Sicily
I launched the last of Dad’s whiskey at the wall behind his desk, watching his dark-paneled study walls soak in the scent and amber stickiness. He sat frozen in his leather chair, watching, not attempting to stop me because he knew this was wrong.
I’d known this would happen; of course, I had. It was what was supposed to happen. Being unmarried at the age of twenty-two, not already being pregnant and useless—it was all a blissful lie, a waiting game.
Women were forced to marry men they didn’t know.
Women lost themselves to men like Milan Lucca.
But my life was not supposed to be tied down by a man. I wasn’t supposed to be my father’s business pawn.
Fiorella stood in the office doorway, clapping and cheering at the sight of my defiance. “Get another bottle!”
Dad waved his hand at her dismissively. “Fiorella, leave.”
There was a small grunt of disapproval before the door clicked closed, and Dad finally looked at me. I almost felt bad; this was my father, the man who had been the best dad the Famiglia could have offered until money and work had hit, and he’d chosen them over me.
It didn’t make sense to feel bad, but I did. A lot of what I felt didn’t make sense.
“You cannot behave this way when you move into Milan’s house. Do you hear me, Sicily?” He warned with a small sigh. He folded his arms, leaning back in his seat as he said, “I allowed it in my home, but he is now my Capo dei Capi. I cannot protect you once you are married.”
“Capo dei Capi?” I echoed, my jaw dropping.
We had multiple leaders, the Dons, who all made their own decisions, but we didn’t have a boss of bosses like the Outfit did.
If Milan was Capo dei Capi, that meant he owned everyone, had a hand in everything.
Dad nodded slowly, blinking our eye contact away. “We need the help. Our reputation is awful; we have no social standing.”
“That’s not my responsibility,” I snapped, flopping into the chair opposite his desk and closing my eyes. “There are a thousand other ways to make money, and you chose women.”
He ran a hand over his face, the exhaustion dripping from his skin like the whiskey on the walls. “We all do things we aren’t happy about to get by in this life. This is just something you have to do to get by.”
He spoke as though his hands were as tied as mine, but I couldn’t help but focus on the lie. He was a man; he could have opened any business he wanted rather than keep the one his father opened. We were not the same.
I straightened in the chair, the same one I’d climbed onto when I was little and wanted to spend time with him, and whispered, “I will never forgive you if you make me do this.”
Dad smiled sadly. It was a small expression, and I realized in that moment that all the times I’d been a kid and thought he was a happy father were just a lie. Perhaps his smiles had always been sad, but that was the fate he was tying me to; sad smiles and a future that was out of my control.
“Then, I guess in four weeks will be when we say goodbye.”
Four weeks.
I could’ve run, gone to Canada like Matt had always talked of so he could be free with Elena, but nobody escaped the Cosa Nostra.
In four weeks, I would be a Capo dei Capi’s bride. I would lose myself trying to survive a dangerous, emotionless man, but I would survive no matter what it cost me because no man got to ruin me.
“Four weeks,” I repeated, the damning time frame clogging in my throat. “Fuck.”
MILAN
“Are you out of your goddamned mind, Milan?” Adriano had remained silent for the entirety of the car ride home and only now that we were within the clean, mildly lemon-scented confines of our home did he speak.
“Marrying the youngest one wasn’t even a good idea, but that one?
” He began to pace as I sat rigidly on the long cream couch, the only furniture we had bought for our new house so far.
I stared at the white walls, at the pillars and archways of pure white stone.
If I lived alone, I would have kept it this empty forever, possibly placed flowers on the windowsill.
It stabilized my mind as it had my mother’s, to exist somewhere quiet and empty, pure even, and I certainly required recalibration after entering the Bianchis’ gray manor.
It had reminded me of Hugo’s house, and that had made me think of the blood.
“I require a wife, Adriano.” I raised my brows. “I successfully found one.”
“Yeah.” he scoffed. “But not her!” His tone was short and his pacing fast. This indicated anger, but I could not place what he was angry about. This was not his marriage. This did not concern him. Adriano’s emotions had always been easy to learn, but this was not something I was familiar with.
I pressed my thumbs into my aching temples as I said, “I do not understand your emotions.”
“I don’t understand your logic!” he shouted, and I winced. “Did you not hear her? Did you not hear what she was saying about ‘some of us want to protect our sisters’ like you fucking didn’t?”
“I did.”
He made a sound that sounded like a laugh, but I believed it to be one of those angered noises. “And you want to marry somebody like that? Somebody who sure looks like she won’t accept you?”
“I would prefer to marry Sicily over Fiorella, yes,” I answered, still rubbing the sides of my head. “It was evident that Fiorella’s mannerisms and choice of clothing were not her own. She allowed herself to be shaped into somebody that she was not, and I am incapable of unseeing that. But Sicily…”
Sicily Bianchi had given me a headache with her improper attitude.
She did not conform to what I had expected her to, had smelled faintly chemical, which I assumed was explained by the unusual paint splatters covering her clothes, but most importantly, Sicily had protected her sister, the person that Fiorella truly was beneath the persona their parents had wanted her to be for me.
She had not permitted anybody, including me, to become somebody that they were not, and that was… intriguing.
There was no requirement for me to enjoy her company to respect aspects of her personality.
She was part of a business arrangement; I would marry Primo’s daughter and help repair their reputation, and he would fall under my rule, like the Gioffres would once the marriage had been finalized.
That meant that I was not expected to have emotions toward her, and Adriano’s dislike was irrelevant.
My Consigliere sighed loudly, tipping his head back as he said, “Four fucking weeks then?”
You are capable, Milano.
You are capable, Milano.
You are capable, Milano.
“Yes,” I replied. “Four weeks.”