Prologue

New York City - 1922

Jack

In the end, it all comes down to blood and duty—that was what being part of the Familia meant. The turn of the century and the move to America had not changed that. The rules were as immutable in 1922 New York as they had been in Italy throughout the generations.

“Is this her?” I asked, pulling the photograph across the dark wood of my father’s desk.

My father had called me into the office to meet Giuseppe Bianco, head of the Bianco Family from Chicago, which I had been expecting, and informed me I’d be marrying Don Bianco’s granddaughter, which I had not been expecting.

I’d known I would be married, eventually, probably in a manner benefiting my family, but I hadn’t expected it to be so soon, although perhaps I should have. My mother had been dropping hints since my thirtieth birthday.

“That’s her,” Don Bianco confirmed haughtily from his seat next to me. My father, Don Lorenzo DiNardo, was watching me with slightly hooded eyes, his gaze intent, looking for any sign of rebellion. Don Bianco, on the other hand, barely glanced at me, focusing instead on the picture I pulled toward me, his upper lip lifting in a sneer, voice dripping with disdain. “Hailey.”

I kept my expression neutral. It wasn’t my business how the man felt about his granddaughter, though I did wonder what the point of an alliance was when the man clearly had no love for her. She’d hardly make a good bartering chip if he didn’t care what happened to her.

“Is that a nickname?” I asked, rather than acknowledging Don Bianco’s disaffection for the young woman.

“Unfortunately not,” Don Bianco said, his scowl deepening. The deep grooves on his face indicated it was an oft-used expression. “Her mother named her, and she goes by her mother’s family’s name, Hailey McQueen.”

Not Bianco.

No wonder the old man was so cranky. The entirety of his granddaughter’s name rejected her family and heritage. If she was trying to stay out of Family business, it made sense to use her mother’s name, though.

The photo showed a young female, pretty but sad, with long hair that fell nearly to her waist. I couldn’t tell the color of her hair from the photo—not too dark but not blonde, somewhere middling in color. She looked so very young. I narrowed my eyes. I might have to wait to consummate the marriage based on how she looked in this photo. Little girls had no appeal for me. I didn’t think my father would secure a child bride for me, but…

“How old is she?”

“That was taken seven years ago when she was eighteen,” Don Bianco said, and a feeling of relief swept through me. “Just before she left Chicago, after my son and his wife were killed.” For the first time, something other than arrogance and scorn tinged his words—true grief at the loss of his heir.

Even in New York, we’d heard the story.

Seven years ago, the Bianco son and wife were murdered, along with two of his cousins, by the Perino Family in a bid for power. Two weeks later, the Perino Family was massacred. It had been brutal, decisive, and conclusive, cementing the Bianco Family’s position in Chicago. Everyone knew Don Bianco had arranged it, but not a single arrest had been made.

I was relieved I wasn’t expected to wed a teenager. It was sad she was an orphan, but that was life in the Familias. Her parents’ deaths had been soundly avenged, the most she could ask for.

“Where is she now?”

I wondered what she looked like now but didn’t ask. If Don Bianco was providing a photograph from seven years ago, it was the only one he had. Her big, sad eyes were unsurprisingly the focus of the photograph. She’d had her grandfather, of course, but Don Bianco was hardly what anyone would describe as ‘warm.’ Likely, he had been more focused on pursuing his revenge than caring for his granddaughter, or else this would not be the Don’s most recent picture of her.

“Here in New York.” Don Bianco’s mouth tightened with disapproval. “She works in the police station, fourth precinct.”

For the first time, I was unable to control my reaction, and my head jerked up, eyes widening in shock. I glanced at my father, who nodded in confirmation.

“She’s…” My voice trailed off. Calling Don Bianco’s granddaughter a rat or a stool pigeon could start a war, no matter his dislike for her. But what the hell was she doing working for the police?

“A social worker,” Don Bianco said, biting off the words. “My granddaughter is a dreamer. Soft. She was overly indulged by her parents.” His voice became more heated as he spoke, long-repressed anger rising. “She abandoned the Family. She thinks she’s going to save the world. Na?ve fool.” He snorted.

Na?ve, indeed. That she managed to maintain such illusions while being part of the Bianco Family was almost impressive.

I had no such illusions.

The world was dark and full of people who didn’t give two shits about anything but their own survival.

Growing up with Don Bianco for a grandfather and the way her parents had been killed made me curious about what kind of person she could be to hold on to such na?ve beliefs.

“Why do you want me to marry her?” I asked, deciding to dare the question. “Why not cut her out entirely?” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my father smile approvingly. While he was going to push for this wedding, he wanted me involved, and I could tell he liked that I wasn’t going to be pushed around in my personal life. I had to obey orders, like everyone else, but as his son, I also had to be prepared to lead the Family, eventually.

“She’s my granddaughter.” He said the words as if they were an explanation in and of themselves. There was no care, no concern for her, only fact. “She’s family.” No one left the Family. Even if he didn’t particularly care for his granddaughter and her ideals, he still wanted her tucked away in the family fold. I could understand that. “The wedding will seal our alliance.”

A trade alliance based on the whiskey coming into Don Bianco’s hands from Chicago while the rum from Jamaica passed from our harbors to him. The profits would be enormous.

“Are you going to retrieve her?” my father asked, looking at Don Bianco.

“No,” I said before Don Bianco could answer. I looked up and met both of their eyes steadily. Don Bianco appeared annoyed at being interrupted but also curious, while my father was almost amused. He likely anticipated my answer, knowing me as well as he does. “I will handle my… courtship.”

My father’s lips twitched, and I was sure he almost smiled. In contrast, Don Bianco’s expression didn’t change one iota before he nodded his acceptance.

Now that I agreed, the conversation moved to hashing out the trade agreement and settling on a date for the wedding.

Picking up the picture of Miss Hailey McQueen, formerly Bianco, I tucked it into my suit jacket pocket. The sad-eyed girl was mine now, and I would decide how to handle her, not my father and not her grandfather.

For her sake, it would be best if she gave in without a fight, but I found myself hoping that she wouldn’t.