Of Violent Lineage

My soft skin didn’t share my sentiments of being created and forged from iron. No, beneath the pressure, my skin split like a soft peach, summoning blood and pain to the surface.

But that was the least of my worries.

They had trapped me in the back of a truck, which was rotten with dried blood and molding in each corner. I couldn’t see very well but the smells told me all I needed to know–this was transport.

And I was being delivered to my death.

I struggled against the restraints, but each movement summoned a new feeling of anguish. My arms ached, my ribs were bruised, my stomach hollow. Stinging and throbbing sensations seemed to cling to me with the same pressure as my dress and shoes, settling on me like another outfit.

With a heave, I resigned and leaned against the wall behind me. The vibrations of the car driving rumbled through my bones, chattering my teeth.

I chanted my identity to myself, a vain attempt to stop myself from going crazy.

Second daughter.

I was Isabella Geltrude Vigliano, born Lombardi. I was the daughter of Vitale and Maria Lombardi. I was the younger sister of Vitale Junior and…and Isabella Lombardi. My sister died when she was seven; I am her replacement.

Second mother.

I was the stepmother to Marzia Ines Vigliano. I took her to the museum and listened to her talk dreamily about history.

Second wife.

I was the wife of Giovanni Vigliano, son of Lorenzo Vigliano and an unknown woman. He was the only one who could hold the flames of my rage in his hands and not be burned.

I…loved him very much.

I love him very much.

Even if he wanted me dead.

The truck rolled to a stop. Voices boomed outside, and they grew closer and closer. The lock shook as it was opened, and a stream of sunlight came soaring into the once dark space.

“It’s time,” one of my captors said.

It’s time.

Winter

I

Giovanni

Peace made me wary.

I blamed it on my childhood. I had been born during a time of war, nursed to the sounds of pain, and taught how to walk on bloody floors. Instead of playing with blocks, I had entertained myself with unloaded guns and before I knew my alphabet, I knew how to kill a man with his own watch.

Those were the days before Ma fell out of favor with my father. He had kept her around, long enough to corrupt my twin and I’s souls before sending her out onto the streets with nothing but the clothes on her back and two hungry mouths to feed. She had died not long after that and Lorenzo did not invite us back into his household.

The turbulence of my childhood had shaped me into the man I was today. A man who disliked peace, who abhorred treaties and understandings. I couldn’t comprehend why our kind even pretended to like tranquillity and order.

You don’t become a mobster for the paid holidays.

Besides, this addiction to peace that my fellow Made Men insisted on made them sloppy and lazy. With fat stomachs, they became untrained and blind–and so much easier for men like me to catch them off guard.

Like the Lombardi Famiglia .

The recent destruction of the Falcone organization had made Vitale Lombardi more on edge. He had doubled his security, tightened his inner circle, and even added a few more public servants to his payroll. The Don was expecting an attack, anticipating an end to his peace .

He was correct in his assumptions. However, no doubling of soldati in the streets would be a strong enough shield to stop me from taking his territory. I had often found during my life that if I set my sights on something, I always ended up with it in the end. Relentless , my brother said. Psychotic , my ex-wife had argued.

Psychotic indeed , I mused to myself as I watched Don Lombardi exit his car and step out onto the busy Manhattan street. A group of soldati circled around him, some dressed in all black whereas others blended into the swarm of pedestrians.

I handed the binoculars to my underboss.

“He has seven men with him,” Vincent stated what I already knew. “He’s nervous.”

Wind whistled past my ears as we assessed the world below us. From the balcony of the skyscraper, there was very little we couldn’t see, despite the darkness of the wintry night. Vincent called this spot our hawk’s nest, despite the pink princess castle to our left.

“Any rational man would be.”

For the past few weeks, I had been closing in on Vitale. First, I took some of his loyal men in the early hours of dawn, then cut off a few trade routes. Now he was discovering his politicians and drug lords were no longer forthcoming with their information and friendship. I was weakening his stronghold, making it easier to destroy when the time came.

There had been one problem, however…

“Domenico said Iannucillo didn’t take the bait.” My underboss was more visceral with his emotions than I was, revealing a glint of anger in his expression at the words.

I, too, felt faint frustration.

It seemed I had underestimated how loyal the traditional families were to Vitale. Or, I supposed, how loyal they were to their traditions. I doubted it mattered who was Don , as long as the conventions they had been raised with and lived by went untouched. This included Catholicism, arranged marriages and legitimate blood.

I was an unmarried atheist, but my worst crime was being born out of wedlock to a young woman and infamous Mob boss. Bastard was the usual word that was used to define my heritage.

Bribing and threatening those who held the most power in the Manhattan organization had been unusually difficult. To them, the rightful heir to the Lombardi throne was Vitale’s eldest son, Vitale Junior–even if the unambitious principe did not have a single leadership quality in his body.

They would rather see their once magnificent famiglia fall than accept a new norm.

In the end, however, they wouldn’t have much of a choice.

Vincent and I stepped back into the warmth of the penthouse once the Don disappeared into the safety of his building. My men were crowded around the dining table, their discussion heated as they talked about possibilities and weaknesses. At the sight of me, they fell silent.

I looked to Domenico. “What happened with Iannucillo?”

Domenico Giordano was young for a capo but no less effective than his vicious counterparts. He had worked beneath me in Maine and had proven himself to be a very valuable man to have on my side. In a traditional syndicate, his lack of a father and legitimate surname would’ve stopped his talents from being recognized.

The syndicate I ran wasn’t so caught up on blood and parentage. Every single soldati who worked beneath me had to prove themselves, had to show that they were worth my time. I didn’t waste resources on lazy heirs, something the traditionalists of the Lombardi Famiglia would learn in time.

Capo Giordano didn’t look proud as he said, “Iannucillo wouldn’t budge, sir. He is fiercely loyal to Vitale.”

“No, he is fiercely loyal to the Lombardi Famiglia ,” interrupted one of my other men, Quintus Zetticci.

“There is a personal attachment,” Giordano reasoned. “He grew up with Vitale, they took their Omertà vows together and arranged marriages between their children. The Lombardis are known for their loyalty.”

“To their boss or to each other?” Quintus returned.

I casted my eyes back out through the glass, contemplating what my men were saying. Lombardis were known for their loyalty, choosing to chew their tongues off in custody than rat out their famiglia . It would take a lot more than a bloody tongue to stop me from taking their territory.

Some of the men were wondering why we didn’t kill every single Lombardi and rule in their absence. I had considered it at the very beginning when it became clear Vitale’s soldati would not turn on him but decided against it.

A few reasons stopped me from committing a cull. Firstly, killing hundreds of men would catch the attention of the government. Secondly, I wasn’t becoming king of Manhattan to rule over barren terrain. And thirdly, the other Italian mobs would not take kindly to the bloodshed and could make my reign very difficult. I would not sacrifice money and manpower for the sake of pride.

No, mass homicide was not in the cards when it came to dealing with the loyal Lombardis. I would need to take another route. Bribing and threatening didn’t appear to be working, forcing me to stand back and assess the situation again.

If there was one lesson my father had passed down, it was how to find weak points and then put pressure on them until they snapped.

“Vitale’s younger brothers, Angelo and Bartolomeo,” I said, the room falling quiet beneath my tone. “Both of them would covet after their big brother’s position. Let’s find out just how much.”

Grins were shared across the table as the energy in the room shifted.

Loyalty might shape the world, but jealousy made it turn.

My own brother and I had never fallen victim to envy. Both of us understood how to compromise with each other, and how to play to each other’s strengths. I was more suited to war and bloodshed, whereas Leo had always found strength in spying and creating alliances. He did have the friendlier disposition out of the two of us.

Discussion resumed around Vitale’s younger brothers. Bartolomeo was Vitale’s consigliere while Angelo had never been promoted past capo . That didn’t mean he was less effective than his brothers. In fact, Capo Angelo was infamous for his viciousness and widely respected by not only his own mob but all around the United States.

The last honorable wiseguy alive , I had heard him described as.

“Neither of them have children,” Vincent said. “Or wives, anymore. We need to threaten their power and reputations, not their family.”

“I disagree,” Quintus argued. “We should bribe them. If they turn against their Don , then we’ll honor them with positions of power.”

A soft squeak caught my attention. I didn’t need to turn to see who it was but did anyways. My six-year-old daughter stood in the doorway of the dining room, peering at us with wide blue eyes. She was clutching her beloved purple dinosaur.

Marzia knew I wasn’t meant to be interrupted during a meeting, except for when the clock hit 7:30.

“Principessa Marzia,” my men greeted.

She smiled, revealing the gap between her two front teeth. “Hello, hello.”

“How’s your new school?” Quintus asked.

“It’s fun, Zio Quintus,” she told him chirpily. “Miss Baylis told me I was a clean breath.”

Miss Baylis had told Marzia she was a breath of fresh air , but my daughter’s mind had warped the words.

All the men made noises of agreement, none daring to correct her.

I stepped around the table. “Come now, my darling. It’s time for bed.”

She stretched her arms out and I scooped her up. Her little head rested in the crook of my shoulder, snuggling into me. One day, she wouldn’t want me to carry her to bed, but hopefully that day was still a few years away. I knew Marzia would eventually outgrow me–all children grew older–but I didn’t dwell on that.

My daughter was the only person in the world who could ever inspire such emotions in me; even my twin had never been able to make me despise time.

Marzia’s room was the most obnoxious thing I had ever funded. She had had free rein when it came to designing the space and it showed. A huge purple canopy bed sat in the centre of the room, the blanket patterned with different coloured tyrannosauruses. The walls were covered with paintings of dinosaurs, green stars littered the roof and there were dolls everywhere. She had her ‘archaeology corner’ where she had a desk covered in toy sandboxes filled with bones.

I laid her down, tucking the blanket around her.

“What are we reading tonight?” I asked as I took a seat in the fluffy spotted chair beside her bed. It was meant for children and groaned beneath my weight.

Marzia dug a book out from under her pillow and passed it to me. The title read The Rise and Fall of the Ottoman Empire . I felt my lips twitch. My daughter had never been interested in picture books.

“This one, Daddy.”

“I didn’t know you were interested in the Ottoman empire,” I said. “When did this start?”

Marzia shrugged but the gleam in her eyes told me there was a secret on her mind.

I rose an eyebrow and she broke immediately.

“Mister Burrows said only the big kids can read big books.” Marzia scowled. “I am a big kid.”

“So how did you get this?”

“I stole it.”

“I see.” I cracked open the spine, turning to chapter one. “You know better than to steal, Marzia. If you wanted this book, I would’ve bought it for you.”

She burrowed herself into the plush of her bed, cheeks red as I scolded her. “I know, Daddy. I won’t do it again.”

“And you’ll return Mister Burrow’s book to him?”

She nodded.

“Good.” I held out the book and cleared my throat. “Chapter one…”

Marzia fell asleep a few pages later, muttering about the Ghazi thesis to herself. I watched her sleep for a moment, before kissing her forehead and leaving the room quietly. It was story time I would miss the most when she was no longer a child. Story time had only ever belonged to Marzia and I.

It had begun when I would return home in the wee hours of the night and find her wide awake in her crib. She didn’t cry, not because she was a calm baby, but because she had learnt quickly that her mother wouldn’t come to comfort her. I hadn’t been sure what to do with her. I didn’t want to leave her alone and awake, too aware of how my father had treated me, but I had also been a new parent and had no experience with children.

So I had begun to read to her. I read the newspaper, classics and even financial reports. A newborn baby couldn’t understand what I was saying but it did seem to relax her. Her eyelids would grow heavy, and she would try to fight sleep, but eventually my voice would soothe her into dreams.

After that, I tried to get home earlier. It wasn’t good for infants to be kept up. Sleep was important to her growth and helping Marzia thrive was my job as her caretaker.

She was my only weakness. The only failing I allowed myself.

Nothing would ever happen to her. Not while there was air in my lungs.

I needed to find Angelo and Bartolomeo’s air. I needed to discover what failings the Lombardis allowed themselves. Then once I did, I would destroy it.

I looked to Vitale’s building as I walked back to my men and spotted a shadowy figure walking over the roof. One of Vitale’s men , was my first thought as I stepped closer to the pane, trying to make out any sort of shape amongst the piercing lights of Manhattan. When the figure didn’t become obvious, I stepped out on the balcony, crossing to where Vincent had left the binoculars. The balcony wrapped around the left side of the penthouse, serving as Marzia’s personal royal gardens.

A woman , I realized as soon as I put the binoculars up to my eyes. She was leaning against the cement parapet. To my surprise, there was a cigarette in her hand. She wore a deep red dressing gown, but the feathery neckline hid her features.

I already knew who she was. Vitale Lombardi’s daughter.

I went to put down the binoculars, less interested in the shadowy figure now I knew it was only Vitale’s daughter, when another shape joined her.

Angelo Lombardi.

I watched as he joined his niece. She offered him a light; he accepted. The two stood side by side, smoking beneath the inky night.

It was unusual for a traditional Made Man to let his niece get away with smoking. Women in the mafia were not meant to engage with such masculine activities. Yet, the last honorable wiseguy joined his niece in her illicit behaviour, even seemed to encourage it.

My lips curled into a smile.

When I returned to the dining room, voices had risen in anger.

“Angelo’s niece.”

Eyes darted towards me, confusion fluttering over faces. “Angelo’s niece? Vitale’s daughter? Her name is…” Papers shuffled as they sorted through the information. “Isabella. Isabella Lombardi.”

I took my seat at the head of the table as Quintus passed me a blurry photo of Isabella. It was taken at an angle as she crossed a street. I rolled my eyes over her, taking note of her sharp features and dark hair. Beautiful, yes, but not in a classical or lovely way. Instead, there was a severity, a darkness, to her that had me unable to look away.

She looked like she had been formed from knives instead of a womb.

Isabella had an intriguing look on her face. Her brows were furrowed with anger, her lips pressed together in a straight line. She was dressed in all black like she was on her way to attend a funeral. I had seen plenty of unpleasant looks from women in my life but never one as captivating as the one on Angelo’s niece’s face.

There was no doubt in my mind that she was a spoiled and vain principessa who would have her childless uncle’s heart.

“Gentlemen, I believe we’ve just found Angelo’s air.” Excitement thrummed around the room, a quiet melody growing louder and louder until it was a thunderous roar. “We’ll kill Vitale and his son–even his wife will bleed.”

“How will we stop the traditional families from turning on us?”

“With Angelo’s support, of course. Bartolomeo will follow his little brother.” I tapped Isabella’s photo. “How do we gain Angelo’s support? Well, the answer’s simple.” They all leaned closer. “If he doesn’t support me, I’ll slit his pretty little niece’s throat.”

II

Isabella

The phone rang during dinner.

The strings of the cello and clatter of utensils were the usual background music to Lombardi family dinners. Sometimes there would be a distant siren or a cough beneath a breath, but they were few and far between. Mealtime etiquette had been one of my mother’s harsher lessons, a lesson not even my father had escaped. No words, no sentences, and definitely no phone calls .

Father looked towards the foyer, where the ringing was located.

I turned my head just in time to see my mother’s collarbones protrude.

“Vitale.” A single word, a command.

Both my brother and I turned to Father to spot his reaction, the pair of us clutching onto this strange and unusual entertainment with the same viciousness as a dog with a bone. Junior and I were never in sync–except when it came to watching our parents.

The ringing did not cease.

“Maria,” Father replied.

Mother’s knuckles whitened around her fork.

The two didn’t need words to combat each other. I had grown up watching them argue with only their eyes and facial expressions. Sometimes they even mouthed Italian curses to each other, teeth and lips gnashing together with their rage.

Junior and I continued to turn our heads from right to left, following the argument like a tennis match.

The ringing stopped.

We all paused, breaths clutched in our chests–

It began again.

I could’ve sworn the fork my mother was holding had bent beneath her grip.

Father’s chair scraped the floor as he pushed it back. “Excuse me.”

Father didn’t need to be excused but it was a way to placate my mother. It didn’t work–the woman looked like she was going to erupt from her skin. It might pain me to admit but I knew Maria Lombardi. She wasn’t having such a visceral reaction to the conventions of dinner being broken. Something else was happening.

“Back to your meals,” she snapped.

Junior and I, despite being adults, obeyed.

All three of us tried to make out Father’s voice but he had moved to his study to take the call. I couldn’t make out any clear words, only his tone. Deep and harsh...something was happening.

Mother looked up at the clock. “After six...” she muttered to herself.

I didn’t double check my mother’s words. Not because I trusted her implicitly but because of her . That damn painting of her above the clock. My sister, my namesake.

My ghost.

Exactly one year after Isabella Lombardi died, I came into the world. Same day, same hour, same minute. Before I had even taken my first breath, I was named Isabella Lombardi, the second coming of the perfect daughter.

It just took ten minutes after my birth for everyone to realize that I was nothing like my namesake–instead, I arrived on earth with a scowl, bit not one but three kids in day-care and my first word was “fuckoff”. I was the cheap copy, store-brand if you will, of the real Isabella Lombardi.

Most rooms in this house had a portrait of the first Isabella, every moment of her short life immortalized. The one in the dining room was of her standing beside a chair, only five-years old, dressed in white, with sweet eyes and a placid smile. Perfection , Mother had described her as. She was perfection.

I had never been called perfection .

My thoughts were interrupted when Father returned, expression tight. He didn’t say anything to Mother, only sent her a loaded look.

She rose to her feet. “It’s him?”

“Yes.” Father resumed his spot at the head of the table. “Sit down and let us finish our meal.”

The atmosphere was rippling with energy and unspoken questions. Each movement, each sound, felt like electricity zapping through my blood.

“What’s going on?” A stupid question, I knew, spoken from instinct instead of curiosity. It was obvious what was happening; the organization was under attack. But by whom?

My parents snapped their heads to me.

“This doesn’t concern you, Isabella,” Father said. “This is Famiglia business.”

Junior had a strange look on his face. When it came to Family matters, Junior was always in the loop–the Lombardi heir had been a capo since he was eighteen. “Do you need me to alert the men, Father?”

“No.”

I looked at my brother. He met my eyes, shaking his head slightly. Junior didn’t know what was going on either.

“Isabella,” came Mother’s warning voice at my straying attention. “Eat your dinner.”

My first instinct was to listen to her, to obey, but I said, “The phone ringing during dinner is never good.”

“Isabella .”

“And who’s him ?” I directed this question to my father. “Is it the same person who’s been making your men run around like headless chickens for the past few months?”

I might not be welcomed into Famiglia matters but that didn’t mean I was blind to them. I heard the late phone calls and raised voices from the study, I saw the stress lines and empty whiskey bottles. Conversations were tense, money was running out, men were disappearing.

Something was happening .

“You’re too astute for your own good, Isabella,” Father warned.

“I just want to know–”

A look in my direction had me falling silent. “It has nothing to do with you, child. It is the men’s business,” Father said.

I rolled my eyes. Everything was the men’s business until it was time to be a virgin and marry who your parents told you to and pop out some future soldati . “It impacts my life. It is my family, too.”

“Leave it alone, Izzy,” Junior warned. He was the only one who didn’t call me Isabella.

“Nothing good comes from nosey women.” Father’s temper had finally taken control of his voice, hardening and sharpening the tone until it felt like a sword against my cheek. “Mind your business.”

I met my mother’s dark eyes. “Aren’t you nosey, Mother?”

There was one thing I could do that Isabella the First couldn’t: set Maria Lombardi’s temper alight. I took special pride in the fact that I was the only one who was able to get under her skin. However, Maria was just as good at getting under mine.

“Go upstairs,” she hissed. “Go upstairs now , Isabella.”

“Happily.” I dropped my fork with a clatter before storming out of the room. My parent’s anger followed me out, quickening my step.

I slammed my bedroom door as a reminder to everyone downstairs but instead of revelling in my anger, I slumped against it, breathing deeply.

In the wake of my tantrum, I felt the familiar piercing feeling of shame low in my gut. If I was a bit quieter, a bit smaller, a bit prettier, maybe I would enjoy family dinners more. Maybe one day, if I ever became sweet and placid, there would be a painting of me framed in the dining room. Maybe .

I could be sweet–I could have sugar and honey for blood. Mrs. Gorgazzi called me a sweet girl whenever I brought her flowers and sat with her while she watched Jeopardy reruns. But there was so much more than sweetness thundering inside of me.

I envied those who leaped from feeling to feeling, moving and shifting gracefully with their emotions. I, however, went from extreme to extreme. I threw myself into my emotions, into my window-shattering rage or endless brooding. I wasn't happy, I was euphoric. I wasn't sad, I was miserable.

I casted my eyes to the emotive paintings that hung around my room and decorated my many easels.

That's why I had to paint or else I would simply explode. I would erupt from this skin and bones like a powder keg. My fury and guts would coat the walls, ruining all my pretty artwork.

I could picture my mother surveying the mess of my insides all over my room, clicking her tongue and placing her hands on her hips. Sweet Isabella would never make such a mess , she would probably say. She was perfection .

Even imagining Maria’s reaction set off my temper again. I threw off my dinner dress, wrapped myself in my red dressing gown that had feathers lining the neck and wrists, before sneaking up onto the roof using the emergency stairs. I was sure my mother and father knew I was breaking the rules but neither of them had ever mentioned it to me, so I kept doing it.

I had stashed a cigarette packet up here, as well as some raunchy books and a bottle of liquor. I hadn’t even cracked the sill of the whiskey, but I had enjoyed watching my father look for it and yell at my brother when he couldn’t find it. It had never occurred to Vitale that maybe his daughter had committed the crime.

The air was freezing, and it would get much colder as November ended and we were plunged into winter. All around me the sounds of the city thrummed, blurring together in a mix of Manhattan. The bite to the air didn’t stop people from going out, didn’t stifle the music or laughter or energy.

I lit a cigarette, leaning against the side of the roof and peered down below. Balconies jutted out the side of the building, each apartment belonging to someone in the Famiglia . I had grown up in these halls and never once seen anyone without ties to my father walking around. My father was incredibly anal about security.

My eyes wandered over the lines of the skyscrapers and streets, basking in the beauty. I had painted many Manhattan nights, but I had never been able to capture the marriage of melancholy and delight that darkness brought onto the city. It never felt like this during the day.

I could see people moving inside their apartments, the blue light of their televisions and the golden glow of their kitchen lights. No one else was braving the icy wind of their balconies or roofs–except for a single figure. I could see the outline of a tall man standing on his balcony, his shape illuminated by the lights inside his apartment.

I couldn’t be sure, but I could’ve sworn he was looking at me.

I narrowed my eyes, trying to spot him better but he remained a faceless smudge in the distance. The hair on the back of my neck stood up and suddenly I wanted to go back to the safety of my room.

Familiar footsteps sounded behind me. “Does your mother know you’re up here, fragolina ?”

I didn’t turn around, just took another drag of my cigarette. “Does yours ?”

Uncle Angelo leaned against the parapet, giving me an affectionate look. Since I was a child, I had been the apple of my uncle’s eye. He was the only one in my family who didn’t treat me like my sister’s reincarnation–a small but meaningful act in my eyes. He called me fragolina because he used to catch me stealing strawberries from his late wife’s garden.

He accepted the light I offered him, taking a deep drag of his cigarette, and blowing the smoke away from me. “What set you off this time?”

“A myriad of things.” I casted my eyes to my uncle. “I know something’s happening–I’m not stupid.”

“I hope you don’t believe I’m going to tell you anything,” he mused. “Just be glad you can sleep soundly at night, fragolina . Don’t go poking around in the dark looking for something.”

“What would I find?”

Uncle Angelo sent me a warning look. He looked like my father, only a few years younger. They shared the same olive skin, near black eyes and crooked nose. There was a pink scar reaching down my uncle’s cheek, warping the skin. I had asked thousands of times where he had gotten it, but he had never told me.

“Nothing good,” was his vague reply.

I rolled my eyes before flicking them over to the balcony where I had seen the shadowy figure. It was vacant.

“Are we being watched?” I asked.

Uncle Angelo stiffened slightly. I almost didn’t notice it. “We’re always being watched, Isabella. We are Lombardis.” He paused. “Why? Have you seen something?”

“No,” I lied. “Silly daughters don’t concern themselves with the matters of the men.”

He didn’t laugh like he usually did. I looked to him to find he was staring at the exact same building I had been. A crease formed between his brows.

“Something interesting?” I asked.

Uncle Angelo didn’t respond. Instead, he plucked the cigarette from between my fingers, put it out and then led me to the exit. “You’ll freeze to death up here,” he said when I began to object. “It’s late. Get some rest, Isabella.”

He deposited me in front of my bedroom door before going downstairs.

No one in the house got any sleep that night. Until the crack of dawn, the loud voices of my father and his brothers filled the hallways and echoed through the pipes. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but they definitely weren’t discussing who was hosting Christmas this year.

Something was happening. Something is happening.

III

Isabella

I woke up to the corralling of my mother.

Surprise quickly followed annoyance. My mother never came into my room, not to kiss me goodnight and certainly not to wake me up in the morning.

“Mother?”

She peered over me, brown eyes sharp. “Get up. Quickly.”

I pulled myself into a sitting position, still blinking and trying to push away my grogginess. Darkness swarmed the room, the only light coming from the skyscrapers outside.

“What time is it?”

Mother had pulled out my suitcase and was throwing clothes in. “Get dressed.” She tossed me a pair of pants and jacket. “Quickly, Isabella. There is no time to waste.”

I suddenly realized my mother was fully dressed. Not in her usual formal attire and shiny pearls, but instead she wore pants, boots, and a warm jacket. Even her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail. I had never seen my mother’s hair in a ponytail.

“Where are we going?”

“You’re going to your uncle’s.”

I slid out of bed, hurrying to change out of my pyjamas. When I returned, my mother had zipped the suitcase close and was pushing it into my arms.

“Where are you going?”

She sent me a sharp look. “I can’t tell you. Now, no more questions. Be quiet and stay with me.”

The apartment was silent, shrouded in shadows and blue light. Cold air brushed over my exposed skin, but I hardly noticed as my thoughts tumbled rapidly through my brain. My worry and panic were so blaringly loud inside of me I was surprised my mother couldn’t hear them.

Downstairs, the place was in disarray. Shoes and coats littered the foyer, guns were scattered over the dining table and there was a trail of papers leading from the study to the front door.

“What happened?”

“Be quiet.”

I scanned the interior. It didn’t look like someone had come in and torn the place apart. No, it looked like father’s men had prepared for battle and then cleaned the place out. If you were to check the study, I was certain all sensitive information had been removed or thrown into the fireplace.

Suddenly, voices sounded from the hallway. Masculine and deep. Unfamiliar .

Mother grabbed my arm and yanked me into the shadows. Neither of us dared to breathe.

They passed.

“Who attacked us?” I asked, sliding the pieces together. “The Feds, the Russians? Who is it?”

I thought she wouldn’t answer me but to my surprise, Mother replied, “The Viglianos.”

I might not be as up to date with the Mafia Times as I would’ve liked but I knew who the Viglianos were. Everyone knew about the Italian American organization that dictated what came into the East and what left.

My mouth dried. “Oh. Oh God…” I swallowed, trying to push away the tales I had heard about the violence and blood their Don had spilt. “I thought they were in Maine.”

“Not anymore,” was my mother’s reply. “No more questions. Be quiet.”

We ventured out into the hallway. It was silent once again, but the side tables and paintings had been torn from their places. We stepped over the rubble, taking the emergency stairs instead of the elevator. Uncle Angelo lived a few floors below though he barely spent any time there.

The emergency exit staircase was old and dim, the only light coming from a flickering bulb hanging from the ceiling. Rat droppings and spider webs lurked in the shadows.

My hand reached out to the railing.

“Gross! ”

Mother shot me a violent look, shushing me immediately.

I held my palm beneath the faint light, swallowing my scream when I realized it was slick with red. When I looked down, I spotted more blood, some patches a fresh crimson and others a dried brown. It didn’t take long to realize who it belonged to.

Bodies were pushed against the walls, slumped awkwardly down the staircase, none of them moving. I checked their faces as we passed them. Aldo Lucchese, my father’s driver who used to help me with my homework; Ilario Udinesi, a childhood friend of my brother’s who used to put my toys on high shelves so I couldn’t reach them; Gino Dellucci, an old soldato who always let me have the last slice of lasagna.

Grief gripped my heart and lungs, but no sound erupted from my throat. I bent down to close Aldo’s eyes before continuing to follow my mother.

We reached Uncle Angelo’s floor. Voices sounded from behind the door, deep and rough. Mother inched open the door, not daring to make any noise until she was certain we were safe. Both of us peered through the crack, cheeks squelching together as we tried to get a clear view.

The hallway was a replica of all the other hallways in the building, with the same vintage red paper and golden crown moulding. Usually, the Turkish Kilim rug that ran the length of the hallway was immaculate and vacuumed, but today blood soaked the wool and golden threads.

A body was thrown out of a doorway, smacking into the wall, causing the lamps and chandeliers to rattle. He slumped to the ground, nose bloody and eyes swollen.

It was Valentino Lo Duca. He was one of my father’s capos …and had been my mother’s lover for a few years. I had caught them once but had never breathed a word of it–it was the only time my mother had said please to me.

I tilted my head awkwardly, trying to gauge her expression. My mother hid whatever she was feeling beneath her cold façade.

A man stepped out from the same room, gun hanging loosely in his left hand. He was a handsome man, no older than thirty-five. Long dark hair was tied back into a bun, the hickory color of the strands matching his eyes. I didn’t recognise him…one of the Viglianos then.

“Valentino,” he said, voice calm. “Where is the safe house?”

My mother stiffened.

Valentino spat out a wad of blood. It landed beside the Vigliano’s shoes. “Go to hell, you dirty bastard.”

The man crouched. “One more time. Where is the safe house ?”

“I’ll–” Valentino coughed harshly. “I’ll never tell you.”

“So it appears.”

With no more than a flick of his wrist, the man shot Valentino’s foot. He let out a howl of pain. My eardrums split at the sound.

“Where is the safe house, Valentino?”

“I…” Valentino’s head lulled to the side. His eyes landed on us, widening ever so slightly. Something seemed to click in his mind. “I…I’ll tell you.”

He hadn’t revealed the location of the safe house because he thought my mother was there.

I almost felt like calling out: she’ll never love you as much as you love her. Save yourself, Valentino. Not her.

“Oh?”

Valentino looked back to his attacker, his breathing growing more and more haggard by the second. He was losing too much blood. “The safe house…it’s an abandoned warehouse in Brooklyn. It’s…it’s listed under one of our shell companies…”

“Which one?”

“Gray Tower…Gray Tower Enterprises.”

The man nodded. “Thank you for your confirmation, Valentino.” The sound of another gunshot ricocheted through the hall, more shocking than deafening.

My mother didn’t even breathe, staring at the slumped body of her lover. No tears, no cries, from Maria Lombardi, the Ice Queen of Manhattan. A sudden thought occurred to me: would she scream and sob if I died? I wanted to believe she would, but the dark quiet part of my soul knew I shouldn’t ask questions I didn’t want the answers to.

The man turned, eyes landing on us immediately.

He had known we were there all along.

“Angelo is waiting for you both,” he said conversationally.

I didn’t move but my mother rose to her feet, grabbing my elbow and squeezing it tightly. It was something she did whenever we were in public and she wanted me to behave, to play the part of a Lombardi daughter, to act more like my big sister. A quick painful squeeze that said: behave, Isabella, or risk punishment.

I obeyed and stepped out into the hallway. My mother held her chin high as we passed Valentino and the strange man, taking us straight to Uncle Angelo’s apartment. The front door was already open, my uncle standing in the middle of the foyer. Unfamiliar men surrounded him. More Viglianos , I suspected as my pulse quickened.

“Filthy traitor,” my mother snapped as soon as my uncle turned our way. “You will pay for this.”

I cut my eyes to my uncle. Traitor?

“Maria, this is not the time,” he warned. “Take Isabella to the guest room.”

She let go of my elbow and stepped closer to him. The look in her eyes made me shudder. If it had been directed at me, I would’ve burnt to ash on the spot. “You will pay for this, Angelo. You think you know pain, but you have no idea .”

I glanced briefly at the unfamiliar men. None of them showed any reaction to my mother’s threats. Did they think she was being hysterical?

“Don’t I?” Angelo countered, a strange hint to his words. “You and I both know Vitale has been holding onto his power by a string. His time is up, Maria. Either get with the program or risk your life.”

My mother’s lips curled. “I suppose you’ll take Isabella from me–it doesn’t matter what decision I make.”

“Giovanni will not kill women and children. He has sworn it to me.”

“Yes, because the word of a bastard is so honourable,” Mother hissed.

Some of the men shifted, protectiveness flashing over their features.

Uncle Angelo could barely conceal his rage. His features warped like the Devil’s as he gritted out, “Go to the guest room now .”

My mother opened her mouth to retort but Uncle Angelo’s hand shot out. He held her neck tightly, fingers digging into the delicate skin. Discoloration grew over Mother’s face but it did nothing to dim the wrath in her eyes.

“Do not test me today, Maria.”

To my surprise, she closed her mouth. Uncle Angelo released his grip.

I had never seen Uncle Angelo so violent, especially with a woman. To me, he had always been like a lovable big brother but now I was reminded of who he was, what he was.

My mother stepped around him and strode away, carrying herself tall despite being threatened by her husband’s little brother. I followed in her wake, eyeing my uncle. He glanced at me as I passed, brief shame flickering over his features.

“They killed Lombardis,” I said, unable to keep the disgust out of my voice. “Aldo, Ilario, Gino and Valentino.”

“They will kill many more if we do not bow.”

“Is that how you’re justifying betraying your family to yourself?”

He pressed his lips together, his scar turning white under the pressure. “Leave now, Isabella. Leave before you say something we both regret.”

I felt a flash of hurt at his threat but did as I was told. Photos lined the walls leading to the guest room, most of them of a young Uncle Angelo and Auntie Lucia. They were smiling in every image. Uncle Angelo didn’t smile like that anymore.

When I arrived, my mother was pacing around the empty room, that cunning mind of hers twisting like a snake behind her eyes.

“Close the door behind you, Isabella.”

I did.

“Your uncle has betrayed your father,” she hissed. “Bartolomeo, the spineless coward, will do the same. Before you know it, everyone in this famiglia will betray your father. They will betray him and get on their knees for a bastard-born monster.”

“I’m sorry about Valentino,” I said despite knowing she would rebuff me.

Maria shot me an annoyed look. “Don’t be so sensitive, Isabella. You’re the last defense this family has left.”

I dropped my suitcase on the bed and narrowed my eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I’m leaving with your father and your brother is in the wind, your uncles are traitors, and your grandparents are too old to be of any use.” She stepped closer to me, pressing a hand to my cheek. The action was unpractised and new, but my heart swelled at the contact. “The fate of the Lombardis rides on your shoulders, darling.”

The fate of the Lombardis rides on your shoulders, darling.

The child inside of me preened beneath the attention, beneath the pet name. Mother had never called me darling , had never spoken about me with such reverence. She needed me, my family needed me. No one had ever needed me before.

“What do you mean?”

She leaned closer, the smell of perfume irritating my nostrils. I ignored it, too overcome with emotion at her proximity. “You, my perfect Isabella, are the only one they will not suspect, the only one who can get through the Vigliano defences.”

My perfect Isabella. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t second Isabella, but instead the Isabella who could save her family, who could bring glory back to her family. The perfect Isabella. I realized suddenly: I could do something that my big sister never could.

A voice sounded from faraway. She’s manipulating you.

I pushed it away. No, my mother loved me and was asking me to help save our family. The fate of the Lombardis rested solely with me.

“What do you need me to do?” I breathed.

My mother smiled, the first time she had ever smiled at me my entire life. It transformed her face, making her look younger and softer. She looked more like the mothers I had seen outside my elementary school, waiting to pick up their children. They always greeted them with hugs and smiles; Maria had never picked me up from school.

Is this how she used to look before losing her daughter? Like the kind of mother who waited on the edge of the playground, eager to see her children after hours of separation?

“He’s going to need you, Isabella,” she said, the smile wavering as she grew more serious. “The traditional families may accept him as their Don but they will never serve him as they did Vitale, not with his parentage and other shortcomings.”

“They will propose marriage.” I realized.

Delight flickered in her eyes. “Yes, yes, they will. The only way the capos and soldati will feel better about betraying your father is if his daughter is their new donna . And once you’re his queen…well, there will be nothing you can’t do.”

“Husbands in this line of work aren’t usually so forthcoming with their wives,” I reminded her. “What makes you think I’ll be able to bring him down?”

“You have more power than you think,” she said. “After a long day of being a criminal, it is you he will come home to and vent. You will run his house, sleep in his bed, and massage the knots out of his neck.”

I must’ve still looked unsure because she went on.

“He will never suspect you, my perfect girl. To him, you will be nothing but a spoiled principessa he has to keep happy for the sake of his kingdom.”

“How would I do it?”

“Learn everything you can. Everyone is important, from the Don to the gardener.”

“What…what will bring him down?”

Mother brought her other hand to my cheek, holding my face gently. “You let me worry about that, darling. All you need to do is gain his trust and be privy to his secrets.”

“He will kill me if he finds out.”

“Your uncle said he won’t hurt women and children.” Neither of us believed that.

“I won’t be a woman to him if he finds out I’m spying on him,” I said. “I’ll be the enemy. What do you think he does to his enemies?”

She clucked her tongue affectionately. Some part of me wondered if my mother had hit her head and forgotten how to be the cold distant parent she had succeeded at for the past twenty-three years. “It won’t take long, Isabella. Just a few months.” She pushed back a strand of my hair, tucking it behind my ear. My heart squeezed. “I know you feel suffocated by this life, by the expectations of a Lombardi princess. But trust me, my perfect Isabella, if you destroy the Vigliano famiglia , you will be a hero. No soldati or man will ever command you again. You will have power and respect. You will have fear.”

You will have power and respect. You will have fear.

I liked the sound of that.

“I won’t have to marry,” I bartered. “I can paint and be left alone.”

Maria looked faintly disappointed at my request. Had she wanted me to demand more? “You will have whatever you want. No one will deny the hero of the Lombardi Mafia.”

I want the pictures of the first Isabella removed , I almost said but bit my tongue. My mother’s grace only extended so far.

“What will happen to you?” I asked.

“Your father and I will go underground. We will build alliances and gain back our strength. The other New York bosses will not join us, but we still have allies in Sicily.” My mother’s eyes drifted off as her mind plotted. “The Lombardis have ruled Manhattan for decades. We will not be beaten by the son of a whore .” Her lips curled sourly. “He is the enemy, the bastard usurper. He is wearing a crown that does not belong to him. Steal it back, Isabella.”

She snapped her gaze back to me. People used to say we looked alike, but it was said out of politeness rather than honesty. Maria had always had lovelier features than me, classical in a way that made her look like she had stepped out of a Renaissance painting. I took after my father more, I supposed.

She opened her mouth to say something but a loud noise sounded from outside the room.

My mother removed her hands, my heart crying at the loss of contact. She grabbed my suitcase.

“If I had brought my suitcase, your uncle would’ve known,” she told me at my questioning look. Before she left, she pressed a kiss to my cheek. “Remember, Isabella. He needs you. Not only as a wife, but as a mother and queen. You are the bridge between his organization and your father’s organization. He needs you–don’t ever forget that.”

Then she was gone.

The room felt significantly colder without my mother’s rage warming the air. I meandered to the window, watching the light snow begin to fall as the sun began to rise over the horizon.

I sat with my devious plan, tossing it over and over in my mind until my brain felt strained. I had never done anything like this before, my lying usually reserved for sneaking out to parties and robbing my father’s liquor cabinet. Would the Vigliano Don suspect me? Or was Mother right about his assumptions?

Worry filled me but it wasn’t nearly as strong as the delight that heated my blood. My family needed me; my mother had asked for my help.

When the confines of my room grew too great, I stepped out onto the balcony. Auntie Lucia’s strawberry plants were covered for the season. Every Spring they grew juicy red berries which melted in your mouth. She had died when I was a baby, but I knew Uncle Angelo continued to mourn her, why else would he tend to her small garden every year?

My parents would’ve thrown the plants into the bin the minute they could.

Snowflakes gave me icy kisses as they landed on my cheeks. The first fall of the Winter–how ironic that the entire world was coated in white the day blood soaked the hallways of my home.

That evening, after Uncle Angelo discovered my mother had disappeared and spent the rest of the day yelling at everyone, I set up a canvas and some paints. This time when I painted my family, I painted all of us together. Father, Mother, Junior and me. Mother and I were holding hands, standing on the edge of a playground. Just like those mothers and daughters I used to watch from my classroom window.

The words resounded in my head, haunting me all night long. They need me, they need me.

Then much quieter but with no less joy, my soul whispered: she loves me, she loves me .

IV

Isabella

Three days later, my uncles scheduled a meeting with their new don –and banned me to my room for the evening. Uncle Angelo had been distant these past few days but had comforted me the night before, saying, “You will be safe as his wife, Isabella. You will have respect, protection and a title.”

Uncle Angelo was right about me gaining a new title, except it wasn’t wife or Vigliano or even Donna . I held my new title close to my chest, keeping it padlocked beneath my ribs and flesh.

Spy .

There was a thrill to my deception, to what I would and was going to do. I felt like a child who had stolen a cookie from the cookie jar, euphoric on the danger and chocolate chips melting in my hot mouth.

In the shadows of Uncle Angelo’s guest room, I poured over names and faces, connecting family lines, recalling rumours, and reading police reports. Each face I imprinted to my memory, from soldati to maids to associates. I ran my eyes over their features like I was painting them, staring at them until each mole, each wrinkle, was as familiar to me as the back of my hand.

The man who had killed Valentino Lo Duca had been Vincent Montalti, Vigliano’s underboss. His father was also a part of the Vigliano organization, he had a widowed ward, and had been with the Viglianos since Maine.

Learn everything you can , my mother’s lesson sounded in my mind. Everyone is important, from the Don to the gardener .

The moon was my only light, the silvery glow just bright enough for me to make out the ink. It would be too risky to turn on a lamp–my uncles had to believe I was asleep and not misbehaving.

As did the soldati , who roamed in the shadows of the balconies and streets below, like wraiths haunting their graves.

They weren’t loyal to my uncle. If they had been, perhaps I would’ve turned on the light. No, instead they answered to my future husband, the new Don in charge. A few hours after it became clear we had a new king, they had arrived. Uncle Angelo hadn’t put up much of a fight.

The apartment had been quiet for hours. My uncles had quickly excused themselves after dinner, heads pressed together as they walked away. They had retreated to the study together, where they had drunk to their defeat and the sacrifice of their niece. They hadn’t seen me steal Uncle Bartolomeo’s laptop.

Some wild part of me wanted to tell Uncle Angelo my mother’s plan but whenever I went to spill my guts, my throat closed. I wondered how he would react. Would he support the destruction of the Viglianos or had my uncle’s alliances shifted forever?

Voices suddenly erupted from the balcony, the Vigliano soldati leaning over the side of the building to the streets below. They couldn’t see me from where I was crouched behind the bed, so I crawled over to the only window without a disrupted view.

Below, the streets of Manhattan remained busy and loud, despite being covered in a sheet of white snow. A row of heavy-armoured vehicles had parked on the side of the road. Men leaped out, sharing orders and commands with each other.

They weren’t the men I had grown up around–they were his men.

A car door opened, and all the men seemed to halt. The entire street paused for a second, anticipation holding us all captive. Then he stepped out into the night, standing tall amongst the shadows. Darkness clung to him as he moved forward, hiding his face from my view.

He could’ve been wearing a paper bag over his head, and I still would’ve known who he was.

There wasn’t a single photo of him, not one clear image. Everyone else in his organization had some sort of photo of them on record, from mugshots to FBI surveillance photos. But not the Vigliano Don . He could’ve looked like Freddy Kruger and we would be none the wiser.

Uncle Angelo stepped out of the foyer and onto the street. He took a few steps forward and then back, suddenly unsure. All my life, he had done everything with certainty and power. But now, he paused and hesitated, no longer the big fish in this pond.

He stepped forward, the light from the building catching his features.

I couldn’t get a good look, the distance of my position making it hard to see his face. All I could make out was his inky-black hair and Grecian nose, as well as his thousand-dollar suit.

Uncle Angelo joined him, the two briefly speaking. Some part of me wondered what they were talking about. It wouldn’t be an interesting conversation–interesting conversations didn’t happen on the side of the street surrounded by over a dozen civilian ears.

The Vigliano Don began to walk forward, Uncle Angelo and the soldati moving in time with his movements. Even the patrons that filled the sidewalks seemed to turn their heads towards him, captivated by the king and his soldiers.

I pressed my nose to the window, trying to get a better look but no luck.

Under the possession of my curiosity, I stepped out onto the balcony, ignoring the freezing wind and alarmed looks of the soldati . They quickly averted their gaze, stepping as far away from me as they could get without taking a tumble to the street below.

Interesting , I noted, before peering over the railing. I could only make out the top of his head, the inky black hair–

He turned his head upwards.

Giovanni Vigliano was a striking man to take in, even from a distance. He was handsome, with olive skin and electric blue eyes, paired with rough lips and cheekbones. As an artist, he would be exquisite to paint, drawing all those features together to create a man formed from darkness.

His eyes met mine, arrowing straight for my soul.

That’s impossible , I told myself immediately. He can’t see you at this height.

Yet I could’ve sworn he was staring right at me.

The second he dropped his head and entered the building, air filled my lungs once more. Until I remembered why he was here, what was being discussed in the study down the hall. I quickly left the balcony, locking the door behind me and darting over to my notes.

It was Giovanni who I had the most notes for but the least amount of information.

There was only one thing I knew for certain: my mother had been right about my part.

Not even twenty-four hours had passed before the traditional families began to demand a traditional marriage. Giovanni was a bastard, his parents unmarried and his mother unknown. They might kneel out of fear, but they wouldn’t respect him or his bloodline, they wouldn’t respect his power.

I was the highest-ranking eligible female in the family, one who came from an excellent bloodline and whose parents were married. I was also the daughter of the late boss, something that pleased my father’s men. Like it would make up for them turning their backs on him.

It happened exactly as my mother had predicted.

I folded up my notes and images, tucking them between the mattress and bedframe. If anyone had found them, I would’ve been killed immediately. Not even my family name could’ve saved me from the wrath of the Vigliano Don .

I had no intention of being caught.

I retied my robe, drawing it tighter to my body before venturing out of my room. Voices echoed down the hall, the study door left open under the assumption everyone was asleep–or that no one would dare spy on the Made Men.

I snuck into the kitchen, where the best view of the men would be. I situated myself by the archway separating the rooms, angling my head so I could make out the leather chairs and cigar-smoke floating around. Shadows moved past the doorway as the men talked amongst themselves, each sentence a carefully veiled threat.

Giovanni’s soldati waited in the foyer, spread around the room, blocking every exit and guarding every entryway. One stood next to the kitchen but had yet to spot me. I wasn’t a threat just yet, unless I was planning on plundering Giovanni to death with my slipper.

“–marrying Vitale’s daughter is a gesture towards the traditionalists.” Giovanni’s voice floated out, empty and factual. “Do not think I am agreeing to this marriage because of pressure.”

He had agreed. Mother said he would.

He needs you.

“I think there are lots of benefits to this match,” Uncle Bartolomeo said carefully. “You will gain favour, not only from the Lombardis but also from other mobs. She comes from a very old family.”

“And she is definitely legitimate?”

I couldn’t tell if Giovanni was joking.

Uncle Angelo certainly didn’t think so, because he said, “Her parents were married, so yes, she is legitimate . In fact, she is legitimate enough that by marrying her, the entire Famiglia is willing to forget your own legitimacy .”

What I would’ve done to see their faces. Uncle Bartolomeo must be sweating bullets.

“Careful, Angelo,” Giovanni said calmly. “Very well. Secure the match.”

Secure the match.

I had known this was my fate. In fact, I had hoped for it, hoped he would take me as his wife and bring me into his family. Saving my family relied solely on him taking me as his wife.

But now he had agreed, my stomach cramped.

I was going to marry Giovanni Vigliano.

Infamous rumours of his bloody conquests walked in front of him. Everywhere he went, misery and disaster followed behind. He had taken over Maine, practically ruling the ports like the King of the Ocean. And now he had come to the epicentre of crime–and usurped one of the oldest Italian-American families in the States.

He was emotionless and vicious. Violent and cunning.

Being his wife would be a challenge but bringing him down to his knees would be even harder.

My new title rang through my head once more. Spy, spy, spy .

He needs you. He needs you more than he knows, my mother’s words sounded in my mind.

My thoughts disappeared as his form stepped out of the study. In the light of the foyer, I could see his features better.

All the facts I knew about him seemed to vanish from my mind. It suddenly didn’t matter if I knew his birthdate or height or middle name. None of those facts would do anything to damage the armour this man wore, none of those titbits of information would help me gain his confidence and spy on him.

Empty , was my first thought as I took him in. He’s empty .

If I ever painted Giovanni Vigliano, I would have to show his insides. I could already picture the art; him standing tall in the darkness, pieces of his face and arms chipped away to reveal his hollowness. Capturing his apathy wouldn’t be hard–not when he wore it so clearly on his face.

I bet if you yelled into his mouth, it would echo.

I still couldn’t deny his beauty, even if the hair on the back of my neck stood up at the sight of him. His black hair was neat and combed back, with slight graying to his temples and stubble. Maturity was clear in his features, his forehead wrinkling with age, but it did nothing to draw away from his beauty–if anything, it made my mouth water more.

Giovanni was tall, taller than both my uncles, but he wasn’t much broader than them. He hadn’t grown a whiskey-belly yet–though like all mob men, it would come in time. I even took in the sensuous bob of his throat, eyeing his Adam’s apple as I committed it to memory.

His head moved so fast if I had blinked, I would’ve missed it.

Crushing blue eyes, the colour of a stormy sea, landed on me. There was no anger, or surprise. Instead, Giovanni merely noted my presence, like I was a lamp.

I met his gaze head on, showing more bravado than I felt.

Uncle Bartolomeo continued to talk about the benefits of the match, like he wasn’t sure how to stop selling it. He hadn’t noticed the Don ’s sudden shift in attention.

Anger spurred low in my stomach, the feeling so strong it felt like a knife to the gut. This was the man who had killed the men I had grown up with. This was the man who had disrupted my life.

My uncles may have bowed with little resistance, but I wasn’t them.

I smiled and held up my middle finger.

Giovanni rose a single eyebrow before turning away, dismissing me entirely.

“I look forward to bringing our two families together,” Uncle Bartolomeo said as the three men reached the front door. “You will be very happy with the match, I’m sure.”

“We’ll see,” Giovanni replied.

We’ll see? Rude bastard.

Uncle Angelo seemed to be thinking the same thing because his brows furrowed in anger. He didn’t say anything, though it was clear he wanted to.

“Until next time,” Uncle Bartolomeo said.

Giovanni inclined his head. “Bartolomeo, Angelo.” He didn’t look at me as he said, “Isabella.”

My name on his tongue...I didn’t like it.

I almost didn’t notice Uncle Angelo turning his head towards me, his scar twisting as he registered my presence.

Giovanni didn’t bother to wait for my uncle’s reactions. Instead, he stepped out into the hallway, taking all the air in the room with him. His men followed him out, none of them glancing towards me.

Uncle Angelo wasted no time. Even if he took a deep breath of relief as the door closed behind the don .

“Isabella!” he snapped. “Have you lost your fucking mind? Spy again and I’ll poke out your eyes.”

“I was curious,” I said. “Wouldn’t you be if you were me?”

“The tongue on that girl,” Uncle Bartolomeo muttered under his breath. Unlike Angelo, Uncle Bartolomeo had never been my biggest fan. I wasn’t quiet enough for him to like me–a sentiment I also shared about him.

Uncle Angelo didn’t agree with me. “I suggest you get over your curiosity, Isabella,” he growled. “Don Giovanni won’t appreciate a nosy wife.”

He had no idea , I thought to myself. “I heard he killed two dozen men. Tore their throats out.”

“That is nothing a young girl needs to know,” Uncle Bartolomeo said.

“He did,” Uncle Angelo snapped. “Which is why I suggest you be extra cautious. A man like that will not hesitate to kill his wife. Even if you are his boon.”

I tangled my fingers in my dressing gown, hiding the slight shake to them. “Thank you for the suggestion, Uncle Angelo.”

“I’m serious, Isabella. Giovanni was not raised with honor or a sense of duty. He is a power-hungry bastard who is willing to do whatever it takes to get what he wants.” My uncle jabbed a finger at me. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

I wonder what Uncle Angelo will say when I bring down Giovanni, I thought. Will Uncle Bartolomeo still deny me information if he knows I brought down the bastard usurper? Will Uncle Angelo warn me not to be stupid once I bring power back to the Lombardis?

“I’ll leave the stupid to you,” I said.

Uncle Angelo rolled his eyes whereas Bartolomeo muttered about my manners under his breath.

“Bed. Now.” Uncle Angelo decided he had had enough of me. “I don’t want to hear another word out of you tonight.”

I hesitated, shifting from foot to foot.

He sighed, his affection for me beating his anger. He approached, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “You will get used to him, Isabella. In time.”

“Fish don’t get used to sharks, Uncle Angelo.”

“No, they don’t.” He gave me another affectionate squeeze before leading me towards my room. “Get some rest, Isabella. You will need your energy for what is about to happen.”

I didn’t go to bed. Even when the sun began to rise in the distance.

Instead, I dug the papers out from under the mattress and spread them on the floor around me. I gathered photos of everyone in the Vigliano Mafia before positioning them in order of hierarchy, with Don Giovanni at the very top. Then I took out some sketch paper and drew his face from memory, the first record of his appearance.

I had so many titles. Daughter, principessa, legitimate, spy . They were all temporary, nothing more than fleeting descriptions of me.

My true title?

Lombardi .

V

Isabella

Ploughed snow created a path to the front of the library, where mistletoe and candles had been fashioned into the shape of a path up the stairs. A sign stood beside the front doors: Welcome to Giovanni and Isabella’s engagement party . Little pictures were drawn inside the letters, the O of Giovanni framing a heart.

“Stop glaring at the sign,” Uncle Angelo murmured into my ear.

“It’s mocking me.”

A tiny smile twitched at his lips, but he kept his serious expression firmly fastened. “It’s cardboard. It can’t mock you.”

The sign’s attitude was forgotten as soon as I stepped into the library. Towering shelves made of mahogany stretched to the ceiling, where the glass roof revealed the soft fall of snowflakes. Round tables spotted the room, making a circle around the dance floor. A lengthy bar ran up the side of the room, decorated with deep pink bouquets and dark greenery.

People filled the room, some familiar, some strangers. To my surprise, there were a few children running around. I wasn’t surprised because it was a no children event but because there hadn’t been any young children born in the Lombardi famiglia for over a decade. It was kind of refreshing hearing their giggles amongst the chatter of adults.

Uncle Angelo escorted me into the crowd where I was immediately hounded. Congratulations and compliments were thrown at me like dodge balls, except I couldn’t move out of the way. I had to smile and recall my manners and try not to let the natural edginess to my tone shine through.

A beautiful woman dressed in a silky sky-blue dress stepped in front of me. Her hair was the color of light ash, pinned back with pearls, and her eyes matched her dress. She was a few years older than me, but the grief that lay in the depths of her irises made her seem centuries older.

The smile on her face didn’t match the sadness in her eyes, like she was seconds away from bursting into tears. If I painted her, she would be leaning over a lake, blonde hair acting as a veil as she wept.

I had seen her a few times when learning everything I could about the Viglianos. Lucrezia Veneziani, widow of Michele Veneziani and ward of the Montalti family. The police report had said her husband died under suspicious circumstances, but the investigation hadn’t led to any conclusions.

“Isabella?” She leaned in to kiss me on both cheeks. “It’s so nice to finally meet you. I’m Lucrezia.”

“It’s lovely to meet you,” I recounted for the hundredth time that night.

“We must have dinner,” she said. “So I can give you the scoop on Giovanni.”

“Lucrezia ,” a voice cut in.

We both turned to see Vincent Montalti, Giovanni’s Underboss, and murderer of Valentino Lo Duca, standing there. He looked handsome in his tux, the gold threads in his tie bringing out the color of his eyes.

“It’s all in good fun, Vin,” Lucrezia said affectionately. She sent me another smile, glassy eyes alight with humor. “We’ll talk soon, yes?”

“I would like that.” Getting the scoop on Giovanni did sound enticing.

Vincent’s eyes followed Lucrezia as she stepped away. There wasn’t a flicker of emotion in his expression, but I knew a forlorn look when I saw one. When he turned back to me, his lips tightened at my knowing smile.

“It’s so nice to meet formally, Vin .”

Uncle Angelo caught wind of the sudden change to my tone and squeezed my elbow.

Vincent didn’t take the bait. “You too, Miss Lombardi. I look forward to bringing our families together.”

“As do I.”

I still hadn’t seen Giovanni. Some part of me wanted to find him while the other part of me was content never seeing him again. I hadn’t seen him since that night he came to my uncle’s apartment, and the more time went by, the more nervous I grew. How was I meant to share a bed with a man I was terrified of? How was I meant to seduce him if I couldn’t even think about him without shuddering?

More Viglianos introduced themselves. The capos came first. Domenico Giordano, Quintus Zetticci, and more. Then the soldati came. I listed all the men in my head in order of power. The women were last. Valeria Giordano, sister to Domenico; Agnese Gorgazzi, sister to Bruno; Zita Montalti, mother to Vincent. And lucky last, Marzia Vigliano.

It was clear she didn’t want to meet me, but the nanny holding her hand was pulling her forward. She was a very cute kid but looked alarmingly like her father. She had his inky black hair, though hers was in two plaits, and the same electric blue eyes.

The moment I spotted her I felt like Gatsby when he saw Daisy Buchanan’s daughter, Pammy. I had heard of her, seen photos, but for some reason, it didn’t sink in that she was real. She disrupted the vision I had of destroying the Vigliano famiglia . There was a child, a young child, caught up in the entanglements of my scheme.

“Marzia,” her nanny tugged her along. Marzia dug her heels in. “Don’t be rude.”

How many times had my mother hissed the same thing to me as she dragged me to places I didn’t want to go?

I had no experience with children, but I offered an “It’s alright.” The comforting words fell from my lips awkwardly.

Marzia turned her eyes to me, scrunching up her chubby cheeks. She had been stuffed into a pale pink dress with a bow around the waist and tulle skirt.

“Miss Lombardi.” The nanny’s cheeks were red. “I’m so sorry. She’s, uh, tired.”

“No, I’m not,” argued the little girl.

My lips twitched. I crouched down, reaching her eye level. “I like your dress.”

Marzia didn’t look impressed. Fair enough, I sounded awkward and practiced.

“I don’t like yours.” As soon as she said it, she blushed like she hadn’t meant to.

“Marzia! ” Her nanny looked horrified.

“It’s okay.” I wasn’t sure what to say to her. I was about to be her stepmother and there wasn’t a single thing I could think to say. “I was going to suggest we swap but I suppose you don’t want to do that.”

Her brows furrowed. “I don’t think you’d fit.”

“You don’t? That’s a shame! I wish my dress had a ribbon.”

Marzia assessed me, her little mind clicking away behind her eyes. When she remained quiet, I rose back to my feet and introduced myself to the nanny. She was flustered but happily kissed my cheeks before being dragged away by Marzia.

Hopefully I don’t have to be around her too much , I thought as I watched the child disappear into the crowd. The nannies will probably –

Uncle Bartolomeo murmured, “She will be the nanny’s problem, not yours. I’m sure once she’s old enough, she will go to boarding school.”

Oh my God, Uncle Bartolomeo was thinking the same thing as me? Horror spread throughout my chest. If I was agreeing with my conservative uncle who once told me he didn’t want kids because he hated giggling, then I probably wasn’t in the right.

“I like her,” I sniped back. “She’s the only honest person here.”

His lips pressed together in annoyance, but other people approached us, stopping him from airing out his grievances.

Between the greetings, I watched the Lombardis mix with the Viglianos. I felt like I was standing on the knoll of a mountain, peering down at two Viking clans barging towards each other. But instead of spears and shields and battle cries, the two armies went after each other with words and well-placed passive aggressiveness.

Soldati were under strict orders to make sure no fights broke out, but even they shared looks amongst themselves that were filled with tension.

If a fight did break out, I wouldn’t blame either of the combatants. I was about to act violently in a second if another Vigliano cooed over my upcoming nuptials. My temper shimmered beneath my skin, growing hotter and hotter the more I had to smile and repeat polite sentiments.

“I need a minute,” I murmured under my breath to Uncle Angelo.

His eyes glanced to me. “There’s a bathroom to the left. I’ll cover for you.”

I kissed his cheek, grinning in thanks, before taking off in the direction he had pointed me towards. Instead of the bathroom, I took a small spiral stairway to the level above. The dust from the books filled the air causing me to sneeze but at least there was no one trying to talk to me.

I leaned my forehead against a shelf, trying to focus on my breathing.

Emotions swirled in my chest, so strong and potent that my throat tightened like I was being choked. Anger and irritation and exhaustion mixed to create a cocktail of wrath. If I were to paint myself right now, my insides would be scarlet and exploding off the side of the canvas.

How was I going to take down Giovanni when I wore my emotions so obviously on my face? How was I going to spy on anyone when I was practically exploding with my thoughts and feelings?

“Isabella.”

I snapped my head to the side.

Giovanni stood a meter from me, not a hair out of place. If I didn’t take in the look in his eyes, I would call him handsome, resplendent in his suit. Maybe I would even blush and fawn under his beauty.

The hair on the back of my neck stood up as his empty eyes roamed over me. Maybe .

“What are you doing up here?” I spluttered, cheeks red.

“I had to take a phone call,” he said. “Shall I escort you back to the party?”

My anger was still close to the surface. That was something everyone with a bad temper could relate to. We knew when we were close to losing control.

I looked at Giovanni’s detached exterior. Did he know when he was close to losing control? Or was he too apathetic to have impulses?

“No. I’m…I’m just having a moment.”

“A moment?”

I nodded. “A moment.”

His expression remained unchanged. His eyes fell to the engagement ring on my finger: a Lombardi family heirloom. The engagement ring was meant to be brought by the groom or even passed down in his family, but this wasn’t your average engagement–besides he had no family heirlooms. Lorenzo’s legitimate children had those.

Giovanni had said it didn’t matter to him when Uncle Angelo had inquired about the ring. As a fuck you, Uncle Angelo had given me a Lombardi ring, the same one Lucia had worn. My mother had taken hers.

“My auntie’s ring,” I said when the silence continued.

He didn’t comment. Instead, he went on to say, “I shall see you downstairs after your moment is over.”

Giovanni went to leave but I felt words rushing out of me before he could. “I wanted to speak to you privately.”

He paused.

“About dress shopping.”

“Dress shopping?”

“I wanted to ask if Marzia wanted to come. She…It might be good for us. To spend some time together.”

Giovanni’s eyes roamed over me. I suddenly wished he had kept them trained on my finger.

“You will have to ask her,” he said.

The awkwardness in the air was so potent I felt suffocated by it. My future husband didn’t seem to notice.

“Anything else, Isabella?”

I wished he would stop saying my name.

“No, I’m good. I’ll ask Marzia about dress shopping.”

Something flickered over his expression. “No one has respected you enough to tell you this, Isabella, but I hope you don’t expect a traditional partnership. I have been married once before and have little time to accommodate the needs of a young girl.”

“Young girl?” The words ripped out of me, my face flushing as my fury rose to the surface. “I am not a child–!”

“I did not tell you this to infuriate you, Isabella,” he said, tone never changing. “Your family has fed you expectations about this marriage and I am refuting them. Would you prefer I lie to you? Entertain your fantasies of a husband and daughter?”

I opened and closed my mouth, trying to simmer my temper before saying something that would get me killed. It didn’t work.

“I know my duty in this marriage,” I bit. “I also know you need me if you want to be king.”

“I already am king.” Giovanni straightened his cuffs, obviously done with this conversation. Before he went to leave, he said, “I might need you, Isabella, but do not assume you are my equal. You’re nothing but salve to the Lombardis wounds. You have your use today but tomorrow? We’ll see.”

Blood roared in my ears, so hot, so red, that I couldn’t hear anything except for the fury inside me.

He left before I could say something I would really regret.

It took me a good twenty minutes to calm down after my conversation with Giovanni.

I squeezed my fists so tight that my nails split the skin of my palm, which forced me to wipe the blood away in the bathroom before going back to the party. Mother had encouraged that behaviour, insisted I bury my wrath inside myself instead of letting it go. It usually ended up with me accidentally maiming myself.

When I returned to the party, the air was still filled with tension. Lombardis and Viglianos continued to mix. It was wrong but I suddenly longed for a fight–it would give me a chance to give Giovanni a piece of my mind.

Uncle Bartolomeo found me first. “Where have you been?” Before I replied, he said, “Come and sit down. Dinner is being served.”

I was placed between Marzia and Uncle Angelo. Giovanni sat directly across from Uncle Angelo, Uncle Bartolomeo and Vincent Montalti on either side. I busied myself with my napkin as they spoke amongst themselves.

“There is still no news on your nephew?” Giovanni was saying. “How peculiar.”

My brother had disappeared with our parents. He was my father’s heir; I bet Giovanni couldn’t wait to wring his neck out. I eyed Giovanni’s hands, tanned and scarred, and felt my heart clench for Junior.

“A lot of people defected,” Uncle Bartolomeo said diplomatically. “I’m sure they will come to their senses soon.”

Beside me, Marzia was scribbling on a napkin, looking bored. I understood the feeling.

“That’s a nice bird.” I gestured to her drawing.

She frowned. “It’s a pterodactyl.”

“Oh.” Being a stepmom is going to suck , I thought as I held out my palm. “Can I have a turn?”

Marzia eyed me before passing over the tiny pencil. I folded out my own napkin and tried to recall my third-grade lesson on dinosaurs. She watched keenly as I sketched out the bird-like creature.

“It needs a pointy beak,” she told me.

I did as she instructed, giving the drawing a pointy beak. “Like that?”

“Yeah.” Marzia adjusted herself so she was sitting on her legs, allowing her to lean over the table better. “You’re really good.”

“I like drawing,” I told her.

“I like dinosaurs.”

I sent her a smile. “Which one is your favorite?”

“From the Triassic era, it’s the Coelophysis,” she said before outlining all her favorites from the different eras. She stumbled over a few of the words, but I remained impressed with how much she knew.

When she stopped to catch her breath, I interrupted. “I want to ask you something.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What?”

“I’m going dress shopping in the next few weeks. Do you want to come? You can pick out your flower girl dress.”

Marzia regarded me warily. “Okay.”

I smiled. Marzia might not be sold on the idea of a stepmother yet–and I wasn’t too hyped about having a stepdaughter–but it was comforting to know there was at least one Vigliano I could be civil with. Even if it was a six-year-old.

When I looked across the table, Giovanni was staring at me. He inclined his head when he caught my eye. I scowled but said nothing. I spent the rest of the evening listening to Marzia talk about fossils and avoiding the gaze of my future husband.

VI

Giovanni

Memories drove me from my sleep.

It had been a few years since the darkness of my past had controlled me enough to disrupt my rest. I had impressive control but even I couldn’t decide when my brain recalled the trauma it had endured.

Images flashed through my mind. The darkness of the cage, the blood running down my legs, the slumped body of my half-sister, the bones sharpened into a knife.

I ignored them until the memories disappeared into my psyche, to be forgotten until they decided to haunt me once more. Trauma was terribly inconvenient.

When it was half past four in the morning, I began my day. Gym, shower, breakfast. I was a creature of habit and maintained my rigorous schedule. Even my twin failed to match my self-discipline.

At exactly six am, Marzia came stumbling down the hall, hair in disarray. “Hi, Daddy.”

“Good morning, my darling. How did you sleep?”

She clambered up to the counter, mumbling something about a strange dream. I placed a bowl of cereal and glass of orange juice in front of her. I leaned against the fridge, coffee in hand, and watched her chew.

Suddenly she asked, “When you marry Isabella, will she live here?”

The engagement party had been the night before and Isabella had made quite the impression on Marzia. My daughter had carried napkins covered in drawings of dinosaurs all the way home and forced me to help stick them to her bedroom walls.

“Yes, darling, she will.”

“Where will she sleep?”

“In my bedroom.”

Marzia didn’t ask any more questions until she carried her bowl to the dishwasher. “Will she eat dinner with us?”

“Most likely, yes.”

Up until last night, Marzia had been very against having another person live in our house and especially furious about having a stepmother. I had even offered to let her stay home instead of attending the engagement party, but she had refused. She still wasn’t completely sold after meeting Isabella, but her curiosity was a good sign.

However, Marzia and her comfort came first. If she continued to hate Isabella, the Lombardi girl could reside somewhere else. I wasn’t risking my daughter’s happiness over some traditionalists.

After brushing her teeth, she asked, “Do you think she’s beautiful?”

I recalled how Isabella had look the night before. She had been dressed in white, the color stark against her olive skin and dark features. I had been surprised to find myself staring at her backside and bare shoulders. But beautiful? I suppose she was–the same way a knife was.

I could do without her temper, however.

“Not as beautiful as you,” I replied.

Marzia grinned.

The questions kept coming all through our morning routine. She asked about Isabella’s hobbies (I had no idea), how long she was staying (until she died), where she would put her winter coats (in the coat room). It wasn’t until I was wrapping her scarf around her neck while she shouldered on her backpack that she finally asked, “Will she be there for story time?”

There it was. The root of my daughter’s dislike.

My daughter was nervous about having another woman in the house. Her nanny had been preparing Marzia by encouraging her that she would have a new mother, a live-in nanny, but my daughter only heard one thing: someone was coming to steal her father away.

Perhaps I had spoiled her by keeping her to myself for so long. Her mother had died when she was barely a toddler, and I had never brought anyone home.

I crouched down in front of my daughter, taking her hands in mine.

Marzia squeezed my hands tightly. “Daddy?”

“Marzia, my darling, I know you’re worried that having someone else in our house will draw attention away from you or impact you negatively, but you and I are a family. You are my daughter and I am your father. Isabella will adapt to us; we will not adapt to her.”

My daughter pondered my words. I felt my lips twitch at the sight of it. Seeing her soft chubby face wrinkling together as her brain ran through her thoughts was something I had always found amusing.

Finally, she said, “I wish it was just you and me.”

“As do I, my darling.”

I straightened back to my full height, taking her library bag in one hand. “Did you pack your lunch?”

“Mmhmm.” Marzia peered up at me, blue eyes bright. “Do you think Isabella likes dogs?”

“You’re not getting a dog.”

“Oh, come on, Daddy. Pleaseee.”

The traditional families seemed more complacent after I agreed to some of their demands.

There was still distrust and dislike, but I predicted that after the wedding, when the memories of slaughter had faded and they had a Lombardi queen to worship, all would be well. I had been surprised when the engagement party, the first meeting of our two families, had gone over without any blood.

As a reward, I made Bartolomeo Lombardi my consigliere. Not only would this settle the tensions even more, but it would also create a larger barrier between him and his brother, Angelo. I didn’t trust Angelo in the slightest, the only reason he had bowed was because of threats to his niece and he had let Maria Lombardi escape.

Vitale, his wife, and heir had all escaped.

Keeping their daughter close was imperative. There was no doubt in my mind they would try and contact her. And when they did, I would be waiting.

The other bosses of New York had accepted my reign and acknowledged my hold over the territory quickly. It helped that I brought a present to the meeting of the five bosses: a man who had tried to kill my daughter and was working for the enemy of Pakhan Konstantin. Marzia had no idea, and she never would.

Two weeks later, my brother finally got in contact with me. Our conversations were few and far in between–Leo couldn’t risk getting caught.

“Congratulations, old man,” was the first he said.

“Do I need to remind you we’re the same age?”

Leonardo laughed. “It’s been a long time coming, brother, but you’ve finally got what you wanted. How does it feel to be a King of New York?”

“I’ve spent the beginning of my reign settling my soldati and their wives.”

“We always knew the traditional families would be a problem,” he said. “How are you going to stop them from killing you?”

“I’ve agreed to marry Lombardi’s daughter.”

My brother choked. “What ?”

“What’s so shocking? It is not unheard of to arrange marriages for peace.”

“Gio, you’re really getting married again? Have you forgotten how well that worked out last time?”

My first marriage had been a shotgun wedding, Ines already twelve weeks along with Marzia at the time of the ceremony. After enduring a childhood of being a bastard, I hadn’t wanted the same for my child. It didn’t take long for Ines to begin hating me. Despite allowing her to take lovers and keep her own residence, she had killed herself not even three years later.

“I don’t see what that has to do with anything. Isabella knows her duty.”

“Isabella .” My brother said the name in a way that made my molars grind. “Vitale’s second daughter, right? I hear she’s rebellious.”

“Compared to the standards of the traditionalists, I’m sure she is.” I thought about her smoking on the roof with her uncle. That would have to stop; I wasn’t having cigarette smoke anywhere near Marzia.

Keys tapped in the background, and he let out another laugh. “She’s beautiful as well. Young, though. She might be more stress than you’re hoping for.”

I nodded. I had the same reservations. The youth were idealistic and emotional. I had no use for either trait.

“When will you join me in New York?” I asked, moving the topic away from my future wife.

Leonardo fell silent.

“It will be harder for me to keep out of the public eye now, Leonardo,” I warned him. “One photo and your cover is blown.”

“I know,” he said. “Trust me, Giovanni, I know .”

I could sense his agitation over the phone. Leonardo had always been more open than me, more charming, but even he had his limits.

“I have New York now,” I ventured, trying to gauge where Leo’s head was at. “We no longer need a spy in D.C.”

“That’s not true. The organized crime squad just got new funding from the higher ups. Besides, the Senate is discussing additional RICO laws– laws that would hinder you.”

It didn’t take an idiot to realize that my brother wanted to stay in Washington DC, he wanted to stay in his pretend life. He was leading the organized crime unit of the FBI and was highly respected. I knew that having a trusted informant so high up was a rare piece of gold, and under other circumstances, I would’ve been more than happy to let him remain there.

But Leo wasn’t dragging his feet because he had won Employee of the Month for the 7^th time. No, my idiot brother had fallen in love and started a little family.

“Gio?” He prompted when I remained quiet.

“I told you this would happen.”

He knew what I was referring to. “Diana and the girls have nothing to do with my decision.”

“Don’t lie to me. I know you as well as I know myself.”

Leo didn’t refute my claim.

“Do you doubt me when I say your wife and daughters won’t be accepted?” I asked tersely. “Or do you fear your wife’s reaction when she discovers her husband is a mafioso and not the upstanding FBI agent he’s been pretending to be?”

My brother sounded agitated when he said, “That doesn’t concern you, Gio.”

So it was the second one. I didn’t know a lot about Diana, Leonardo’s civilian wife, except for the fact she was the daughter of a revered politician and worked in the White House. Seducing her had been a calculating move on my brother’s part; falling in love with her had been his own fault.

“I will keep my face out of the public for as long as I can,” I told him. “I can’t say the same for Marzia. She attends school.”

“Thank you, Gio.” He paused before asking, “How is my niece? She’s turning seven soon.”

“On the thirteenth.”

My brother sighed longingly. Leonardo had always yearned for a big family, he wanted to be an uncle and have dozens of kids himself. I had no idea why he was still so obsessed with the idea. After all, the greatest horrors we had ever endured had been at the hands of those we shared blood with.

“Wish Marzia a happy birthday from me.”

“I will.”

My phone buzzed with an incoming call from Bartolomeo.

“I have to go, Leonardo. Remember what I said.”

He laughed. “Always but doesn’t mean I’ll listen.”

My lips twitched but they smoothed back down as I hung up on my twin and accepted my consiglieres call.

“Bartolomeo,” I greeted.

“It’s not him. It’s me.”

Isabella.

“Oh? I assume you have permission from your uncle to be using his phone.”

She sniffed. “I didn’t have your number.”

Leo’s comment about Isabella’s rebellion came to the forefront of my mind. Hopefully, she would lose that trait quickly. I wasn’t chasing a headstrong princess around Manhattan. “Say why you called. I’m a busy man.”

“We’re getting married next month,” she began. “Engaged couples usually get to know each other better beforehand.”

“How so?”

“With dinners and dates. It’s socially expected, Giovanni, and aren’t you all about pleasing the socialites these days?”

“Careful, Isabella. I’m not the one asking for something.”

I could almost picture her face flushing in fury over my words. Isabella didn’t like to be patronized or spoken down to, even if women of her status were expected to be demure and palatable. My life would be considerably more peaceful if that was how my future wife behaved.

“I don’t want to marry a complete stranger,” she told me.

“Very well.”

Silence passed.

Through gritted teeth, she said, “This is the part where you ask me out on a date.”

This marriage was proving not only to be a financial burden but also time-consuming–and we weren’t even legally wed yet.

“Very well. I’ll send a car to pick you up tonight.”

“How do you know I’m free–?”

“Do you have plans?” She was quiet. “As I suspected. Be ready by seven.”

Isabella made an irritated noise on the other side of the line but wisely remained quiet. Before she hung up, I warned, “Oh and Isabella? Don’t ever touch my consiglieres phone again. If you are so desperate for a phone, I will provide one.” I hung up but before I did, I heard her mutter something beneath her breath.

It sounded an awful lot like fucking asshole .

VII

Isabella

I could’ve chewed my fingers down to my palms with how nervous I was.

There was no real reason to be nervous, after all I would have a chaperone and my honor wasn't as intact as it once was thanks to Harry Gruenfield from my senior biology class. But the idea of facing Giovanni again made my stomach twist itself into a knot. How could you beat someone who had already won the game?

When his car came to pick me up, I was surprised to see him in the backseat. I had expected to meet him at the restaurant.

“Isabella,” he greeted, annoyingly beautiful as ever. “These are for you.”

Giovanni held out a bouquet of blood red roses.

I took them gingerly, almost flinching when I felt the sharp thorns through the ribbon.

“Thank you. You didn't have to.”

“Didn't I?”

I eyed him. Giovanni looked as he always had: cold, empty, heartbreakingly gorgeous. He was dressed in a suit, the blue of the tie bringing out his spectacular eye color. I had tried recreating the blue these past few weeks, but it had never held the same luminosity that Giovanni’s did.

I took the roses on my lap, listening to the sounds of his driver close the door behind me and slide into the front seat. My chaperone/bodyguard, an old soldato named Luigi, joined him in the passenger seat. Both kept their eyes facing forward.

“Where are we going for dinner?” I asked eventually.

“You’ll see.”

I kept looking at him, trying to peel beneath the layers of armour and fancy suit. He met my gaze every time, eyebrow arched.

“Is there something you wish to say, Isabella?” he asked after my fifth glance.

Something I couldn't name seemed to quiver every time he said my name. It made me furious. Couldn't he say my name the same way everyone else did?

“What’s Marzia doing tonight?”

“She should be asleep right now.”

Lights and shadows danced over Giovanni’s face as the car drove through the busy Manhattan streets. He sat with such stillness he could’ve been mistaken for a corpse, only the slow rise and fall of his chest proof he was alive.

I tried to recall every conversation opener I had ever heard in some desperate attempt to create a relationship with the statue sitting next to me.

“The weather's been horrible lately.”

Giovanni continued to gaze at me.

My nerves paired with my sudden flare of anger led me to snapping, “Has anyone ever told you you're very unsettling?”

“They have.” He tilted his head. “I imagine you've also been told similar things.”

I huffed. “Unsettling, no. Volatile, yes.”

“An assessment I agree with.”

“I bet you do.”

Luigi and the driver both stiffened. Giovanni inclined his head in acknowledgement.

The car pulled to a slow stop in front of a dimly lit restaurant. It was an old-fashioned place, with great arch windows and steel shaped like metal vines running up the doors. Touches of gold illuminated the exterior, giving it a French bistro feel.

I wanted to see if Giovanni would open the door for me, but he didn’t. Just waited on the sidewalk. Asshole .

Usually, I was the first to open my door without any help or snap off the head of a man holding the door open for me. I had two arms that worked perfectly, thank you very much. But I wanted to see if Giovanni had a chivalrous bone in him. He didn't.

Something strange inside of me ignited, suddenly thrilled.

I opened my own door and stepped out into the night. Snow had begun to melt, leaving icy concrete in its wake, but the wind remained bitter cold. Goosebumps rose up and down my exposed skin.

I had spent hours choosing the right outfit, forcing Uncle Angelo to help me. After changing over a hundred times, I had settled on a wine-red dress that ended above my knees paired with a fur shawl of the same color. My hair was pinned up, the elaborate style making me look slightly older.

Giovanni barely spared me a glance, gesturing forward.

The doors to the restaurant opened before I could touch them, revealing a pretty woman with eyes the size of headlights.

“Welcome, Mr. Vigliano.” She stepped aside to let us into the restaurant, warm air instantly brushing against me. “Your table is right this way.”

I realized instantly: the place was empty.

Not a single table was filled with hungry patrons, no waiters zipping between chairs. Instead the place was dark–except for a single table upstairs. It looked over the busy street but was far enough from the window that there would be no sniper shots. If anyone else had arranged this, I would’ve considered it romantic.

Giovanni didn’t pull out my chair, but I didn’t mind, too busy taking in the bizarreness of being alone in a place meant for noise.

“It’s strange,” I said suddenly as I slid off my shawl, revealing my exposed shoulders and chest. “Empty restaurants. Don’t you think?”

He regarded me, lips thinning. “No, not at all.”

When I continued to look around, he clarified, “I do not like public appearances, Isabella. You will grow used to it.”

Would I? Or would my father be Don again by then?

I eyed him. There hadn’t been a single photo of him anywhere, not from a fellow La Cosa Nostra or government agency. “Why don’t you like public appearances?”

“Becoming recognizable instantly makes you memorable. I am a target of law enforcement and many other enemies. I would rather them not be able to identify me instantly.” I sensed there was another reason, but I was too surprised by his candidness to argue with him.

“That makes sense,” I said.

A waitress arrived at our table, quietly pouring wine, leaving a breadbasket, and then disappearing back into the shadows. She hadn’t looked at Giovanni–had her boss warned her to keep her eyes to herself?

“You’ve demanded this evening, Isabella,” he said. “Feel free to take control of the conversation.”

“You don’t seem like the type of man who ever surrenders control,” I shot back.

Giovanni’s eyes gleamed brighter but his features remained blank. “I never said surrender .” He continued to watch me. “You’ve confused me, Isabella. You’re the one who wanted to go on a date and now you’re angry because I’m indulging you. You didn’t like the roses or the restaurant.”

The way he recounted my actions with such calculation made the hair on the back of my neck stand up, but I refused to give him the satisfaction. Giovanni was good at unsettling people, he probably enjoyed it–well, enjoyed it as much as he could.

“Like I said before.” I took a sip of the wine. Expensive, sour. “I’m volatile.”

“Mmm.”

I quickly added, “You really wouldn’t mind living with a near stranger? Coming home to an outsider, sleeping beside one?”

“It would bother you more than me.”

“What about Marzia?”

His eyes shifted, just slightly, barely noticeable, but I knew the moment I said it that I had gotten my hook into him. Emotionless monster Giovanni Vigliano might be, but he was still a father.

Giovanni took a slow sip of his wine. “Careful with what you say next, Isabella.”

“I’m not threatening you. I wouldn’t dare.”

I felt the pressure of his stare as he took in my expression, peeling away at the humor and innocence. I didn’t even dare let thoughts about revenge enter my mind out of the fear Giovanni was telepathic and would know my secrets instantly. Look sweet , I implored my features. Look harmless, look like your sister .

He waved a dismissive hand and I held back my sigh of relief. “What do people discuss on first dates?”

“I have no idea. I’ve never been on one before. You’re the one who has been married before; you tell me.”

“There weren’t many dinner dates involved.”

I looked at him curiously. “What do you mean?”

“I’ll do you a favor and banish any assumptions you’ve made about my first marriage. It was merely to ensure Marzia wasn’t illegitimate. Ines had her own residence and lovers. We led two very separate lives.”

I grinned. “Can I have my own lovers?”

“No.”

“Why not? This is a wartime alliance not a real marriage.” I didn’t want a lover, it would only distract me from my real goal, but I couldn’t help trying to tease Giovanni. It didn’t seem to be working in the slightest.

“The answer is no. I will not be subject to the traditional families’ whims any longer–and you stepping out will surely insight more whining.”

“They’re hypocrites. The men are allowed as many mistresses as they please, but the women are expected to remain chaste and pure.”

Giovanni eyed me, spotting something. “Are you chaste and pure, Isabella?”

I startled but suddenly the waitress arrived with our entrees. This must be the chef’s special because neither Giovanni nor I had ordered. It looked delicious, however. Grilled meat tenderloin and asparagus drizzled with some sort of sauce, all decorated to make a gourmet meal.

I grabbed my glass and tipped it towards Gio. He returned the gesture.

“Here’s to the whines of our families.”

Here’s to destroying Giovanni Vigliano and enjoying every moment of it.

He clinked his glass against mine. “To the whines.”

I smiled at my future husband and pressed the rim to my lips.

I’m going to rip your heart out and eat it, Giovanni Vigliano. Then we’ll see who your fucking equal is.

Giovanni

There was paint behind her ear.

Isabella had been calculating when choosing her outfit. She knew she was beautiful, knew the right dress would elicit her curves and that a certain hairstyle would make her look older. Add the fur shawl that offered her shoulders coverage until she decided to reveal them, and Isabella almost made my bodyguard forget his loyalty.

I couldn’t deny her beauty. She was eye-catching, almost shocking to look at.

But behind her ear, half hidden by the loose brown curls, there was a streak of blue paint. She obviously didn’t know it was there.

“I’m surprised the engagement party went off without a hitch,” she said as we enjoyed our entrees.

So was I. “Were you expecting a hitch?”

“I was. You don’t get to blend two families together without any drama.” Isabella’s eyes glanced at me. They were so dark they reflected the flame of the candle. “Any news on my father’s whereabouts?”

I arched an eyebrow at her. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you that wives should only worry about taking care of the house and warming their husbands’ beds?”

Her lips thinned. She was so obvious with her emotions, moving from grins to scowls within seconds. I found it perplexing. Hadn’t her parents ever taught her that a poker face was the deadliest weapon? “I’m not your wife yet.”

“No, you’re not.”

“That’s a no , then. You have no idea where Vitale is.”

I had enough advisors and soldati , I didn’t need another one. Especially a meddling young woman who had never seen the violent world of the mafia. She would cause more problems than she would solve.

“I don’t know where he is either,” she said, no hint of a lie in her voice. I knew Isabella didn’t know where he was, but it was amusing to me that she thought I didn’t know that. Her phone was tapped, her residence constantly guarded. There was nothing the Lombardi princess did that I didn’t know about.

“We would be having a very different conversation if I thought you did.”

Nervousness flickered in her eyes, reminding me of her age. It was quickly replaced with annoyance. “I don’t like being threatened.”

“I’m not threatening you, Isabella, merely stating a fact.”

“Is this your way of respecting me?”

I scanned her face, trying to unravel the anger and bitterness that abruptly flooded her features. Trying to keep up with Isabella’s emotions was going to give me more gray hairs. “Are you referring to our conversation at the engagement party?”

“No,” she practically choked.

“You are.” I didn’t understand her anger. I was truthful with her, which was much more than anyone else. “I meant every word. I hope you don’t expect an apology.”

Isabella seemed to be fighting an internal battle. Suddenly, she flinched, pain erupting in her features. I frowned.

“What did you do?”

She covered her mouth and mumbled something. It sounded like “Bit my tongue.”

I passed her a napkin and poured her some cold water. Isabella mumbled a thank you and took a sip. When she placed it back on the table, pink swirls of blood could be seen. She had gotten so angry she had bit her tongue. I recalled her split palms at the engagement party–had that also been an attempt to rein in her temper?

I don’t know why but it bothered me to a certain extent.

“You shouldn’t be hurting yourself in order to contain your emotions.”

“Not emotions,” she muttered. “Anger .”

I wasn’t experienced with trying to control my anger. It had always obeyed me like everything else under my jurisdiction.

I reached across the table, moving her hand out the way. Her eyes grew wide as I traced my thumb along her bottom lip. Blood and lipstick came away, both the same color.

Isabella’s chest rose and fell sharply.

My eyes lowered to her exposed neck and shoulders, to the shape of her breasts. If I dropped my hand, I would be able to wrap it around her throat, feel that soft skin beneath my scarred palms. How fast would her pulse race beneath my thumbs? I wanted to know the answer to that question.

Sex had always been a way to feel pleasure and pain in an environment I controlled. I maintained the same sexual partners for many years, all who were sworn to silence and were trained to do whatever I told them to.

Isabella wouldn’t do whatever I told her to do.

I suspected the rebellious Lombardi princess wasn’t as virginal as her family were assuring me, but she had never had sex the way I had. She would break beneath my hands if I enjoyed her the way I wanted to. Which would lead to discontent amongst the Lombardis.

I drew my arm back and she let out a stuttering breath. She looked rattled and surprised, but quickly dabbed a napkin to her mouth.

“I don’t want you doing that anymore,” I said.

Her eyebrows furrowed. “Doing what?” There was the undercurrent of something in her tone.

“Cutting your palms with your nails or biting your tongue to control yourself.”

“My mother told me to do it when I needed to calm down,” Isabella retorted. She wasn’t happy I was giving her an order. “Or would you prefer I unleash my anger?”

Had Isabella been keeping her anger on a leash? It must be a very long one since I had seen her go from wrath to fury to ballistic within the past three minutes.

“Well, now I’m telling you to stop. Don’t worry about this metaphorical leash you’ve chained your anger to, Isabella. The scathing comments of a little principessa won’t bother me.”

Her face and neck flushed, lips peeling back to reveal her teeth. Paired with the blood from her tongue, it was quite a scary expression. Like a rabid dog.

“Little principessa?”

“That’s what you are, isn’t it?”

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped. “It’s–that was my sister.”

Sister? I recalled that Vitale and Maria had lost a child before having Isabella but that was all I knew. No point filling my brain with facts about the dead.

“Very well.”

The waitress brought over our second meal, interrupting our conversation. I watched Isabella over the table, who was trying not to meet our eyes. It would be disruptive having a woman such as Isabella in my house; I knew without asking her that she wouldn’t follow schedules, orders and habits.

She will learn to , I thought. Isabella will adapt to me. I will not adapt to her.

“I know why the restaurant is strange to me,” she said suddenly.

I inclined my head.

Her eyes roamed over the empty tables and high ceilings. There was a misery to her expression that I hadn’t seen yet. Another emotion , I thought, already exhausted by the implications of that. “It’s sad.”

For the first time in a long time, I felt a flicker of surprise in my chest. “Sad?”

“There’s no chatter, no laughter. I can’t people watch or salivate over their meals. Restaurants aren’t meant to be empty. It’s sad.”

I thought about the blue paint behind her ear. “It’s just a building.”

Isabella looked at me like she was suddenly perplexed by me. I was not the one giving characteristics to inatimate objects.

I continued, “As I explained earlier, I go to great lengths to keep my identity a secret. You will adjust to sad buildings–as you refer to them–and then they will no longer seem so bizarre to you.”

“No,” she said. I arched my brow; not a lot of people disagreed with me so openly. “It’s sad, there’s no other explanation. Maybe I’ll buy you a disguise so that we can go to a crowded restaurant, and I can show you what I mean.”

“Disguise? Should I expect a moustache and pair of glasses?”

Isabella’s entire face brightened, lips stretching into a grin. Like her anger, she wore her happiness obviously and clearly. “Was that a joke, Giovanni?”

“No.” Had it been? I would have to ask Leonardo. “How is your meal?”

“Delicious.”

The rest of the meal passed with little incident. She continued to leap from happiness to anger to annoyance, forever trapped in her constant loop of passion. If there was anything she got from this marriage, I hoped it was the ability to control herself, to be as still and sombre as a lake. Coldness would serve her better than this endless tirade of vehemence.

As I escorted her back to the car, I caught Luigi sparing a glance at her chest. Lust flickered in his eyes before he quickly looked away.

Isabella was oblivious, wrapping her fur shawl around herself, and shuddering when the icy wind hit her. “I can’t wait until it warms up,” she chatted away. “I love the snow, but I can’t stand the cold.”

“It’s more bearable when you bring a coat and not an oversized scarf.”

She cut her eyes to me, wrapping the fur around her tighter. “I’ll wear whatever I want, the earth’s elements be damned.”

We slid into the car, Isabella immediately grabbing the roses and laying them on her lap. I didn’t speak to her until the car pulled up in front of her building. I caught her roaming eyes glancing at my cell phone when I palmed it, but she didn’t ask any more questions about the organization.

“Thank you,” she said, hugging the bouquet to her. “I had a nice time.”

“We are no longer strangers,” I replied. There would be no more indulging or dinner dates. I had a city to run, a child to raise, and I would not be subjected to the whims of a young girl.

Her brows furrowed. “I guess not.”

She opened the door, but I caught her wrist, freezing her in place. She snapped her head to me, eyes wide.

I pressed my fingers behind her ear, right over the streak of paint. “My eyes are a lighter blue.”

Her mouth dropped, cheeks turning red. She rubbed behind her ear, going an even brighter shade when flecks of dried paint came away. “I wasn’t–I mean…I–”

“Goodnight, Isabella.”

Isabella jumped out of the car, almost losing her footing, before storming into the building. She kept her head held high, even if her face was the same color as her dress.

“Jacopo, go with her. I want a word with Luigi.”

My driver didn’t hesitate, sliding silently from the car and following Isabella into the building. He would deliver her straight to her uncle.

Luigi swallowed. “Everything okay, sir?”

I tugged off my gloves. “It will be.”

When Jacopo returned, he didn’t blink at the mess. Only asked, “Shall I have the paintings she created destroyed, sir?”

“Yes.” I straightened my cuffs, settling my body. Adrenaline thundered through my veins as it always did after a kill. It was the same sensation I got during sex. “You will have to reupholster the seats, Jacopo. The leather’s destroyed.”

“Very good, sir.”

VIII

Isabella

Butterfly kisses began at my ankle and slowly worked their way up my leg.

I spread my knees, sighing deeply. Each press of lips, each scratch of beard, warmed up parts of me that had been cold for too long. Hands pinned my thighs apart with an iron-grip, forcing me to expose the most vulnerable parts of myself. I was floating too high to feel embarrassed or shy.

My pleasure was a candle that was quickly becoming a forest fire.

Silk sheets caressed my skin and a faraway thought told me this wasn’t my bed, but I paid it no mind.

His attention grew closer and closer to the part of me that ached, his tongue lightly stroking my folds. Fingers joined his tongue, their touch talented and inept. Ecstasy shot through me, hard and fast, and a groan escaped my mouth.

He lightly traced around my bud, laughter reverting deep inside him. Circular, taunting, motions that had me quivering.

“Please,” I think I said, the word swallowed by something larger than myself.

The teasing was growing too great, the anticipation was a razor’s edge, and I was ready to be cut. If he just–

His tongue pressed against my clit, hot and wet and oh so good. I let out a silent cry, hips bucking under his ironclad grip.

I felt rather than heard his command. He wanted me to succumb, to surrender beneath his grip. In that moment, with his mouth against the part of me that ached, his fingers and lips and tongue moving in a rhythm that made my head swim, I would have agreed to anything.

My pleasure was rising higher and higher, my knees bending as it shuddered up my body. I could feel the climax–

Water began welling up all around me. My nightgown stuck to my skin as the water rose, higher and higher. I tried to get up, but his grip held me tightly. I was going to drown; the water was rising.

I struggled, screaming and fighting. My head was plunged beneath the surface and blues suddenly surrounded me. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t get up–

A head appeared above me, ocean-blue eyes empty as they took me in. His hair wafted with the current, looking like a squid’s ink.

Please, I was begging, I can’t breathe, please I’m drowning, please.

Calmly, Giovanni began rising, or I began sinking. I didn’t know. My lungs filled with water as I screamed, arms stretched out for him. He didn’t help me.

I was dying, I was dying–

“Fragolina !”

Consciousness tore through me and I bolted upright. My bedroom door let out a bang as my uncle strode in, followed by Adriano Lo Duca and a Vigliano soldato I didn’t recognize. They didn’t look at me, beelining straight for my paintings.

I pulled the blanket up to my chest, still dizzy from my dream. “What’s going on?” My voice was drowsy but the hysteria to my tone was clear. “Uncle Angelo! What are you–!”

My uncle grabbed a canvas I had been working on, the rivets of blues all mixing together like the sea. He threw it down to the ground where the Vigliano soldato picked it up and shoved it into a trash bag.

I suddenly saw red.

“What are you doing?” I howled, leaping from the bed. The blanket twisted around my ankles, sending me sprawling, but my rage helped me pull myself up. I lunged at my uncle who grabbed me, eyes dark.

“The Don has ordered all paintings of him to be destroyed,” he said, voice tight. “Just show us which ones–”

“Do not touch my art!” I half-shrieked. Even my parents, my mother and father who had never given me much regard, had never touched my paintings. Even my big brother, who used to tease me in his teens endlessly, never went near my creations.

Adriano and the soldato sorted through the other canvases, their eyes searching for any sign of their boss–or in Adriano’s case, newest boss. I looked at him in betrayal. The Viglianos had killed his father, why was he doing Giovanni’s bidding so eagerly?

The Vigliano soldato found my sketch book, flicking through the pages and ripping out images of Marzia, Giovanni and my recollections of the engagement party. Every time I heard the paper tearing, my heart seemed to tear with it.

“No, stop!”

Uncle Angelo grabbed me, pinning me to his chest. I fought against his hold.

“I know you like to unravel the world with your art, fragolina ,” he tried to soothe, “but Giovanni refuses to let his image be seen anywhere...”

“They’re not all of him!” I reached forward when Adriano carefully grabbed a painting of the ocean, a pair of blue eyes weaved into the waves. I was afraid of water and Giovanni, so I had paired the two together, creating something that was terrifying and watchful and dangerous.

Adriano gently placed it in a bag, looking somewhat sympathetic. I didn’t care. In that moment, I wanted to snap the paintbrush to my left and use the sharp ends to gouge his eyes out.

Uncle Angelo did not loosen his grip on me, brushing a hand down my hair. “It’s okay, Domi–fragolina . It’s going to be okay.”

Giovanni had ordered his men to destroy my art, to destroy who I was. I had spent hours pouring over those images, figuring out my feelings with each brush stroke. Who did he think he was to come into my haven and ruin the things that made me feel safe?

My cries echoed around the room, but no one reacted to them. My uncle continued his attempts to soothe me, but it was no use. In that moment, nothing in the world could’ve comforted me.

Adriano and the soldato left, two trash bags filled to the brim.

Hot tears slid down my cheeks as I took in my disrupted workspace, took in the torn sketchbook and tipped canvases. Vulnerability and fury raged a war inside of me.

“How about you get dressed and I’ll make you some breakfast?” Uncle Angelo asked.

I had forgotten I was only in my nightgown, the red silk not covering much. Not only was I emotionally exposed but I was also physically.

I turned my head to the vase of roses on my bedside table. When I had gotten back from dinner with Giovanni, I had warded off my uncles invasive questions about the bouquet and given it some sugary water. The petals had begun to wilt but remained beautiful.

Before I could even think about it, I was grabbing the roses and storming over the balcony. My uncle called out my name but I ignored him, and I also ignored the guards who watched me with wide eyes as I tossed the bouquet over the balcony, sending it to its flowery death.

I heard someone yelp “Ow! What the fuck?” from below. I paid them no mind.

Instead, I turned to the guard closest to me, teeth bared. “Tell Giovanni and his roses to go fuck themselves.”

The rain had finally stopped, allowing us all to congregate in front of the bridal shop as we waited for Marzia. Lombardi and Vigliano women blended, their smiles faked and words forcibly sweet. If I had a dollar for every passive aggressive comment that had been made in the past four minutes, I would have enough money to buy a private jet and fly as far away from here as possible.

The age difference wasn’t the only source of contention. Most of the Vigliano women were younger, whereas majority of the Lombardi women were older. But it seemed old wounds hadn’t been forgotten, particularly the bloody way in how Giovanni came to his position as Don . Loyalty was just as strong with mob women as it was with mafiosi .

Lombardis are known for their loyalty , Father always used to say.

“Long sleeves are the best choice,” Jolanda Lo Duca said, mother to Adriano and widow to Valentino Lo Duca. If she knew about his affair with my mother, she didn’t let on.

“Isabella has such pretty arms, why hide them?” Lucrezia Veneziani replied, voice sweet but words hard. There was a raspy note to her voice that made it sound like she had been crying.

More comments were made from either side. How long should the train be? It should be conservative, but not too conservative. What kind of lace? Skirt? Bodice? Neckline? I was already sick of hearing about wedding dresses, and we hadn’t even gone into the shop yet.

A car pulled over and I happily stepped forward, disrupting the conversation. Few moments later, a tall man stepped out, eyes beady. He scanned the street before opening the back door. A purple sneaker poked out and then Marzia tumbled out onto the street, dressed in a dotty blue coat and black hair in two braids.

“Hi Isabella.” She gave me a limp wave.

“Marzia, thank you for coming.”

She scrunched up her nose and looked to her bodyguard. He was carrying a mint green backpack in one hand. “This is Daniele.” He inclined his head politely but said nothing.

“Let’s go in.” I ushered her forward.

The other women greeted Marzia with hellos and coos , complimenting her coat and shoes. She shrunk with embarrassment, cheeks pink as she muttered thank you .

The shop assistant was on us the second we stepped in.

“Who’s the lucky bride?” she cooed. All the women pointed to me; I felt like a puritan being accused of witchcraft. “So gorgeous! You must be so excited!”

“Ecstatic.”

“We’ve already pulled lots of choices for you to try on,” she gushed. “How about we get you ladies settled so we can start trying on dresses?”

Everyone readily agreed and we were led to a separate room with floor-length mirrors and cream couches. Champagne was served (apple juice for Marzia) and I was pulled into one of the backrooms.

If the shop assistants noticed the bodyguards, they said nothing. I had a new bodyguard named Gustavo Moretti, a Vigliano soldato who Giovanni had sent over after the sudden disappearance of Luigi. He was professional and polite and hadn’t succumbed to any of my badgering.

Giovanni .

He had swarmed my thoughts with a vengeance. After he destroyed my artwork and I tossed the rose bouquet over the balcony, he hadn’t contacted me. I could almost imagine his reaction, the cold way he would say, Childish behaviour, Isabella. Very childish.

I made myself mad just by thinking about it.

And here I was, becoming a bride for him.

When the Lombardis took back New York, I would ask my father if Giovanni’s death could be mine. Perhaps I’d throw him over my balcony or better yet, stab him to death with my paintbrushes.

Imagining Giovanni’s death was a good distraction from the beauty pageant I had walked into because after ten dresses I was about ready to set the place on fire.

“Your features are so severe, Isabella,” Angelica Di Donato was saying. She was my godmother, which led her to believing she was allowed to say whatever she wanted to me. “She’s got her father’s features.”

I was in my tenth dress, a mermaid-shaped lace gown that itched my shoulders and chest. Lucrezia had chosen this one, claiming it to be more modern than the traditional dresses the Lombardi women had chosen for me.

“My features are fine, Angelica, and you can barely see them with a veil,” I snapped.

Once upon a time, I would’ve been reprimanded for my tone. But I was about to become their Donna , their queen. No one will reprimand me again , I thought with sudden smugness. Except my husband…

Angelica sniffed. “Well, well, if you’re so sure. Maybe some flowers? That would soften…”

“Flowers and a veil? It’ll be too much.” Jolanda scrutinized me. “Maybe we should lighten her hair for the day?”

“My hair is fine.”

The shop assistant tried to speak up. “But what about the dress–?”

“She should have her hair down,” Lucrezia argued.

“Her hair will be up, as is custom,” shot back Angelica. “I don’t know how you do marriages in Maine–”

“Probably a very similar way to how you do them here,” the younger girl retorted. “She’s not an old woman. Why are you trying to dress her like one?”

More arguments arose.

I picked up my skirt and went back into the changing room, letting the assistant help me out the dress. “I’m just going to go to the bathroom really quick.”

She sent me a sympathetic look. “It’s down the hall.”

I didn’t go to the bathroom. I tucked myself in a quiet hallway, legs stretched out in front of me and glass of champagne in hand.

This is for your family , I told myself. This is for your future.

If you can’t handle dress shopping, how are you going to spy on Giovanni Vigliano? How are you going to bring him down?

I pressed my hand into my eyes, sighing deeply, before taking a gulp of bubbly. It fizzled down my throat, offering little relief.

“Auntie Lucrezia sent me to look for you.”

I snapped my head to the side. Marzia stood at the end of the hallway, watching me curiously.

“I’m hiding,” I told her. “Tell her I’m in the bathroom.” Should I tell her to lie for me? Telling a child to lie probably wasn’t something you should do.

Marzia looked over her shoulder and cringed when she heard the raised voices. “Can I hide too?”

I patted the carpet next to me and she joined me, tucking her legs awkwardly beneath her.

“Can I have a sip of champagne?”

“No, you may not.”

Marzia huffed, leaning against the wall.

“Happy birthday for last week, by the way. Did you get spoilt?”

“I did.”

I nodded. “Good.”

We sat in silence, listening to the voices of the women. I even heard the assistant trying to calm them but to no avail.

“Daddy says you’re going to eat dinner with us and sleep in his bed.” She eyed me suspiciously like I would dare to refute his claims.

Sleep in his bed? The thought sent a shudder down my spine. “That’s true.”

“Do you like dogs?”

“I love dogs.”

She nodded and repeated in the same exact tone I had used, “Good.”

I sent her a smile and tipped my glass in her direction.

Lucrezia found us ten minutes later, shaking her head when she spotted us on the floor. “We’ve been looking for you two. Come on, quickly. There are some flower girl dresses for you to try on, Marzia.”

Marzia groaned but got to her feet and slumped towards the changing rooms. I went to follow her, but Lucrezia stepped in front of me.

“Look, this is none of my business but I would never forgive myself if I didn’t warn you.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Warn me?”

Lucrezia’s blue eyes looked like they were about to fill with tears. “Keep your heart to yourself, Isabella. He will destroy it .”

My entire body stiffened, and I stepped away from her. “Thank you for your warning,” I said, voice tight. “But I don’t need to be told the obvious.”

It took a few hours but eventually we found the perfect dress. I had fallen in love with it at first glance and the women had shed a few tears when I had exited the fitting rooms. A few of the women lamented over how sad it was my mother was missing out on this, but I wasn’t so sure she was missing out.

Across the road, a café could be seen. Little tables were protected from the rain by large umbrellas. Beneath one of the umbrellas, a woman sat, very still, dressed all in black with a large hat hiding her face. I had grown up watching Maria, I could spot her from a mile away.

I didn’t alert anyone, even when her gaze burned so hotly into my skin, I felt like I was being suffocated. My mother was watching, waiting, and when I gave her the signal to pounce, I knew the streets of Manhattan would run red with Vigliano blood.

Spring

IX

Isabella

On the first day of Spring, I became Isabella Vigliano.

It was a beautiful day. Clear blue skies, buttery sunlight, a warm breeze. Flowers bloomed and birds sung from their nests.

I felt betrayed by the world. How dare it allow such beauty on the day of my destruction? How dare the world welcome new life when my life was about to be forfeit?

My anxiety was strong enough to grow its own head and arms , I thought as I leaned against the church walls. Cold marble pressed into my skin, the stony eyes of the saints looking down on me. The heavy train of my dress rooted me in place, paired with the long veil that shrouded my eyesight and a large bouquet of white roses.

The organ shuddered through the walls as the bridesmaids walked down the aisle.

I was up next.

I looked to my right. Uncle Angelo looked handsome in his tux, the only sign of his brutality was the scar down the side of his face. When he caught my eye, he softened his features and even attempted a smile.

“You look beautiful, fragolina .”

“You’ve already told me that.”

I didn’t look beautiful, I looked striking. The long-sleeve wedding dress was made of lace and silk, sliding down my figure, and pooling out at my waist. It was a wedding dress fit for a queen–and it was almost as heavy as a castle. I had to employ my maid of honor to help me whenever I needed to go to the bathroom.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“No.” I looked out the glass windows, anger spurring low in my gut at the sunny day.

“Neither am I.”

The organ grew louder, the familiar tune rising higher and higher.

“I’m scared,” I breathed.

Uncle Angelo offered me his arm. “I know, fragolina . I know.”

He didn’t tell me there was nothing to be scared of, or that my fear was unjustified. Uncle Angelo and I both knew the truth. He wouldn’t disrespect me by lying so obviously.

But we were divided when it came to the reason why I was scared. Uncle Angelo thought I was frightened of being Giovanni’s wife, and in some ways I was. I was more afraid, however, of what he would do to me once he found out my true intentions.

Don’t say that , I warned myself. It’s ‘if’ he finds out, not ‘when’ .

“He won’t hurt you,” my uncle tried to comfort me. “He knows this marriage assures the loyalty of the Lombardis.”

“Are there still Lombardis?” I asked. “Or does this marriage make us all Viglianos?”

A flicker of pride danced over my uncle’s face. It warped his scar in a way I had never seen before. “We are an old family, Isabella. We reigned in Sicily and when we migrated to America, we have reigned here as well. Your veins are filled with the blood of dons and capos . There isn’t a chapter of mafia history our family hasn’t helped write.”

“Our family won’t be involved in the future,” I said. “The territory your grandfather ruled belongs to Giovanni now.” Just to gauge my uncle’s reaction, I added, “Unless Father rises from the ashes and reclaims what the famiglia lost.”

“It would take a magnificent phoenix to defeat the bastard son of Lorenzo Vigliano,” my uncle said. He didn’t sound convinced.

Uncle Angelo had sold his loyalty to Giovanni, turning his back on my parents. I’m sure he had good reasons–honorable, rational reasons–but I wasn’t as keen to surrender. Mother had promised me respect, had promised me a family, if I took down the Lombardis enemy number 1.

She had promised me love.

I could still feel the sensation of her touch on my skin, the feeling of love as she had embraced me. The child inside of me preened at the memory. If I defeated Giovanni, Mother would love me so much more. She would love me more than she had ever loved my big sister.

“Do you think Isabella would be better suited to marry Giovanni?” I asked.

My uncle snapped his head to me, nostrils flaring. Before he could say anything, the huge doors opened and the crescendo of the music washed over me, rendering me momentarily paralyzed.

Then Uncle Angelo hooked my arm through his, placing my hand over his. He gave me an affectionate squeeze.

Through the lace of my veil, I took in the thousands of guests, from my family to the other mobs of America. The Godless Don of Chicago and his Golden Regina sat in the first row, joined the four New York bosses and the three Irish Kings of Boston. It wasn’t our allies that made me nervous, however. It was my family.

Lombardis and Viglianos were separated by the white aisle. Their eyes tracked me like wolves, their thoughts written plain on their faces. Some kind, some cruel. Some terrifying.

There will be no peace.

She looks beautiful.

This is a disgrace.

She looks grown up.

This is the best option.

She looks honorable.

This is the beginning of a new era.

Past the whispers and stares, past the elaborate hats and sharp tuxedos, my fiancé stood. Giovanni looked beyond handsome in his suit, the white of the bowtie matching my dress. He didn’t look like a happy husband, instead his features were devoid of any emotion, making him blend in with the concrete saints.

Seeing his dark figure amidst the holiness of the church felt wrong. He didn’t belong here, the blood on his hands was too ripe for the sanctuary of God. Hell, the blood in his veins should’ve excluded him from stepping inside the holy grounds.

That would all be forgotten once he bound himself to me. He was giving me a surname and in return, I was giving him my bloodline.

We stopped in front of the altar, our eyes finally meeting. I barely registered Uncle Angelo kissing my cheek and letting go of my hand, nor did I notice Marzia taking my bouquet and sitting in the front row.

Giovanni stared at me. I stared at him.

A sudden thought occurred to me: I know why I can’t get the correct shade of blue when trying to recreate Giovanni’s eyes .

The reason? I was putting too much emotion in them.

The wedding reception took place in a luxurious hotel. I had been surprised that Giovanni was willing to risk being seen so many times in a day, but Uncle Angelo told me that the hotel was owned by the Vigliano Mob. Therefore, the staff knew not to ask questions and a small army of soldati guarded the exterior.

Plus, all the security cameras were covered.

My new husband and I came into the room holding hands, then spent the next hour receiving congratulations from the families. The compliments and well-wishes washed over me; the only thing I could focus on was Giovanni’s touch. His hand burned like hot iron into my lower back.

I had to physically stop myself from shrugging away.

I didn’t like the way his touch made me feel. I didn’t like the racing heart and rapid thoughts and churning gut. I felt almost petulant in my dislike. It makes me feel excited, so I want it to stop , my reasoning sounded like.

He was my husband so I would have to find a way to relax beneath his hands.

“Alessandro, Sophia,” Giovanni greeted the rulers of Chicago with familiarity.

The Rocchettis and Lombardis had never been close, but I knew the Rocchettis and Viglianos also had bad blood between them. There was a rumor that the late Don of Chicago had slaughtered all Lorenzo’s bastards in his city, wiping away dozens of innocents whose only crime was having tainted blood.

“Giovanni,” said Sophia Rocchetti, her voice light and musical. She wore a golden dress that dripped around her like starlight, so sparkly it seemed to generate its own light. “Isabella. It’s so wonderful to see you again. Congratulations on a beautiful day.”

We briefly embraced, kissing each other’s cheeks. Alessandro did not embrace me and Giovanni didn’t encourage it. Strange maybe, but not when you considered how tense the alliance between the two was.

“Congratulations,” the Don said. He didn’t have any of his wife’s charm, instead wearing a constant annoyed expression like he was seconds away from leaving or setting off a gun.

“Thank you,” I said robotically.

“I was just telling Alessandro what a striking pair you two make together,” Sophia laughed. “The dark hair, your beauty. Your Christmas card will make us all envious.”

I forced a smile, even if I had the fleeting thought that I wouldn’t be around for Christmas. And if everything went to plan, neither would Giovanni. “Not as striking as you and your husband.”

Her eyes brightened in delight, like two little pennies on her face. “You’re too sweet.”

Marzia skipped up to us in that moment, loose curls spilling out of her chignon. She sent a shy smile the Rocchettis way.

“I don’t think you’ve met my daughter, Marzia, yet.” Giovanni pressed a comforting hand to Marzia’s head. He didn’t need to send a warning look to Alessandro, I think it pretty much went unsaid what would happen if the Rocchettis posed a threat to her.

“It’s lovely to meet you, Marzia,” Sophia cooed. “I love your dress. Where did you get it?”

She blushed and glanced to me for help.

“A local boutique,” I said. “I got my dress from there as well.”

“You’ll have to point me in their direction. Since the two prettiest dresses came from there.” She sent Marzia another showstopping grin.

“I wish to speak to you before you leave,” Giovanni told Alessandro.

The Chicago Don nodded in agreement. “As do I.” He looked down at his wife, anger evaporating into softness.

Sophia nodded at his silent question. “It was lovely meeting you, Marzia. We’ll talk soon, Isabella?” I agreed and watched the attractive couple walk into the crowd, the patrons parting like the Red Sea.

Without guests and forced manners to distract me, my attention flittered back to the hand on my lower back. I didn’t have time to dwell on it because soon after the familiar musical notes began to play throughout the room, a soft but firm summon to the dance floor.

It was time for Giovanni’s and I’s first dance as husband and wife.

“Shall we?” Giovanni offered his hand. The scarred palm stared up at me.

The rebellion in my blood heated at his demand. In front of my family and enemies, I almost refused him. It would be a scandal, a social faux pas , but the satisfaction I would get from denying Giovanni would be worth it.

Giovanni got tired of waiting and grabbed my hand. His grip was firm but not cruel. Warning lay in his blue eyes.

I gave him a sour smile. “Of course, husband.”

Music twisted together in a classical waltz, each note speeding up my heart. Giovanni took me in his arms, and everywhere our skin met, heat flushed through me. His face didn’t reveal a thing, but I briefly caught his eyes glancing down at my rising and falling chest. The dress was too modest to show any cleavage, but an unfamiliar thrill ran through me at the attention.

“Who taught you to dance?” I asked.

Giovanni twirled me around the floor, my train following us like a silky avalanche. “I taught myself.”

“My brother taught me,” I offered, surprising myself. “He used to let me stand on his feet and together we would prance around the living room.” Junior was nine years older and very rarely hung out with me, but there had been a few times outside his rigorous schedule when my big brother had entertained me.

My husband didn’t react to my childhood anecdote, just continued to sweep me around the room.

“I only have a few more boxes left to move,” I said. I hadn’t been permitted to move the boxes myself, Giovanni’s soldati had overseen relocating my stuff. “Gustavo has been a huge help.”

“The housekeeper has unpacked most of the boxes,” he finally replied.

“Even my paints?”

“You would have to ask her.”

I recalled the tipped over canvases and torn sketchbooks that had occurred under Giovanni’s command. Hurt and wrath skidded along my bones. “I’m surprised you didn’t throw them out.”

Giovanni tipped his head down to look at me. “You cannot say you weren’t warned, Isabella. I told you that I dislike public places and my face being seen.”

“I’m not the paparazzi–or FBI. I’m your wife .” The word wife rattled around my skull, but I didn’t let myself dwell on it.

“It does not matter.”

I thought about the sketch I had drawn of his face all those weeks ago. It was tucked beneath my mattress and bedframe with all my other notes. If Giovanni wouldn’t allow me to paint with the color blue, I doubted he would be too happy about a detailed drawing of his face.

“Fine, I won’t draw you anymore,” I said. “But I hope you know, there are thousands of men who would enjoy me painting them.”

Giovanni’s hand tightened on my lower back. “Not anymore there aren’t.” He pulled me closer to him, ignoring the rustling of my skirts. It wasn’t a comforting closeness. No, it was meant to unsettle me, meant to remind me who I belonged to. It worked . “None of them would dare.”

He was right. Only a fool would pose for the wife of the Vigliano Don .

The crescendo grew louder and louder. Instead of minstrels and harps, I heard the pounding of the war drums. I was not an angel, twirling in my virginal dress with my new husband, but instead I was a soldier head-to-head with my enemy. Each step coincided with each plucked string, and I curved my palm around Giovanni’s hand like I was gripping a sword.

This was no first dance for the happy couple.

This was a battle.

A battle I very much intended to win.

“I know we’ve gotten off to a rocky start,” I said. “You, for example, invaded my privacy, destroyed my artwork and tore me away from my family. Whereas the only thing I have done is call you a fucking asshole.”

Giovanni arched an eyebrow. “You’re currently surrounded by your family.” That was all he had to say?

“And they call me Vigliano.” My tone was sharp.

He didn’t deny it. “What point are you trying to make?”

“I don’t want us to fight our entire marriage.”

“Interesting. I was under the impression you enjoyed fighting.”

I bit my cheek to keep my temper in check. “No one enjoys fighting.”

“That’s not true.”

We continued to dance, each footfall accompanied by applause from the bystanders. “I want us to respect each other,” I implored, followed by, “I want us to trust each other.”

Giovanni’s ocean blue eyes assessed me. There was no distrust in them but there was no agreement either.

Silence followed my words.

“I don’t trust you, Isabella,” he finally said. “You are the daughter of the enemy.”

“I’m a Vigliano.”

The song flowed to a stop, applause and celebration surrounding us as we stopped. I didn’t hear them. All my senses were focused on Giovanni’s hand which rose to my lips, his thumb softly scraping my bottom lip. My heart grew as loud as the applause, thumping in my chest like thunder.

“Not yet you are.” Those eyes held me rooted to the spot, an invisible chain.

I didn’t have time to respond before he squeezed my cheek, the action causing pain to erupt from the place I had bitten.

“I thought I told you to stop doing this.”

I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

Giovanni stepped back, expression all-knowing. “When I give an order, I expect it to be followed.”

Finally, my tongue remembered its job. “Just be thankful it wasn’t your thumb.”

Something strange and feral crossed Giovanni’s face. So fast, so quick, it must’ve been a trick of the light. My body warmed suddenly, starting from my toes, and spreading up to my cheeks. Was it terror….or was it something else?

All the sudden it was too much. His gaze, his cold expression, his closeness . Every inch of my skin felt ignited, felt like it was on fire.

I turned my head to the crowd, my eyes wandering over the packs of guests. Couples began to step out on the floor. My eyes snagged on Marzia, dressed in her flower girl gown with white flowers in her hair. When she caught my gaze, she sent me a shy smile.

Before I could approach her, I was swept into a dance by my uncles. Then I passed around like a new toy everyone wanted a turn with. The weight of the skirts slowed me down but eventually I was able to break free and escape. I slumped into the closest chair, slipping off my heels and stretching out my ankles.

“You look as pretty as I did on my wedding day,” came the raspy voice of Geltrude Lombardi.

I looked over to my grandmother, not surprised to see her reclining back in a chair, glass of wine in hand and pearls clipped into her gray curls. Her sons didn’t look like her, instead taking the Lombardi features from their father, but the gleam to her dark eyes was familiar. Nonna had been a constant presence in my life, but she had despised my mother. The two had been at each other’s throats for as long as I could remember.

I’m sure Nonna was delighted my mother was currently missing.

“Thank you. I’m sure you looked very beautiful.”

She took a sip of her wine, lips twisting like she had tasted something disgusting. “I did, Isabella.” Geltrude turned her head towards the dance floor and remarked, “I’ve seen mountains with more character than your new husband.”

The dismissive way in which she said new husband made me laugh. Like he was some simple boy who had managed to sneak his way into the matrimony. “He is your new Don , Nonna.”

“I am too old to bow to kings,” she said. “My knees are not what they were.”

Another chuckle escaped me. My thoughts of anger and embarrassment evaporated, replaced by my sudden amusement. Despite the weight of the dress, I felt lighter than I had in months.

“Had your mother spoken to you about the wedding night before she fled like a rat?”

I didn’t point out that her son and grandson had also fled like rats. “She did,” I lied.

Nonna harrumphed and took another sip of wine. “It’ll hurt less over time.” Her eyes went to Giovanni, eyebrows narrowing. My husband stood off to the side, surrounded by a group of men. He was quiet, cold. Deadly . “Or not.”

I ignored the implications of her statement. Knowing I would have to have sex with Giovanni was already tormenting my insides. The feel of his thumb against my lips couldn’t be scrubbed away with any amount of soap. I had tried after our dinner date, had tried to wash away the heat of his touch, the tightening of my gut.

The ache beneath my thighs.

He was my enemy, the man who had destroyed my family. I would not allow myself to surrender to his deep eyes, to his plush lips and tongue—

“Would you like to dance, Mrs. Vigliano?” The sudden question disrupted my spiral of thoughts.

I looked up to see a man with weathered cheeks and a crooked nose from being broken too many times. Bruno Gorgazzi , I recalled. He was one of Giovanni’s capos and had introduced himself to me at the engagement party. According to my research, Gorgazzi oversaw interstate transactions and had been arrested for armed robbery in his teens.

I don’t know when he had joined the Vigliano family officially, but I knew he had brought his sister, Agnese, with him.

“Mrs. Vigliano?”

For a brief second, I thought he was talking to someone else. Mrs. Vigliano wasn’t me; that name belonged to another woman.

I nodded sharply and rose to my feet. Bruno led me to the dance floor, ever the gentleman.

Something uncomfortable wriggled under my skin as the capo embraced me, one hand resting on my lower back and the other holding my hand, but I pushed it down. He didn’t move with the same grace and expertise as Giovanni, instead dragging me unceremoniously around the floor–or maybe I was resisting every step.

“You look very beautiful,” he complimented.

I forced a smile. My cheeks felt like they were going to crack. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t think he would agree, you know,” Bruno continued. “We expected compromises–and we knew there would be resistance. But a marriage?”

“Marriages are often used to secure alliances,” I said carefully. “Mob families have been doing it for centuries.”

“Mob families have. Giovanni isn’t a mob family.” Something dangerous flickered in Bruno’s eyes. “Not like the Lombardis.”

“We’re all Viglianos now.”

His grip on my hand tightened. My bones cried out in protest. “Yet the sins of the Lombardis past remain.”

I tugged my hand away, ripping myself back with a sudden burst of strength. Red tethered on the edge of my vision as my anger reared its fearsome head. “I hope that’s not a threat, capo .”

“Your father made my sister and I orphans.”

“My father has made a lot of orphans,” I hissed, my temper breaking through my thin control. “Do not risk peace–”

Bruno stepped forward and heads turned towards us at the sudden movement. “There can be no peace under a Lombardi Queen.” His arm flew high, arching and then slicing down, the glint of silver too fast to register–

The world stopped.

A hand was wrapped around Bruno’s wrist, levelling it high in the air. The knife fell to the ground with a clatter, the only sound in a sea of silence.

Giovanni .

My husband wore a mask of calm as he assessed his capo, dark blue eyes resting solely on his face. He didn’t glance at the fallen weapon or even me, just kept his empty gaze trained on Bruno.

Adrenaline suddenly rushed through my veins, thundering like a storm in my blood.

“You tried to stab me –!”

Giovanni turned his head too late. I lunged for Bruno, fingers outstretched as I went for his throat. Cries of alarm sounded out around me. Hot skin met my palms, his throat easily caving in as I applied pressure–

Bruno was wrenched backwards, falling into faceless arms. An arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me in the opposite direction.

“Calm down.” The voice was beside my ear, firm and commanding. I struggled in my captor’s hold, eyes on Bruno. “Calm down now , Isabella.”

I snapped my head to the side, looking straight into Giovanni’s eyes. The blue had darkened like the ocean before a storm, all the darkness of the depths rising to the surface as the clouds grew gray and winds became harsh. I stopped.

“He tried to stab me .” It took me a second to realize that those wrathful words had come from me.

“He did and trust me, Isabella, he will be punished.”

Awareness steadily returned to my senses as I began to calm down. Giovanni’s arm was wrapped tightly around my waist, his chest leaning into my shoulder, his lips a hairsbreadth from mine. His back was to the crowd, shunning them from our private conversation.

“I thought only the Lombardis felt some kind of way about our marriage,” I breathed. “I didn’t realize some Viglianos agreed.”

“Not many but enough. No one ever said alliances made everyone happy.”

Not many but enough.

I wrenched my gaze away from Giovanni and looked at Bruno. He was being held by four soldati , all who looked to their don for orders.

Giovanni looked around the room, searching for something. I realized in the next second he was looking for Marzia, for the children. They had been removed from the room.

He nodded once, curtly, almost politely, at the soldati .

Bruno’s body slumped as the gunshot ricocheted through the room, his fallen form stretched out over the middle of the dance floor. The instruments continued to play as his blood pooled, the red warning all those who shared Bruno’s sentiments.

How weird , I thought bizarrely as I stared down at the body. The blood pool almost made the shape of a rose.

“If anyone else has an issue with this marriage, and in extension, this alliance, spare me the trouble and make your grievances known.”

No one spoke.

“Alliances might not make everyone happy, but it seems threats make everyone agreeable,” I muttered.

Giovanni looked at Bruno like he was the shit beneath his boot. He didn’t look at me, but I knew he was talking to me when he said, “Threats are a type of currency in this world, Isabella. Spend them wisely.”

X

Isabella

My dramatic imagination had created the Vigliano residence out to be a dark and dreary cave with monstrous spiders lurking in corners and cobwebs swaying over doorways but that couldn’t have been further from the truth.

Instead of bats hanging from the ceiling or spiked heads guarding the entrance, I stepped into a neoclassical apartment that was lavish and bright, with checked marble floors and Parisian detailing. Though beautiful, the interior wasn’t what held my attention. It was the...it was the homeliness.

Worn sneakers were tossed beside the door, coloring books left on the coffee table, a shopping list on the fridge. There was a basket of washing that needed to be folded on the couch. Snapshots of domesticity, proof that Giovanni and Marzia were a family, and I was being welcomed into their world.

“Go and brush your teeth, Marzia,” came Giovanni’s voice from behind me. “I’ll be in to tuck you in in a minute.”

Marzia yawned and wobbled towards her bedroom, mumbling a goodnight. Her curls had come undone and spaghetti sauce stained her white skirt. Clearly, my stepdaughter had enjoyed the reception, oblivious to the danger that had occurred.

Stepdaughter . I weighed the word in my mind awkwardly.

Suddenly, I wasn’t sure what to do with my limbs. I was the stranger, the intruder.

“Come. I’ll show you to our room.”

I followed Giovanni through the apartment, unable to tear my eyes away from the photographs that decorated the walls. All Marzia, none of Giovanni, except a rogue arm or knee. She grew up in the frames, starting from a chubby baby and turning into a grinning child with a gap between her two front teeth.

Giovanni led me up the spiral staircase made of black stone and to a door at the end of the hallway. As soon as I was inside, I had the sudden impression of a cold and impersonal bedroom, the bed perfectly made and vanities clear. I opened my mouth to ask if it was the spare room but something on the bedside caught my eye.

I stepped forward, my brows furrowing as my brain tried to process what it was seeing.

It was a vase that had obviously been glued back together and it was holding a bouquet of wilted roses.

“Are they familiar to you?” Giovanni asked, fully well knowing the answer to his question.

I cut my eyes to him. “What are you playing at?”

My husband didn’t react to my accusatory tone. “I’ve given you a gift, Isabella. Do husbands not gift flowers to their wives?”

“Not once they’ve made a point of destroying said flowers,” I grumbled.

He tilted his head in acknowledgement but didn’t reply. Instead, he gestured to the two hallways that offshooted from the room, one on either side of the bed. “The wardrobe on the left is yours. Graziella has already unpacked all your things.”

Without another word, he left, most likely to go and tuck Marzia in. A sigh of relief left me as the door closed behind him. My life had warped and shifted thousands of times in the past hour, leaving me confused and afraid.

I wandered into the closet, where all my clothes were hanging. I might feel like a stranger in an even stranger environment, but it looked like I had lived here for years. I traced the familiar fabrics, before taking my shoes off and tossing them into the shoe rack. My dress came off next, the complex corset design sending me into a small rage as I tore it from my body.

I had half a mind to strut around naked instead of forcing another constricting outfit over my frame but the idea of being completely exposed in front of Giovanni made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Rationally, I knew he would see me at my most vulnerable soon, but the red nightgown gave me the illusion of protection. My very own battle armour.

The bathroom matched the same aesthetic as the rest of the apartment, chic and vintage. My toiletries were also unpacked, sorted into little baskets beneath the sink on the left. Giovanni had left his aftershave and toothbrush on the counter, both mundane to the average eye, but to me they were proof I was going to be bathing beside a monster.

I suddenly had the urge to paint. I wanted to capture the water droplets on the shower screen and the bathrobe hanging behind the door. Monsters care about personal hygiene too , I would laugh as I showed off the artwork. They brush their teeth and blow dry their hair, just like us!

I heard the bedroom door open and close. I used the mirror’s reflection to spy on him in his wardrobe, catching glimpses as he took off his suit jacket and unbuttoned his trousers. My hairbrush paused as he took off his shirt, revealing the long expanse of chest beneath. Toned muscle, a deep v and a trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath his–

Giovanni shrugged off his pants and I averted my eyes, resuming my brushing with so much strength I tore out a tangle from the root.

“Did Marzia fall asleep quickly?” I asked, my voice hoarse.

Giovanni stepped into the bathroom, now dressed in low rise pyjama pants. So simple, so domestic.

So human.

You’re in trouble , a voice whispered in my mind.

No, I’m not! I said back fiercely.

“She was snoring before I left the room.”

I flickered my eyes to his face. His expression was cool, detached. No hint of the activities we were about to take in.

My eyes dropped to his chest again and I quickly looked away, ignoring the clenching of my thighs, the heating of my cheeks.

Maybe you can pretend to be sick , I thought. Though I doubted a man as terrifying as Giovanni would care if I complained of a headache. He had said time and time again that he was going to see this alliance fulfilled, and that required making me his wife, both lawfully and physically.

Our conversations from hours before entered my mind. Giovanni had said I wasn’t a Vigliano yet. Was he referring to us having sex?

Then my mother’s words entered my mind. After a long day of being a criminal, it is you he will come home to and vent. You will run his home, sleep in his bed, and massage the knots out of his neck.

What was it Oscar Wilde said? Everything in the world is about sex except sex. Sex is about power.

I pushed my hair over my shoulders, revealing my chest. The curve of my breasts were clear to see, the cut of my neckline so low if my father had seen me he’d have a heart attack. The hem stopped a few inches above my knee, high enough that if I sat down my panties would be visible.

Giovanni did not spare me a glance. He brushed his teeth, combed his hair, then turned and left.

My molars grinded but I forced myself to stay calm as I followed him back into the bedroom.

The view of the city surrounded us from all windows, skyscrapers and night enclosing us into our own little world. Honks and yells came from the street below, but they were nothing more than background noise.

If I screamed for help, none of them would hear me.

Giovanni pulled back the blanket. “Did you turn the bathroom light off?”

What? I blinked, feeling my entire body tethering on the edge of hysteria. He was asking if I had turned the light off?

“Um, no.”

“Would you mind?”

I pattered back to the bathroom, turned the light off but not without first checking my appearance in the mirror. I was striking to look at, never pretty or lovely, but instead severe in my features. It was the Lombardi genes, this beauty of mine that resembled the holster of a gun. Dangerous, dark, fearsome.

When I returned to our bedroom, Giovanni was beneath the covers, back turned to me.

I copied his example, snuggling into the sheets. They were cold and uncomfortable, and I rubbed my feet together to summon some warmth.

“Turn off your lamp, Isabella.”

I paused. “Aren’t...aren’t we going to...”

Suddenly, I didn’t need to try and warm myself up anymore. Heat flushed over me from head to toe.

Giovanni didn’t move.

“I think they’ll be expecting me to not be a virgin in–”

He was on top of me so fast air left my lungs. His hands pinned mine, his knees digging in my legs. No inch of me could move, except my chest which rose and fell at frightening speeds.

Giovanni peered down at me, eyes too bright in the falling light. “Tell me, Isabella,” he said, voice quieter than I had ever heard it. “If I spread your legs right now, if I dip one of my fingers between your thighs, what would I find? Would I find the Catholic principessa I had been promised?”

He knew. He knew. He knew.

I swallowed loudly. I was not the first woman in the world to go to her marriage bed under the guise of a lie, I doubt I would be the last. “Yes.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

I wriggled beneath him. It was all too much. The feel of him, the pressure of his body, the electricity that was thundering through my veins. “Let me go.”

“No.”

“I’m serious, Giovanni. Or else I’ll–”

“You’ll what, Isabella? Scream for help? Run to your uncles?” he inquired. “For all the love Angelo has for you, he would deliver you right back to my doorstep. This alliance is too important to care about your feelings.”

He was right. Uncle Angelo loved me, but sacrifices had to be made for the good of the Famiglia . “Trust me, I know .”

Giovanni’s eyes roamed over my face, spotting something I was trying hard to hide. “It seems you do.”

His hand drew back, slowly dragging over my flesh. The fabric of my nightgown bunched up as he moved lower. There was nothing comforting or sexy about the touch, it was methodical and scientific. I, however, was breathing rapidly, shaking at my core.

How was he so cold? How was he so unaffected? I felt like I was splintering apart, only tied together by the hands and knees that pinned me to the bed.

His fingers stopped on the inside of my thigh, dangerously high. I flinched as lust ricocheted through me.

Giovanni stilled, eyes darkening. In that moment, he looked like a jaguar, sleek and dark. Patient and dangerous.

“Was he soft with you?” he asked. “Was he gentle?”

Harry Gruenfield had actually cried afterwards but I suddenly felt very protective over him. Comparing the stature of a seventeen-year-old boy to the man before me now felt wrong. I remained quiet.

Giovanni didn’t forget his question. His grip tightened. “Isabella,” he warned.

“What does it matter?” I gritted out.

I wished I had turned the lamp off. In the darkness, I wouldn’t be able to see his expression. I wouldn’t be able to see the cold anger that gripped his features like an invisible hand.

“It matters, Isabella,” he said, “because the things I would do to you would not be gentle or soft.”

Something inside me turned to fire. I didn’t know if it was out of fear or…or desire.

Giovanni reached an arm out and I tensed. He didn’t touch me, instead turning off the lamp and plunging the room into shadows. His hot breath tickled my ear. “Do not worry, Isabella, an inexperienced twenty-three-year-old could never please me.”

He rolled to his side of the bed before I could respond.

I laid in the dark, trying to regain control over my breathing. Every inch of my skin felt taught and loose. Once I had settled, Giovanni’s words poured into my brain.

…would not be gentle or soft…

…inexperienced twenty-three-year-old could never please me…

Did he think I was a child playing dress up? The thought sent arrows of rage down my spine. It was quickly followed by the feeling of rejection. Giovanni thought he was too good for me? He, filled with illegitimate blood, thought I, a Lombardi principessa , wasn’t a worthy enough partner for him?

I reached out in the dark, clasping the vase. Then with a light push, I tipped it over. The sound of glass shattering filled the room.

“Oopsie,” I said.

Giovanni didn’t respond but I felt his body stiffen ever so slightly beneath the blanket.