Marry Me Not (House of Ferraro #2)

Chapter 1

FABIANA

Where the hell were the programs?

Not in my purse. Not in the trunk of the car. And definitely not by the check-in desk where they were supposed to be laid out in neat, perfectly spaced rows.

I popped out of the small storage room that I’d searched through just in case and brushed a strand of curly hair out of my face.

Goddamnit. I’d wanted tonight to be perfect. To go out on a high note. This was likely the last event I’d ever organize. The wife of a mob boss wasn’t expected to work, and if everything went according to plan, that was exactly what I’d be by next spring.

“There you are!”

I turned just in time for my sister-in-law, Cleo, to shove a champagne flute straight into my hand. “Don’t tell me you’re still looking for the programs.”

“I swear I had them on me when we left the house.”

Cleo hooked an arm around my shoulders and turned me toward the room. “Fabi, do me a favor and glance around. Do any of these people look like they’re wandering around lost?”

My gaze skimmed over the gallery space. There were about a hundred or so guests milling around, admiring my brother’s private art collection. The Rothko on the far wall was proving to be a hit.

“I guess they seem fine,” I conceded.

“Great. Now take a breath, relax, and enjoy the fruits of your labor.” Cleo looped her arm through mine. “Aren’t you glad you were able to wrap up your work in Switzerland early so you could stay in New York? It would’ve been a shame if you’d had to fly back to Europe tomorrow.”

I winced. “Yeah. So glad.”

The truth of the matter was that I’d been sacked, but Cleo didn’t know that. No one here did. The only break I’d caught on my way out of the UN events team in Geneva was that the reason for my abrupt departure was being kept strictly confidential.

I’d planned to give notice next month and tell everyone I was moving back to New York to be closer to family. Instead, my access had been revoked last Monday, and I’d been escorted out by security. Just remembering it made my cheeks burn.

But hey, at least I still had tonight.

Rafe had given me the kind of opportunity other people would kill for.

Over the last nine months, I’d personally selected three pieces for his art collection.

My art history degree hardly qualified me to make decisions involving millions of dollars, but he knew how much I loved art, so he’d told me to go for it.

He’d also asked me to put my event planning skills to use and organize an exhibition showcasing the collection.

It had been the most exciting project I’d ever worked on by far.

Although, when I’d first told my twin sister, Elena, about it, she’d scoffed and called it my consolation prize. She’d said it was the least Rafe could do after summoning me back to marry a man I’d never met.

I took a sip of the champagne. “You really think it’s going well?”

“Everyone is raving about the Motherwell you acquired. And don’t even get me started on how many times I’ve heard someone say the collection has a clear thesis.”

Relief filtered through me. Thank God. My confidence couldn’t withstand another blow.

The crowd parted, and my brother appeared. He paused to shake someone’s hand before joining us, his expression softening the second he looked at Cleo. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you two.”

They shared a quick kiss before Cleo pulled away. “Tell Fabi it’s going well.”

His gaze moved to me. “It is. The thoughtfulness behind it has killed all the unfounded rumors that the collection is just a front for money laundering.”

A wry smile pulled at my lips. The rumors were definitely not unfounded, but they weren’t entirely true either.

Sure, some of the collection had helped smooth out certain…

financial matters for my brother, but his interest in art was real too—real enough that he’d funded the Foundation for Emerging Artists, the nonprofit exhibition space we were standing in tonight.

“I’m glad I could help.”

Cleo sniffed. “Do I smell food? God, I’m starving. I think the buffet is open.” She grabbed her purse. “I’m off. You two want to join?”

“I’ll find you in a few minutes, tesoro,” Rafe said. “I want to have a word with Fabi.”

She bounded off, leaving the two of us alone. A few quiet seconds passed as we watched people drift through the gallery.

“You don’t hold it against me, do you?”

I glanced at him, noting the tension in his jaw. He hadn’t looked at me when he asked.

“Of course not. We all have to do our part.” I knew Rafe loved me.

I also knew that he was still don. I could’ve made both our lives hell by putting up a fight and telling him I wouldn’t marry the man he’d picked for me.

But what would that have gotten me? I’d have damaged our relationship, put him in an impossible position, and would’ve probably ended up walking down the aisle anyway.

In a family like ours, everyone was expected to make sacrifices for the benefit of the whole. I was no exception.

He nodded. “I hope you can be happy with him.”

“Me too.” Love or romance were unlikely to be in the cards, and hoping for either was risky. Sure, Cleo and Rafe had it, but for every loving marriage in the mob, there were half a dozen that weren’t. Our own parents’ marriage had been a prime example of that.

What I was hoping for was much more realistic—someone I could get along with. That would be enough for me.

At least, that’s what I told myself.

I finished my champagne and put the empty glass on the high-top table beside me. “I’m going to walk around. I’ll find you and Cleo later?”

He squeezed my shoulder. “Yeah. See you.”

My heels click-clacked against the polished marble floors as I weaved past the crowd in the main gallery.

That sharp, staccato sound reminded me of the exhibit hall back at the Palais des Nations in Geneva.

After Elena was hired at the Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights, she’d pushed me to apply for the events role with the UN.

My twin saw my coming back home as a tragedy, but if I was honest, my life abroad had never quite fit me as well as I would’ve liked.

In Geneva, I’d been Fabiana Castellano. A fake. A piece of fiction.

In New York, I was once again Fabiana Messero. The daughter of a dead mob don. The sister of his successor.

It was hard putting down roots somewhere while living under a fake name on borrowed time. My life in Europe was never meant to be permanent because I’d always known I’d come back here when duty called.

I reached a smaller room where a piece I wanted to see was displayed. Spotlights had been angled toward the painting, but the rest of the space was kept dimly lit so nothing would distract from it. There was no one else here.

Bride’s Door loomed before me, vast and solemn. As I walked up to it, goosebumps rose over my skin. It was simple in the way only great art could be. Nothing decorative. Nothing eager to please. Just force and raw emotion that all but broke through the canvas and reached deep into your soul.

It spoke to me the moment I first saw it, most likely because of the situation I’d found myself in. I could almost hear the chiming of wedding bells as I stood there in the empty room.

Soon, I’d be hearing my own.

I let out a breath. The blank canvas to the right of the white panel gave the impression of standing before a door.

What would I find once I stepped over the threshold?

Behind me, footsteps sounded against the concrete.

I glanced over my shoulder. A man had entered the room. He stood in the darkest part of it, his features lost to shadow, his body nothing more than a tall silhouette.

I turned back to the painting. A few moments passed, but I could no longer focus on it. The silence in the room had taken on a strange charge.

“What do you think?” I called out.

“What is it?”

My breath hitched. The man’s voice was low and rich, sliding over my skin like warm oil.

“A painting by Helen Frankenthaler. Bride’s Door.” When he didn’t say anything, I took it as an invitation to continue. “Some people think it’s a meditation on marriage as a threshold into a new life.”

“And what do you think?”

A shiver ran down my spine. With a voice like that, I bet it was easy for him to get anyone to listen to him.

“Um.” I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.

“When I look at it, I feel uncertainty. To me, it’s about the moment just before marriage.

When you’re still yourself, but you know everything is about to change.

” My throat tightened. “You expect to become someone new, but you hope the person you’re marrying will still make room for the parts of you you’re not ready to give up. ”

My words filled the air between us, fluttering through the silent room like pages torn from someone’s diary.

Too much. Why did I say all that to a stranger?

“What about you?” I asked, eager to shift the attention off me. “What does it make you feel?”

“Nothing.”

A strange agitation skated beneath my skin. “Nothing?”

A beat. “Nah.”

Awkward. I’d definitely overshared, and he clearly had no intention of doing so himself. I’d come back later, when he was gone, and enjoy the painting again in solitude.

My hands twitched as I tried to find some excuse to escape without making it seem like I was running away.

For God’s sake, I was the organizer. There were a million things I could say I needed to do.

“I should go check on—”

“Actually, there’s something.”

“Oh?” Relief filtered through me. I glanced over my shoulder to find the man had moved closer, but he was still in the shadows. Still hard to make out.

“It makes me feel…wonder,” he said.

I nodded encouragingly. “I can see that. Definitely.”

“Makes me wonder why anyone would spend money on an unfinished painting.”

My heart stuttered. What? “It’s not unfinished.”

“She hadn’t even covered the canvas.”

“That’s on purpose.”

“Seems like she ran out of paint.”

A flabbergasted laugh bubbled up from me. “She didn’t run out of paint. Frankenthaler was highly regarded even in her own lifetime. This isn’t some hack.”

“Sure seems like it to me.”

I glanced toward him again. More like glared. He was standing just on the edge of where the shadows began to recede.

Walk away. Grab another champagne. Forget about him.

“It has no artistic value,” he said in a definitive tone that made it sound like he was the world’s expert on the topic. “No demonstration of skill. A scam. I wonder what convinced Messero to buy it.”

Not what. Who.

Don’t listen to him.

But doubt had slipped in. What if this man was right? What if this had been a bad choice on my part, and everyone but me, Rafe, and Cleo knew it? Had I embarrassed my brother without even realizing it? Had he made a bad mistake trusting me with this?

No, this guy was wrong. He was dismissing the painting outright without even trying to understand. “If all you see when you look at this is an unfinished canvas, I’m afraid you have a poverty of imagination,” I muttered.

“Sounds fatal,” he drawled, sounding faintly amused.

I wasn’t a person who was easily angered. I had a steady temper. Or at least I thought I did, but right at this moment, I couldn’t hold back.

“You know, I pity men like you.”

A chuckle. “This oughta be good.”

“Men who look at something they don’t understand and dismiss it instead of seeing it for the invitation it is.”

“An invitation to do what exactly?”

“To look inward.”

“Maybe I did once and didn’t like what I found enough to do it again.”

Anxiety rushed through me like a spark catching dry grass. For the first time, it occurred to me that this man might not be one of Rafe’s polished society acquaintances or some public company executive.

He might be someone from the other side of my brother’s life. The side people lowered their voices to discuss.

I swallowed. “You’re a friend of my brother’s?”

“Business partner.”

I didn’t have to guess what kind of business he meant.

“Soon we’ll be family.”

Shock ignited through me.

He stepped into the light, and I stopped breathing.

I knew that face.

I’d seen a photo of it for the first time nine months ago when Rafe had informed me about the arrangement he’d made on my behalf.

Cosimo Ferraro. Underboss of the Ferraro family.

And my fiancé.