“I’m sure she didn’t understand Padre. Ask her again.” My so-called future husband crushes my fingers between his hands while he smiles at me like I hung the moon.
I know without a shadow of a doubt that if I marry him, I’ll be dead before the honeymoon is over. I can see the malice and cruelty lurking behind his eyes. I’m just a fucking payday for him.
No thank.
“Do you, Genesis Torelli, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?” I can feel my world narrow to a pinpoint.
A cold sweat rolls down my back, but I straighten my spine and pull my hands free from his rough grip.
“I said no.” I pull the veil off my head and throw it on the floor.
The crowd gasps as I lift the heavy skirt of my Italian lace dress and stomp my way back down the aisle with my cousin Valentina on my heels.
“Are you crazy?” She hisses when I lock us in the bridal suite.
“I can’t do it. Nico is cruel, vile, and has no regard for human life. I’d rather marry a homeless crack addict.” The pounding on the door doesn’t even phase me.
“GENESIS!” Here we go.
My so-called father is here to tell me yet again what an ungrateful child I am. How he sacrificed everything to give me a better life, and that I’m an embarrassment to the Santos name.
How is beyond me since I don’t carry his last name.
“You are not needed here. Chikita, may I come in?” I smile when I hear the smooth voice of the man who raised me.
“Alfie, I’m sorry.” I sigh as I open the door.
He stopped being Papa after that night. The one when I’d learned the truth.
“I know. He was the last your age that was acceptable.” I hiccup and nod.
I have to marry.
As his only legal heir when Alfonso dies, I’ll be the getaway to the top, and he refuses to leave that up to chance. Unfortunately, the last generation of Mafia children was eighty percent female. My choices weren’t great with the men, either being too old, already married, or way too young.
It left three choices.
I just rejected the last in a church full of three hundred members of the Cosa Nostra and God. There really wasn’t a higher form of disrespect.
“Uncle Al, how bad is it?” He sighs and sits in one of the couches.
He grabs a bottle of champagne my bridesmaids had opened to toast me with and upends it, taking nice big swigs before throwing the now-empty bottle across the room, where it hits the wall and shatters, causing both of us to yelp.
“Shh,” Alfie is the least violent man I’ve ever met.
How he’s led the mafia all these years is crazy. I asked him once, and he said he learned long ago not to bring his work home.
“Your house should be your area of peace.”
When I pointed out that he was too soft spoken and calm for this type of work, he had chuckled and leaned in close to whisper words I’ll never forget.
“I’ll tell you a secret, Chikita. The calm before the storm is always the most dangerous. Let them underestimate you. Then, when you strike, they’ll never suspect or see you coming.”
It was at that moment that I knew I was more like Alfie than I gave him credit for.
“Carmine. He’s the least revolting.” Alfie turns to look at me and smirks.
“He’s also eighty with one foot in the grave.” I shrug.
