Chapter 35
Present
Upper-East Side, New York City
SUNDAYS IN LONG ISLAND ALWAYS felt slower, softer – like the estate itself exhaled relief when we visited. Winter sunlight spilled across the marble foyer, pale and cold through floor-to-ceiling windows. Mom’s laughter echoed faintly somewhere deeper in the house.
It was peaceful. Or it should have been.
I sat across from my father in the sunroom, glass walls opening to dormant gardens dusted with February frost. My tea steamed between us, a delicate wisp against the winter light.
He’d been in a good mood – almost radiant with plans and the upcoming sit-down. We were waiting for lunch to be plated.
Everything was normal. Easy.
Until he asked, casually as if discussing weather, “How are things with Matteo?”
A warmth curled in my stomach. A smile I didn’t fight tugged at my lips.
“All’s good,” I said lightly, stirring my tea. “We… Get along.”
“Bene.” He nodded, pleased. “I’m glad.”
I felt that warmth widen. My father’s approval was precious. But then – he kept speaking, unaware he was pulling a thread I didn’t know existed.
“I must admit, cara,” he said as he reached for his glass of Barolo, “When Matteo first proposed marriage, I thought it was insane. But…it worked.”
The world stilled.
The grandfather clock kept ticking – loud, intrusive.
I blinked once. Twice.
“What?” I exhaled with a soft laugh.
He paused, wine halfway to his mouth. Eyebrows raised. “What?”
I sat up straighter, pulse hammering against my ribs. “What do you mean Matteo proposed marriage? I thought it was your idea.”
Confusion flickered across his features, then something like realization.
“No,” he said carefully, as if the truth were obvious.
“It was Matteo’s. I asked him to meet me three months ago because we needed the support.
Marriage was his suggestion. He had strong logic – I agreed.
And we were right.” He smiled, oblivious to the way my chest constricted.
“The expansion is moving. Marriage helped.”
My fists tightened until my knuckles went white.
Matteo asked for marriage.
Not business alone.
Not convenience on my father’s terms.
His idea.
I swallowed, but the room felt suddenly cold, glass walls turning to ice. My father reached out, touching my hand with a rare softness.
“Don’t worry, tesoro. You’ll be divorced in ten months. This is temporary. Just see it through. You’ll be Underboss soon. You’ll have power then.”
Temporary.
Divorced.
Power.
Every word felt like glass in my lungs.
He stood, kissed my hair, unaware of the hurricane behind my eyes. “Come. Lunch is waiting.”
He turned toward the grand dining room, footsteps fading across marble.
I didn’t follow. Couldn’t.
I sat frozen for a long moment – tea gone cold, heart burning hot.
Matteo wanted this.
He orchestrated it.
Before I knew.
Before us.
Slowly, I rose. My movements were quiet, controlled – because if I let one thing slip, everything would. I picked up my coat, my handbag, my gloves. The chandelier’s crystals caught on the gold of my wedding ring as I walked out.
I did not go to lunch.
I walked down the long hall toward the front doors, heels echoing like distant gunshots, breath sharp in my throat. I opened the front door, winter air slicing across my cheeks.
I stepped out onto the cold stone steps.
And left.
3 months ago
Enzo DeMone’s study always smelled of old cigars and older power – leather bindings, aged scotch, history layered like dust along mahogany shelves.
The curtains were half-drawn against a gray Manhattan afternoon, rain tapping softly against bulletproof glass.
Golden lamplight washed the room in amber shadows, glinting off the rings on Enzo’s fingers as he gestured me deeper inside.
I’d been summoned – no small thing either. And he didn’t call just anyone.
He sat behind his desk like a king carved from stone, posture rigid, eyes unreadable. A crystal decanter between us glowed like molten gold.
“Matteo,” he said, voice smooth but heavy, “Our expansion is hitting walls.”
I kept my face neutral, jaw relaxed. “Which walls, exactly?”
Enzo sighed – a quiet exhale that aged him. “The other Bosses…” His gaze flicked toward the window. “They are not warming up to Francesca as the future Underboss.”
I did not let my reaction show, though something flared warm in my chest at the sound of her name.
Francesca. Fire in stilettos. The woman who once pushed me against a hotel wall in Vegas, kissed me like she hated me, made me come in my pants like a loser, then walked out – leaving me wanting more. Two months ago.
I hadn’t forgotten.
I never would.
“Despite it,” Enzo said firmly, “This expansion will go through. I will make sure of it.” His eyes sharpened on mine. “But I need your help.”
I approached the desk slowly, hands in my pockets, every step measured. Enzo DeMone respected confidence – not desperation.
“What kind of help?” I asked.
He leaned forward. “Representation. Validation. You’re respected, feared. They listen to you when they do not listen to her.”
I let a quiet beat stretch between us, the rain outside soft like a drumroll. My glass of scotch burned pleasantly down my throat.
He offered me an opportunity.
He didn’t realize I’d walked in wanting something too.
I spoke low, deliberate. “There is a way to strengthen her position. Permanently.”
“I’m listening.”
I kept my tone smooth – unthreatening, logical.
“You want them to accept her as future Underboss. But they need a reason. A tie. Something binding.” I paused, meeting his gaze head-on. “What about marriage?”
A stillness settled over the room.
Enzo’s first reaction was tension around his jaw. He didn’t want to give his daughter away like a negotiation piece. I respected that. But power had its own language, and I knew how to speak it.
“Marriage,” he repeated slowly. “It is not something I want for her. Not now. And not with you–”
“Not with me, of course,” I quickly defused the situation.
“I’m not Italian. They would never accept it.
” I lied, knowing they wouldn’t give a shit if the money was right.
“I mean, sure, my family business’ power would no doubt pull the deal through, but I’m sure you can find a nice, Italian man for Francesca. ”
Those last words tasted like acid on my tongue.
Enzo laughed at that. “No man in the Cosa Nostra will marry Francesca. They’re terrified to death of her. They think she’s a psychopath.”
I shrugged. “I would argue she’s just as good of a leader as you or myself.”
That made Enzo look at me differently. Knowing I didn’t hate Francesca or feel threatened by her. Especially after our not-so-smooth deal we worked on last year.
“Marriage… Love… It will all make her look more… Human.”
“Italian mob uniting with a Cartel…” He murmured “Two empires. One front. That would send a message, wouldn’t it?”
“I mean, sure,” I faked innocence. “But like you said. It’s not realistic–”
“Would you do it?” Enzo asked, serious. “If it was… Realistic.”
I chuckled. “Enzo…”
“I know what I’m asking. For a good percentage.”
I pretended to think about it. “I mean… Settling down is the last thing on my mind, but… Our families have helped each other out for decades.”
I took a deep breath, then delivered the final blow with a warmer tone.
“I wouldn’t say ‘no’ to a friend of my father’s.”
Enzo studied me for a long moment. I didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
I wanted Francesca – not as a trophy or pawn, but because even then, before fate pushed us into each other’s orbit, she was the only woman who ever left me wanting more. A marriage of convenience? Maybe. But I knew, deep down, it could be something else.
Something dangerous.
Something worth the risk.
Finally, Enzo sat back, exhaling through his nose. “A marriage of convenience for both. Divorce after a year, when Francesca is Underboss.”
“It seems like the strongest way,” I murmured.
His fingers drummed once on the desk – final, decisive.
“Very well.” His voice lowered. “Then it’s decided.”
A quiet thrill slid through me.
Before I left, he stood and extended his hand. His grip was strong – respect sealed in bone.
Outside, the snow hit harder, slicking the stone steps as I walked into the evening air. New York shimmered with wet light – headlights smearing into gold streaks on the pavement. I tucked my hands into my coat pockets, smirk tugging uninvited at my mouth.
She will think her father had chosen this arrangement, that fate had shoved her into my world like a hand of cards dealt by chance.
But it had been my careful orchestration that placed her beside me at the altar. A sacred deception – not born of malice, but devotion.
I’d offered her family a lifeline, and in return, she would be mine.
As I walked away, shoes crunching in the snow, I thought about how soon she’d learn that convenience was merely the facade… Love, obsession, and inevitability lay beneath it like fire under ice.
One day she would look at me and realize the truth. That I had always chosen her first.
I’d come into that room for business.
I walked out with a path to Francesca.
And for the first time, I understood something dangerous about myself.
I didn’t want a fucking alliance.
I only wanted her.
And mark my goddamn words, I would.
Present
The city blurred past the car windows – gray skies, slush on sidewalks, February biting like a warning.
I didn’t speak the entire drive home. My thoughts were too loud, too sharp.
Every memory of Matteo’s touch, his laugh, the way he kissed me like he owned the air in my lungs – rewritten. Reframed.
He asked for the marriage.
He wanted it.
He wanted me.
The private elevator carried me up in tense silence, the floor numbers blinking slow as a heartbeat. I stood rigid, arms crossed tight.
The doors slid open with a muted chime.