2. Salvatore

I'm not looking forward to my meeting with the Lasilov Bratva in the slightest.

This marriage between Pyotr Lasilov and Gia, has been planned for a long time. I've been aware of it from its inception, since the late Enzo D'Amelio—Gia's father—first thought of the idea to try to put an end between the Italian and Russian contention by arranging a marriage. An old solution, and often, a good one. Back to the basics, he said. A wedding ring or a bullet—those are the only two solutions that families like ours ever seem to know. And normally, I would have agreed.

But I've known Gia all her life. I've watched her grow into a beautiful young woman that any man would be fortunate to have as his bride, and I've often felt protective over her. When Enzo suggested the marriage, my response was so quick that it startled both of us. The Bratva are animals.

His suggestion was to let them meet. To see if Gia took a liking to Pyotr. He argued that most of the mafia sons who would have been worthy of marrying her—through name, wealth, or potential power—would only stifle them. That none of them were capable of handling a bride with so much willfulness in her, a woman incapable of being quiet and subservient, as mafia wives are so often expected to be. That the Bratva heir would challenge her, and she, him. That a Bratva son would prefer a bride with some fire in her.

I've worried since the start that Pyotr will want to tame her, instead. That his interest in Gia's rebellious spirit isn't because he wants a bride who can rule with him, but because he sees her as a challenge to overcome. A wild filly in need of breaking.

I'm afraid he'll destroy her. That Enzo's only fault was ever seeing the best in even his enemies—that he was a man who wasn't brutal enough to hold the title of don. I loved him like a brother, but in this, I think he was wrong.

Today's meeting is my last chance to try to discern if that's true—and put a stop to it if so.

Pyotr, his father Igor, and their guard are already in my office when I arrive, shown to their seats by Georgi. They're talking quietly as I walk in, and both Pyotr and Igor go silent and stand up as I step into the office, showing that much respect, at least.

"Don Morelli. It's a week before my son's wedding. I assume there's a good reason for this meeting?" Igor gives me a dark, level stare. His expression tells me that he's perceptive enough to gather at least some part of why I've asked him and his son here, and that he's biding his time to decide how offended he should be.

My only concern with their perceived offense is how much blood might spill if the wedding is called off. If there is some other way to prevent violence between our families, I want to find it.

"The late don was quick to agree to this marriage because it pleased his daughter. But I want to ensure her safety. It is my job now, as her guardian, to be prudent in all things concerning her—especially her marriage."

"You don't need to worry about that." Pyotr leans back in his chair, giving me a careless wink. "I'll please her."

Igor casts an irritated look at his son, and I feel my temper rise. "Gia is going to be your wife," I bite out in his direction. "You should speak of her with respect."

"She'll be my wife soon enough." He shrugs. "I'll speak of her how I please." Pyotr chuckles, sitting up a little. "Don't tell me you haven't thought of what you would do with that pretty young body if you got your hands on it. She's grown up beautifully, hasn't she?"

He's needling me now, and I have no intention of falling for it. "Gia is my goddaughter," I tell him coldly. "My interest is in her safety and protection. And right now, she remains under my roof. If you can't keep a civil tongue in your head?—"

"Threats?" Igor breaks in, his accent thick as he leans forward. "This marriage is to quell the violence, da? So I suggest you not encourage it, Don Morelli. Or else we will think this marriage is not in good faith."

"We have customs. Ways a betrothed couple is meant to behave. Your son already treats her without respect. My men reported that yesterday?—"

Pyotr snorts. "Your precious goddaughter was all over me. Whatever your men might have reported to you, it would have been twice as much without my restraint. She was so wet for me I could practically taste it." He flicks his tongue lewdly against his lower lip, and my teeth clench together, hard enough that I can hear the bone grind.

"I will warn you once more?—"

"Don Morelli." Igor's voice cuts through the conversation, sharp and pointed. "Excuse my son. He's an eager groom ready to take his wife to bed. And this meeting, so far as I can see, is unnecessary. Unless you plan to break off the arrangement?—"

My gut tightens. Pyotr is still looking at me with an intractable smirk on his face, not an ounce of respect for his future bride or even affection there. Whatever he has promised Gia, whatever she has imagined between them, I see none of it in him at this moment. He's not asking me to allow the marriage to go forward—as far as he's concerned, Gia is already his. And I know all too well how Bratva men treat their women.

I'd like to think that she would be treated better. That he wouldn't dare hurt the daughter of a mafia don, one-half of a treaty preventing bloodshed between our families. But I don't believe for a minute that the Bratva want the treaty as badly as Enzo did. I don't believe that they care if the streets between their skyscrapers and our mansions run red again. And I don't believe that Pyotr won't hurt Gia.

He believes she already belongs to him. And when she truly does?—

I tried to turn a blind eye to it when Enzo arranged the marriage. He was set on his daughter's perceived happiness, pleased that he'd found a match she was excited for, a man she wanted to marry. He thought it made him a better don, a better father, that he'd arranged a marriage for her that she was happy to agree to. It was always my job to back him up, to advise him only when he asked for it, and he felt confident enough about the match that he didn't think he needed my advice.

It's been harder to ignore since his death. Since all the responsibility for Gia's happiness, her safety, falls on my shoulders. I've tried, in the months following his passing, to focus solely on upholding his legacy and his wishes. On keeping the mafia that he led together, rather than allowing it to fall apart at the seams, as sometimes happens during transfers of power.

But now, looking at Igor Lasilov's cold expression and his son's mocking smirk, I feel with every instinct in my body that this is wrong. That if I allow this marriage to go forward, I will regret it. That even though Gia doesn't realize it now, she will regret it, when she sees Pyotr's true colors.

He will break her heart. I feel certain of it. And I worry that he will break her, too. Her spirit—and quite possibly, her body as well.

What I need is a compromise. A way to give both myself and Gia more time—myself time to find a solution to this, and time for Gia to see Pyotr's true colors. He's managed to play the game of eager and doting fiancé for nearly a year now. Still, I imagine he can only continue pretending for so long. Particularly if he's denied what he wants a little longer.

"I'm not breaking off the arrangement. What I want is a postponement."

Pyotr sits up straight, outrage on his face, but his father holds up a hand. Igor's expression is still unreadable.

"Gia's father died barely six months ago," I continue. "She hasn't had time to properly grieve. The date should be pushed back by at least another six months. She's not ready to be a wife, or to take on the responsibilities that entails. What if she and Pyotr were to conceive on their wedding night?" The thought of his rough, careless hands on her makes my gut clench once again, but I push the feeling down, focusing on business, not emotion.

"That is usually the desired result," Igor says wryly. "Make your point, Don Morelli, if you have one."

"Usually. Yes. But Gia isn't ready to be a mother. A child, fifteen months after losing her father? The pressures of motherhood so soon? Give her time to grieve, to adjust. Their marriage will only be improved by knowing one another better in the meantime. And when they do marry?—"

Igor's expression tightens. "Don D'Amelio arranged this marriage. The contract was signed, in front of witnesses, and your priest. Promises were made, blood exchanged, according to our ways and yours. Now, you suggest a postponement? You suggest I'm a fool, Don Morelli?—"

"I haven't said?—"

Igor stands up abruptly, motioning for his son to, as well. "It does not need to be said aloud, Don Morelli. Only a fool would believe that this postponement will not lead to a breaking of the promises between our families, before the wedding can happen."

I stand up as well, preparing to speak, but Igor continues before I can. His voice is flat and hard, his eyes flinty, and I have no doubt that he means what he says.

"Gia D'Amelio will be at the altar this coming Sunday morning, as arranged. She and my son will say their vows, and she will become his wife. And if she is not there, and the wedding does not happen—" Igor looks at me pointedly. "You know what the consequences will be, Don Morelli. The Bratva are not afraid to spill blood, when our honor is offended."

He stalks out of the room, Pyotr on his heels, surrounded by his men. The Bratva have no honor, I want to snarl, but he's gone before I could say it, and nothing would have been gained by it anyway. It would have only meant potential violence here, in this house, which would be unacceptable.

For the first time, I'm unsure what to do. I have no doubt that Igor Lasilov will follow through on his threat of consequences if I fail to produce Gia on her planned wedding day. But I'm not sure I can stomach the potential consequences of handing her over, either. I asked for this meeting seeking reassurance that my fears are unfounded, that my suspicions that the Bratva will be cruel to her are just that. But if anything, I feel more instinctively than ever that this is wrong.

That I'm sending Gia into the lions' den to be devoured.

I drop my face into my hands for a moment, breathing deeply. There's a solution to be had here; I just need to find it. But I only get a few moments to think before my office door slams open, and I look up to see Gia standing there in the doorway, her cheeks red with fury, nearly shaking with it.

"What are you doing?" She pushes the door shut, stalking further into the office to stand in between the chairs in front of my desk, her hands clenched angrily at her sides. "You said this was just a precautionary meeting, that I didn't need to worry about it?—"

"It was, and you don't. We can talk about this later, Gia?—"

"We can talk about it now." She glares at me, her chest heaving furiously. She's wearing workout clothes—a loose white tank top and tight black leggings, sneakers on as if she were about to go for a run. "I was headed outside and ran into Pyotr. He said you asked for the wedding to be postponed!"

"I did." I lean back in my chair, gathering my composure in the face of the angry spitfire that is my goddaughter, standing in front of my desk. "It's only been six months since your father died, Gia. You need time?—"

"Don't tell me what I need!" She shakes her head. "What I need is for my life to keep moving. To have something to look forward to?—"

"Marriage into the Bratva isn't something to look forward to, Gia!" My voice rises before I can stop it, frustration and worry tightening my chest. "You have no idea what they are. What they're capable of?—"

"Pyotr is a good man. He wants me to be his wife. He's been nothing but kind to me, looking forward to our wedding, to my happiness—" Gia grits her teeth, still glaring at me.

"Men can be liars, Gia. They're often exceedingly good at it." I run a hand through my hair, letting out a sharp breath. "Particularly men in our world. Particularly the Bratva. I could tell you stories that would give you nightmares about their brutality. The Bratva are cruel?—"

"My father wouldn't have promised me to a cruel man." Gia looks at me defiantly. "Pyotr is different, then. And I want to marry him."

"You wouldn't, if you understood. Your father's desire to please you, to give you what you wanted, overrode his better judgment. But I won't allow it to cloud mine?—"

"You don't give a shit about what I want!" Gia's voice rises, and I narrow my eyes at her.

"Watch your mouth, Gia?—"

"No." She crosses her arms, her cheekbones still burning red with stubborn fury. "I won't. I'll say whatever I fucking want. You're not my father, Salvatore. You're just his friend. His second-in-command. And my father arranged this marriage. This is what he wanted. Your job has always been to follow his orders and fulfill his commands. And in this, my father and I were in agreement. He thought this was best for me, and I want to marry Pyotr Lasilov. There is no argument, Salvatore, because it's already been decided. Or are you going to defy him now that he's in the grave?"

I feel my teeth clench, my own anger rising to meet hers. I only barely keep it in check, reminding myself who it is that I'm talking to. Not one of my men, not someone who works for me or someone who is a peer, but Gia—my goddaughter, my responsibility. A young woman who imagines herself in love, and has no idea what she's throwing herself headfirst into.

I force myself to breathe deeply, to calm down. To manage this the way I would if it were my own daughter who were in this situation. It's difficult to imagine—I've never married, never had children. My entire focus, all my life, has been serving this family. Supporting and serving my best friend, my don, Gia's father. There were chances, over the years, women who I briefly dated, or who wanted more. But I was never able to give them enough, to give them the focus and devotion that a relationship—let alone a marriage—required. I was married to my job. To the mafia. And now, it's difficult for me to think of how to communicate to Gia what she needs to understand.

I care about her safety. Her happiness. I want to honor Enzo's wishes, but I see what he was unable to. I feel certain of that. And I can't help but think that I would rather have Gia hate me than see her broken at Pyotr Lasilov's hands.

"I'm trying to keep you safe, Gia." I let out a long breath, running a hand through my hair. "To make sure that this is carefully thought through?—"

"You're suggesting my father didn't think things through? What kind of friend are you, anyway? Let alone his underboss?—"

"I am don now!" Briefly, my voice rises before I can keep it in check. "I am in charge. And you have not thought this through. Are you ready to do what this man expects of you, regardless of how you feel about it? To obey him? To give him children, within the year, possibly? Are you prepared for all of that, at barely eighteen, Gia?"

"Pyotr will listen to me. If I don't want to do something?—"

"You are impossibly naive." I shake my head, ignoring the utter fury that blazes in her expression at that. "You can't think that the Bratva heir will take your opinions into consideration, that he thinks you're his equal?—"

"I'll be his wife?—"

"That means nothing to them!" I stare at her, willing her to understand, but I can see that she won't. She's set on this, and nothing less than a ring on her finger in six days will make her happy.

"I could go to them now." Gia raises her chin defiantly. "Tell them I want to honor my father's wishes and marry Pyotr despite your reservations. Stay with the pakhan until the wedding, and?—"

For a moment, I feel as if my blood has turned to ice. The only thing worse—more dangerous—than Gia marrying into the Bratva would be her going there now, alone and unwed. I don't believe for a moment that they would shelter her and uphold the treaty, following through on the marriage intended for this weekend. Pyotr would take her innocence and discard her—or the pakhan would, or both. My stomach turns at the thought of it, of Gia unprotected, a lamb among wolves.

I'm at an impasse. She's in danger; I feel certain of that. But she's right in that it was her father's last wish. It's clearly hers, as well.

I could put a heavy guard on her every day for the next six months, until I find a solution, or someone else to marry her to. But I don't believe the Bratva will wait six months to retaliate, or that Igor will agree to the postponement. They could try to kidnap her, and they might even succeed. There would be no marriage then, only ruin for her, and possibly worse. And if she tried to run, if she somehow snuck past my security and went to them?—

What choice do I have?

I can feel my heart sinking as I look at the defiant young woman in front of me, her arms folded and her eyes snapping with fire. There is no convincing her. There's danger if I agree, and danger if I refuse. And I have no idea which path will keep her safe.

So, despite my better judgment, I follow the path I always have.

I follow Enzo's orders, his wishes. I do as he asked. One last time.

"Fine." I let out a slow breath, feeling the weight of dread settling over my shoulders. "You will marry Pyotr then, on Sunday. As agreed."

Gia doesn't thank me. She doesn't say anything at all. She just nods and pivots on her heel, stalking out of the office, the door shutting hard behind her as she goes.

And I can't help but feel that I've just signed her death warrant.