set for life. I mean… I know it’s been hard for you. My income as a piano restorer has hardly been… well… least said the better.”

He straightens, waving his spoon at me. “But if you’re married to Anthony Moretti…

why, you’ll practically be a princess—queen, even, when Sal passes on and Tony inherits.

You’ll never have to worry about money again.

” His eyes sparkle, the thoughts racing ahead of him.

“And don’t forget, Sal said he’d forget all our debts, just cancel the loans there and then.

Think about it, Maria. We owe the Moretti family over two hundred and fifty thousand dollars now, between the capital and all the interest over the years.

We can never pay them back. Well… this way we won’t have to.

Like Sal says, we’ll be family. And la famiglia looks after its own. ”

He takes another mouthful of the hot, rich pasta, tearing a hunk of bread from the loaf on the table, dipping it into olive oil, and stuffing it into his mouth.

When he can speak again, he smiles and winks at me, conspiratorially. “And he’s a good-looking guy, yes, my sweetheart? A real Italian stallion, eh?” He chuckles, filthily, but stops when he sees my eyes narrowing.

“He’s a womanizer, if that’s what you mean,” I retort, reaching for the empty bowls and heading for the sink.

“He’s handsome, all right—I’ll give you that.

” I plunge the bowls into the soapy water, trying to pretend not to notice my father hastily mixing himself another Negroni while he thinks my back is turned.

I mentally add the cost of another pint of gin to the week’s grocery bill, suppressing a sigh.

“But boy does he know it. And from what I’ve heard, he’s a selfish little bastard who’s always been given his own way.

You really want me to marry that kind of man? ”

“But Maria, my dear, you will tame him. You will take him in hand, and?—”

“Ridiculous!” I snap, cutting him off mid-sentence. “He’s no good, and you know it.”

“But darling, there’s… well, there’s simply no other way. Sal says when he’s gone, our sixty years of friendship won’t mean anything to Tony. He says he’ll call in the debt. Demand repayment. We’ll have to sell our condo, baby. Sell it! And then where will we live?”

I pause, looking around. A basic two-bed apartment on the third floor of an apartment block in the unfashionable Bushwick neighborhood of Brooklyn.

Just a shared living room, bathroom, and kitchen, plus two bedrooms barely large enough to each fit a bed, a chest of drawers, and a wardrobe.

A damp patch in the kitchen where the gutter has leaked onto the brickwork.

Windows in desperate need of replacement.

It isn’t much. But it’s where I grew up. It’s safe. It’s warm. And it’s ours.

What should I do?

Would marriage to Tony Moretti really be all that bad?

At four years younger than me, and with both of us growing up in the same neighborhood, I’ve always known him—and he’s always known me.

He’s asked me out more than once over the past few years.

I always made an excuse. He obviously likes me. Well… wants me, anyway.

Perhaps marriage would change him. Calm him down. I dry the bowls slowly, stacking them back into the cupboard. And after all, I owe Papa everything.

My mother died giving birth to me. She had been very petite, apparently, and she lost too much blood.

The doctors did what they could, but it wasn’t enough.

Papa had to raise me alone. And all those years, he always put me first. Always made sure I had clean clothes for school, shoes that fit, a proper breakfast each morning, a hot dinner each night.

Looking back, I wonder how I never questioned why he didn’t join me for dinner half the time. Now I understand. There wasn’t enough for both of us. On those days he just smiled, poured himself a Negroni, and then afterwards, tucked me into bed with a story.

Now it’s the other way around. No one wants pianos tuned anymore. No one asks him to restore anything. And even if they did… his hands aren’t steady enough now. These days I’m the one who earns, and he stays home, doing what he can.

I sigh. One last favor. One final sacrifice.

My father looks up at me from the table, his half-finished drink in his hand. He says nothing. Just watches me.

“Very well,” I say at last, the words heavy in my mouth. “For better or for worse… I’ll do it.”

Papa breaks into a grin—all laughter and warmth, just like I remember from when I was a child. “You won’t regret it, my angel. You’ll see.”

“Mm.” I turn back to the sink, rinsing my hands slowly.

But deep inside me, a small, stubborn voice whispers the truth.

This is a mistake.

This party is hell.

I’m at the Moretti family townhouse in Bedford-Stuyvesant—one of Brooklyn’s most sought-after neighborhoods.

With no less than nine bedrooms, and about five thousand square feet of internal space, plus a huge, fully decked backyard overlooking a private park, I have to admit to myself that Sal’s classic brownstone makes our little apartment look dowdy and cheap by comparison.

The open-plan kitchen is all white marble and gleaming aluminum, and the main living room is probably bigger than our entire condo. Exposed brick, polished oak floors, minimalist furniture that somehow manages to look incredibly expensive while also being deeply uncomfortable.

Right now, I’m perched on one end of a white leather and chrome couch, with Tony sprawled across the other. His arm is flung along the backrest, his legs wide, the whole pose carefully arranged to broadcast confidence—power.

Even in his blue Armani suit and cream Ermenegildo Zegna silk shirt, he looks like a predator.

A panther, maybe. Muscles shift beneath the fabric as he moves, a thick neck flexing as he runs a ring-heavy hand through his perfectly styled hair.

His gold Rolex hangs loose on his wrist, as if losing it wouldn’t matter.

As if money is something he’s never had to think about.

His steel-blue eyes flick toward me, then away again, like I’m something he’s already decided belongs to him. Good-looking? Yes. I can’t deny that. He has that kind of masculinity that reeks of dominance, if that’s your thing. He smiles. Not like a man. Like something with teeth.

“And how are you two little lovebirds getting along? Is Tony looking after you, my dear?”

I turn, startled, to see Francesca crossing the room toward us. She’s immaculate as always, dressed in a crisp white two-piece that sets off a delicate pearl choker. Where Tony is all flash and force, his mother is quiet elegance. And for her age, she looks incredible.

I smile up at her. I don’t know her well, but she has always struck me as being a nice person. I can’t imagine what she’s going through. Forty years with Sal… and now this.

“How’s Sal?” I ask gently. “Papa was so pleased to see him the other evening.”

A shadow crosses her face, gone almost as soon as it appears.

“Oh, he’s as difficult as ever,” she says lightly.

“Insisting on coming down to greet his guests, but the doctors won’t allow it.

He sends his love and his blessings, my dear.

He hopes to make the ceremony… if he can.

” Her voice catches for a second. Her hand lifts toward her face, then drops again. The perfect hostess, restored.

“But what about you two?” she continues. “Have you discussed your honeymoon?”

“No, Mamma, we haven’t.” Tony shifts beside me, the gold bracelet at his wrist catching the light as his muscles tighten beneath the fabric.

“Your father and I honeymooned in the old country,” she says softly, her gaze drifting somewhere far away.

“The Italian lakes—Garda, Como, Maggiore… they were beautiful. The water… the flowers… and the sunsets…” She exhales, the moment fading.

“We took a villa,” she finishes simply. “Did you know, Maria, that Italy has over one thousand five hundred lakes?”

“No, Mrs. Moretti, I didn’t,” I say. “That’s amazing.”

“Oh, my dear, you are family now. Call me Francesca.”

“Francesca.” I return her smile. If there is one good thing about marrying Tony, it might be her.

I’ve never had a mother, because she died giving birth to me.

As a child, I used to lie awake imagining what it must be like.

Watching my friends with their mothers… wondering why I didn’t have one.

Wondering what I had done wrong. Why God had singled me out to be the only girl in my school without a mommy to love and be loved by.

Could this woman ever become that for me?

Beside me, Tony’s phone buzzes. He slips it from his jacket and glances down at the screen. Then he smiles. A private smile. But there’s no warmth in it. Something in my stomach tightens. I cannot help but let out a tiny shiver.

“Oh, Maria, darling, you’re cold,” Francesca says at once. “Come, I’ll find you a shawl. I’m sure I have something that will match that lovely dress…”

I rise and follow her upstairs, nodding and smiling as she chatters about honeymoon destinations.

But my mind isn’t on Italy. It’s on Tony.

On that message. On that smile. And on the bulge against his armpit that looked very much liked the butt of a handgun when his jacket fell open.

No matter how much I tell myself everything will be fine…

nothing about tonight makes me believe it.