The Mafia Prince's Auction (Fake Dating Forced Proximity)

Chapter 1 Elio

Someone ought to assassinate me.

Not a day from now. Not after the bachelor auction.

Right now.

The auctioneer smiled so brightly I briefly wondered if he was paid extra every time he ruined a man's dignity.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he boomed into the microphone. "Our final bachelor of the evening."

Applause thundered through the room and the dreadful sound of champagne glasses clinking rang in my ears. Someone had the audacity to wolf-whistle at me.

Wonderful.

I stood backstage, one hand around a whiskey glass that was just to show the bidders that I was a classy gentleman, wondering if throwing myself through one of the Plaza Hotel windows would save me the embarrassment of being here.

"...the elusive heir to the Romano family..."

More applause, and the sound of New York’s aristocracy clapping.

I peeked through the curtain, only realizing a little too late that it was a big mistake.

The swarm of men in elegant suits and women in expensive dresses baffled me. Half the city's elite had shown up.

The mayor was there. CEOs sat with socialites, exchanging forced-smile pleasantries. To make matters worse, all of my father’s business associates were there, too, all of them in their Sunday best. And—God help me—women actually holding bidding paddles.

My heart sank at their sight. There was not a single woman amongst them that I could envision spending the next seven days with.

My father sat in the front row like a smug Roman emperor, eager to see blood at the Colosseum.

He caught my eye and grinned—an evil, malevolent grin that said only one thing: This is your own damn fault.

Maybe. Maybe not.

Either way, this entire disaster had started exactly twenty-four hours earlier, with my father freezing every account I owned.

My father had an empire worth billions of dollars, and as many men to run it as needed, and yet he had to single me out.

Uncle Lucas stood by the entrance of the hall, sweat on his forehead. On an impeccable person wearing a bespoke suit, such an austere expression bode only ill omens.

“That bad, uncle?” I asked, climbing the steps to the hall.

I never understood why an indoor hall had to have steps.

What was that all about? I also didn’t understand why my father, Don Franco Romano, needed to operate out of a hall instead of a regular old office.

Surely his ego wasn’t that big, was it? I personally could not stand the man and made sure that every effort of mine landed me as far away from him as possible, and yet, all of that was in vain because here I was.

“That bad, Elio,” Uncle Lucas said. He was my father’s consigliere, one of the chosen few that my father trusted. “You’ve been gone for a week now. Your father fumes.”

“It’d have been more than that had my assets not been frozen,” I said, adjusting my uncle’s tie so that it didn’t jut out as much.

“Madonna, Elio!” Uncle Lucas said, placing his weathered hand on my cheek.

He worried. He was good people. But sometimes I wondered if he worried too much.

I was not a teenager. Hadn’t been one for a long time.

I was closer to my thirties than my teenage years, and as saddening as that was in terms of all mortal men shall age and eventually perish, I thought that it should’ve earned me a little bit more respect than I was currently getting. But that was just me.

“You’ve known him longest, uncle,” I said, standing by the door, but lacking the courage to open the door and step in to face the music. “Tell me…am I being unreasonable?”

“Were it anyone else, perhaps not, but you’re the don’s heir,” Uncle Lucas said. “And that territory comes with its share of responsibility. Responsibility you’ve been avoiding. And now…”

“The other shoe drops.”

“My God.” I sighed. I pulled my cuffs to my wrists, making sure my tattoos were well hidden. Father knew I had them, but he liked to pretend I didn’t. If I could help his delusions, that was something.

“I do not envy you,” Uncle Lucas said, giving me a little push as he opened the door for me. “Good luck, nephew.”

I gave him an it’s-going-to-be-all-right grin before the door closed behind me. He gave me no such grin in reciprocation. Only more worry. That made my mouth dry up. Surely it wasn’t that bad.

“Elio!” my father’s voice boomed through the hall, and I was a little boy once again, caught holding one of the revolvers that my father kept in his desk.

My blood froze for a split second before I reminded myself that that was a long time ago, and nothing bad had happened.

I hadn’t pulled the trigger. He’d taken the revolver from me. He hadn’t hit me.

He'd never hit me. But he didn’t need to. The man had a voice as deep as the last trumpet. And his eyes, well… that was just overkill. He gazed at you like his looks could strike you dead where you stood.

He sat there at the other end of the hall, behind a table the size of a fucking continent. And it was not an empty table. There were tchotchkes, memorabilia, picture frames, collector baseballs in glass cases, and a Tommy gun directly aimed at whoever dared to approach the desk.

On the grand table, there was also a computer, an ashtray, and an edge-to-edge map of Sicily underneath a glass top.

He sat there smoking a fat cigar, a man who truly embodied the “years young” part of seventy years young. He had a full head of hair, a moustache that looked like it belonged on the face of a Mussolini soldier, and sharp green eyes gazing from behind aviator spectacles.

He took one of the glass cases containing a Derek Jeter-signed baseball, took it out, and threw it at me with great force. I caught it before it could hit me.

“That's what you called me for? Father-son bonding time? You should’ve said.” I threw the ball back at him. “Instead of freezing all my assets, Father.”

“I didn’t realize there were other ways of getting His Highness’s attention,” he said, taking the ball, checking to see if the autograph was still there, and then placing it back in the glass case. “But you have a way of forcing my hand, Elio.”

“What is it, Father?” I asked, striding across the checkered floor of the hall, catching a glimpse of my reflection on one of the windows.

I looked haunted. That was intentional. I didn’t want my father to see me looking well.

That’s why my hair was tall and ruffled, dark circles under my eyes from too little sleep, and my face looking pulled in, straight-up gaunt.

“You look like shit,” he said, glaring at me.

“And Lucas tells me you were throwing some kind of lascivious party in Miami. A party that’s been going for a whole week.

It’d surprise me if you haven’t contracted some sexually transmitted infection.

It’d surprise me if your liver’s still working okay.

Are you…sober enough for this meeting, Elio? ”

“I’m not drunk enough for this meeting, Father,” I said, walking over to the trolley where he kept his drinks. I poured myself a double shot of whiskey and then looked at him. He shook his head. For a man who never drank, he sure liked to keep a lot of alcohol in his office.

“You disappoint me greatly,” my father said. The man was surprisingly fast for someone as old as him. In two strides, he was standing next to me, taking the glass from me and slamming it down on the trolley.

“Could’ve let me have a sip of that before whatever bile it is you’re planning to spew,” I said in protest.

This was not the first time the man was making my life miserable, and I was certain that this was not going to be the last. The man ran a tight ship regardless of whether it was his business or his family.

For him, the two were inseparable. Romano Industries had just closed another profitable quarter, and that meant that my father’s net worth inched closer to Forbes’ Top 50 richest guys alive or whatever.

It also meant that I, who had been given a stake of fifteen percent in the company, had become a billionaire against all efforts of mine.

But what good were those billions when he could freeze them at a moment’s notice?

And for what? Throwing the wildest party in Miami?

That had been something. A dozen mega-yachts off the coast, drinks, drugs, and some of the sexiest women in the entire fucking world.

It was the party to top all parties. Even Dan Bilzerian was fuming on his socials for not being invited to it.

It was my pièce de résistance, my magnum opus, a party with a budget of twelve million dollars with all my friends.

The best part was, we were doing all of that several miles off the coast, in free waters, where no rules applied to us.

No police ships, no helicopters, nothing to harsh our buzz.

Until, of course, His Highness decided to freeze all my assets, demanding an audience with me.

For those glorious seven days, I’d pretended like I was a normal guy. Well, an insanely rich normal guy, but a normal guy nonetheless. Someone who had no connections to New York’s mafia world, someone whose life was not a frame-by-frame recreation of every mafia movie ever.

Even though my father insisted that we’d gone legal since the turn of the century, I could never quite shake off the mafia thing.

It stuck to me like bad odor. And believe me, I’d tried.

I’d tried to run away as far as I could and change my name, change my identity, but when your face is one of the most recognizable faces in the world, the world grows small, and you feel a claustrophobic panic clawing at your throat, and…

Oh God, I was beginning to hyperventilate.

“Elio,” my father said, placing his hand on my shoulder. “I may be disappointed, but you misunderstand me. I’m not your enemy.”

“With family like you, Father, who needs enemies?” I said, looking out the window.

He’d built this entire estate on Long Island to remind him of where he’d come from.

Italian architecture, Italian marble and stones, fountains, flowers, terraces, verandas, all that stuff that screamed, “Hey, look, I’m an Italian mafioso.

” It made me want to gag. I was all for honoring my roots, but this… this was tacky.

“You’re right on that count,” he said, taking my glass from the trolley and bringing it to his lips. “We are family. And that means that your faults are mine to blame. I’m going to try to fix those faults one last time before calling it quits for good.”

“Why? You got any vacation plans?” I scoffed. Ever since Mother had died ten years ago, Father had latched himself onto me vehemently. I was his project, apparently. Someone to whip into shape so that I’d be the next don. And apparently, I had no say in the matter.

“No, Elio. I am retiring, however,” he said, handing me his glass.

He’d left half of the whiskey in there. I downed it in one.

“And I’ve decided something. I’m going to see if you can be responsible.

If you can be, that’s good. Then I leave it all to you.

But if you don’t grow out of your immature ways, then you’re cut off.

For good. Forever. I intend to leave a legacy after myself.

And my legacy shall not contain a reckless son. ”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Mind how you speak to me, boy. I hold your fate in my hand. You want to stay a part of the family and hopefully one day inherit the business? You’ve got to play by my rules.

And if you don’t, well, you’re not worthy of being called the don’s son, you’re not worthy of being the chairman of Romano Industries, and I’ll have to elect someone else. Preferably from the family.”

When he said family, he meant his extensive mafia outfit.

I sighed, realizing when I was defeated. Without the money, without the influence, without the family, I was nothing, and not the good kind of nothing. I’d be out on the streets. People would laugh at me. Look, the don’s son, stripped of everything.

I’d also be in danger. My father had enemies. I was also an enemy to those people. If father was serious about ousting me, that would also mean—

“Fine. I’ll bite,” I said, gritting my teeth.

“That’s more like it,” he said, smiling at me. It was a smile lacking all mirth. A smile of veritable scorn.

“What do I have to do?”

“If you won’t learn responsibility, then it shall be taught to you forcibly. I am arranging a charity auction tomorrow. All proceeds from it will go toward the mayor’s new homeless shelter program. I happen to like the guy. I want to fund his drive. And my auction’s going to do just that.”

“And what, you want me to be the highest bidder on the auctioned items?”

“What benefit would that serve? Sometimes, Elio, it seems that you don’t know how money works.

Maybe this will teach you,” he said, smirking at me.

“No. You’re not going to be bidding on anything.

You’ll be one of the things that go on auction.

A series of dates with the city’s most eligible bachelor.

Seven days of penance for the seven days of shenanigans you’ve been pulling in Miami. I’d say that’s about fair, isn’t it?”

“You’re whoring me out?”

“Even whores have notions of dignity, discipline. You’re worse than them,” my father said.

And that genuinely hurt. “The world sees you as the apple that fell far from the tree. Perhaps if you can play ball at the auction tomorrow, smile, wave, and spend seven days with the highest bidder, maybe I’ll reconsider the judgment I’ve made about you. ”

“And my accounts?”

“Naturally, whoever it is that bids on you, I’d expect you to give them a good time. I’ll be unfreezing your accounts tentatively. If you play nice, Elio, you keep your accounts. If not, well, enjoy your accounts for one last time.”

“This is a game to you, isn’t it?” I asked, perplexed. To my surprise, he turned to face me with a genuinely mirthful smile on his face. He was back at the trolley, pouring himself sparkling water.

“I’ll let you decide that for yourself tomorrow, when the highest bidder reveals herself,” he said, raising his glass at me.