Caterina pov
“It’s not a death sentence, Caterina. It’s a wedding.”
I grit my teeth. My brother Marco, six years older than me and my self-appointed life ruiner, is sitting behind his huge desk with his hands folded like he’s some kind of supervillain.
To be fair.
He kind of is.
At least, he is to me right now.
“Marco,” I say slowly, my breath hissing through my teeth. “It’s not just a wedding. You know full well that the Rossi family murdered our parents. Do you really think that history isn’t going to repeat itself, especially given the circumstances?”
The circumstances, of course, are too similar to ignore. It was six years ago that our parents died in a tragic accident on the way back from an engagement party.
My engagement party.
To the same man that Marco is asking me to marry again.
He huffs out a breath and steeples his fingers, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Caterina, this is the only way. I can’t keep the business afloat without the contracts that the Rossi’s bring in. and if we can’t keep the business afloat, we can’t—”
“—Find out what happened to mom and dad,” I interrupt him. “I know, Marco.”
We stare at each other across the desk.
Marco is the oldest of the four of us. Unfortunately, he’s not my only brother. There are two more, Dino and Sal, born close enough that anyone who can count would be a little suspicious, and then me.
The baby.
A title that Marco, at least, has taken seriously.
Sal, who is closest to me in age, at least treats me like a human being. I haven’t seen him in months; Marco has him on some kind of overseas connection for us since he speaks the best Italian.
Marco is also fluent, of course, and Dino can get by.
I can order ice cream and ask to see the beach, and that’s about it. Mostly I just make vowel sounds and look angry if people are using Italian around me, and it seems to work pretty effectively. Then again, I’ve never been to Italy, so I could be wrong.
But it hasn’t failed me yet.
Marco blinks at me. “Caterina.”
“Marco,” I respond. It’s not fair that he doesn’t have a longer name I can make him angry about. He knows that I hate being called Caterina, but he insists that Cat is too American.
As though we haven’t been American for at least four generations.
I fold my arms. “Do you really think that he is going to honor this stupid contract anyway?”
“He has to.” Marco’s face grows dark and shadowed as the specter of who we’re referring to enters the conversation.
Him. Elio Rossi.
Marco’s former childhood friend.
My one-time future husband.
And our current biggest enemy.
“Marriage contracts simply can’t be legally binding anymore,” I argue. “That has to be a thing that went the way of the dinosaurs in the ‘60s.”
“Dad wouldn’t have negotiated it if that were the case,” he says with a frown.
Marco frowns a lot these days.
For a split second, my heart aches for my older brother.
He was only twenty-eight when he was suddenly the head of everything. The legal business. The illegal business. Dad was a healthy man, and no one expected him to die.
Then again, I was only twenty-two when I became a mom so…
I guess no one got what they were hoping for.
Life has a way of doing that, I guess. Not in the sunshine and roses ‘everything works out in the end’ type of way.
No, for people like us, it’s mostly the ‘die-or-go-to-jail-for-a-long-time’ way.
Or, in my case, have a baby when you’re still a baby, and spend your life trying to hide her from her father, because if he finds out…
I shiver. That’s the other reason that I’m here begging my brother to call it off.
Elio cannot know about his daughter.
Because if he finds out, I think he’s probably going to kill us both.
Marco, however, thinks our family’s dwindling resources will be enough to keep Elio and his goons at bay until I can figure out the evidence that we need to prove that Elio and the rest of the Rossi family had our parents killed.
I think this is a terrible plan.
He has entirely too much faith in me, our security, our aunt Rosa, and our ability to pin the murder on Elio and his siblings.
I have faith in nothing anymore. My only hope is to keep my daughter safe. And you can’t do that based on faith.
“Marco. This is a shitty plan.”
“Language, Caterina.”
I do roll my eyes then. “I’m a grown woman. I’ve had a literal child. I can cuss if I want to.”
“Not if you’re going to play the part of a good Italian wife you won’t.”
I’m pretty sure that Marco’s ideas of a ‘good Italian wife’ are based on mob movies and grandpa’s tales of mob life in the 60’s, but I don’t point that out. To my knowledge, which is based on the internet and no other experience, Italian women have moved into the modern world with the rest of us.
Then again, families like ours and the Rossi’s go way back in history so…
Maybe old habits die hard.
“Luna will be just fine,” he says with a genuine smile.
I don’t return it.
He notices and the smile fades. “Caterina, seriously. You think that I would let my favorite niece come to any harm? If Elio finds her, he’s a dead man,” Marco says with a drop in his voice that makes me shiver.
Sometimes I forget that my brothers, while being my brothers, are also gangsters.
And they can be pretty freaking scary if they need to.
“I don’t doubt that. I know how much you love Luna. But Marco...” I squeeze my eyes shut against the tears that prick at the edges of my vision.
“Sorellina, I know. I know what I’m asking of you. I promise you that if I thought you or Luna would be in danger, I wouldn’t do it. It’s our only course of action, yes. But more than that, it’s a plan that will work,” he emphasizes the last word softly.
I shut my eyes tighter as the tears flood me. “Please don’t make me do this,” I whisper.
I really am begging now.
I hate it.
I don’t beg. Not to Marco, not my to other brothers. Not to anyone.
But I don’t want to see Elio ever again. Let alone marry him.
“Caterina, I swear to you. It’s a foolproof plan. We just need—”
“Zietto Marco!” a small voice squeaks.
Instantly I steel myself. Luna can’t see me cry.
I won’t let her know how hard this is.
To her knowledge, she’s just going to stay with Nonna Mia for a while, my grandmother’s ancient half-sister. Nonna Mia is a black sheep in many ways, and since her connection to the family is tenuous at best, we figure she would be the best spot to hide Luna while we try and bring down Elio and the Rossi.
Also, she lives on a farm and has goats. Luna will be charmed the entire time.
There’s a blur of dark hair and light-up shoes, and my child throws herself in Marco’s lap. He laughs, then stands and swings her around. Her delighted shrieks are a balm to my nerves, but only slightly.
Any guilt that I’ve had over the years about Luna not having a father is entirely erased when she’s around my brothers. The three of them are protective as hell, and they spoil her better than any father could. They’re perfect together.
All the more reason that we don’t need Elio to be a part of our lives. Now, in the future, or ever again.
“Zietto, did you know that the outside of your door is seven feet and three and one four inches tall?”
I grin while Marco pretends to be surprised and engages with Luna.
Luna has been really into measuring things lately. I would blame her kindergarten teacher, but I love it. Her school does a lot of experiential learning, and a local hardware store gifted them all tape measures.
Luna has always loved to build and construct, so she’s been really interested in understanding how things are put together. There’s no doubt that she’s been outside of the office carefully measuring the doorframe for this entire conversation.
There’s also no doubt in my mind that she did so blissfully unaware of what we were talking about.
Being five is a blessing, and Luna is an even bigger one.
“We should go,” I whisper. It’s not safe for Luna and I to be around the main house; there’s no doubt that Elio and his spies have eyes all over this place.
Luckily, my grandfather was a wildly paranoid plan, and Luna and I can use the tunnel system that he installed to our advantage.
Elio hasn’t found out about her yet. He appears to have no interest in me whatsoever past that night, which is fine with me.
I’m done hating him for his indifference.
Apparently, my brothers and I have moved into a much colder phase of our feelings for Elio.
Revenge.
“One week, Sorellina. Then we begin.”
I gulp.
One week of waiting.
And then it’s time to marry my worst enemy.
And the father of my child.
The drive back to our townhouse is quick. I live close enough to the main house that I’m easy to get to if needed, and so that the security that Marco pays for can easily zip back and forth if required to.
Hans, my personal bodyguard, is German, unusual for a mafia hire, but he’s a great guy and a fantastic bodyguard. I wave at him as we walk in. He waves back; he and his wife are expecting a little girl in a few months, and he’s been asking a lot of questions about Luna’s birth in order to prepare to be supportive.
I love that. It’s exactly the kind of father a kid needs.
After I settle Luna in for bed, I pour a glass of the prosecco that I’m trying to bring to market and go out to my balcony. I linger, just for a minute, and grab the locket that I never take off.
Its only contents are a picture of my mom and me.
“I miss you, Mamma,” I whisper at the sky.
My mother was a ray of sunshine. She had been against the marriage contract with Elio from the beginning and had only agreed when the last of her uncles was thrown in jail, right before I was born.
I wasn’t certain what the exact terms of the contract were. My dad and Elio’s dad had come up with them while they were out drinking and carousing in Atlantic City, of all places, and they had ensured that neither one of their families had access to the safe deposit box.
A brilliant plan.
My mother thought so as well. She berated both of them, but at the time, I hadn’t been born yet. The deal was to have Giovanni Rossi’s first son marry Antonio De Luca’s oldest daughter.
Who turned out to be me.
To my knowledge, Marco still hasn’t seen the original document, and neither has Elio. The location of the original contract is still a mystery.
But the terms aren’t.
The Rossi family runs a shipping empire. They import luxury goods from every corner of the globe, but mostly through Europe.
Those goods come in to ports that were, at one time, staffed by De Luca workers. The De Lucas would then take the goods, along with anything else that showed up in those crates, and turn them into cash, which the Rossi’s would get a cut of.
A healthy cut of goods that were both legal and illegal.
The Rossi family is Italian. Like, Elio and all of his siblings except one were born in Italy and they only have citizenship in America because of some slick dealings and greased palms.
The De Lucas, via my great-grandfather and great-grandmother, came to the United States around the turn of the century. At first, we did quite well; there’s a whole section dedicated to us in The Mob Museum in Las Vegas. I’ve never been, but Dino says that it’s a hoot.
Then, along with the rest of organized crime in America, the feds got smarter than we were, and one by one, De Lucas filled up prisons from sea to shining sea.
With the lack of manpower came a decline in our ability to be the pin in the Rossi flow of goods. We still have a solid presence on the docks in the Port of New York, but it’s nowhere near what it used to be.
My dad and Elio’s dad must have been drunk on some prime shit, reminiscing about some old times, in order to dream up this ridiculous arrangement.
With the unification of the families, the Rossi’s agreed to only use De Luca docks and De Luca distributors to sell. This is a terrible plan because the amount of goods that Rossi Industries brings in would vastly overwhelm our workforce.
I have no idea what Elio gets out of this deal.
Well... I did once. I grimace and sip my prosecco.
Me.
There was a time when Elio and I would have been good for each other. I was a wide-eyed girl, just starting my junior year of college. He was handsome; he’s my brother’s age, and they had been friends since grade school.
I can’t remember how handsome he is.
Physically, I’m capable of remembering. I see his unusual grey eyes every time I look at my daughter’s face. I see the slope of his cheeks, the tilt of his nose. There’s no doubt that she has Elio’s face.
Thank God it’s a pretty face, for both of their sakes.
And thank God even more for the fact that her personality is all mine.
I’m capable of remembering how handsome Elio is for sure.
But I can’t remember it.
Because if I think about how attractive he is, how he makes my knees feel soft and wobbly when he smiles that dimpled smile, I’m going to do something stupid.
And I can’t be stupid.
Not in this.
Not when so much is riding on it.
Elio Rossi made me very, very stupid once.
And I’m never going to be that girl again.
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