Chapter One

Lore

As the evening sun dipped below the horizon, casting the city in hues of crimson and gold, I stood alone in the bridal suite, looking at my reflection in the ornate mirror, fingers trembling as I fastened the diamond headband and veil atop my dark hair.

I smoothed the fabric of my dress, my breath caught in my throat as my fingers traced over the delicate embroidery of my wedding gown.

With every moment that passed, the weight of my decision pressed upon me.

Marrying this man forsook the wishes of my family.

Not doing so would forsake myself.

The woman in the mirror betrayed none of the turmoil within. With each delicate brushstroke of makeup, I not only concealed my nerves, and the evidence of my lack of sleep, but the forbidden reasons I had made this decision.

To sign my life and future away to the notorious mob boss Renzo Lombardi.

An enemy of my family—the Costas—until the moment the two of us said I do.

A glance toward the wooden clock on the wall—the pendulum swinging a steady rhythm that somehow further set my nerves on edge—told me that those words would be said in less than fifteen minutes.

I fell into a sort of trance as I stood there, listening to the clock tick the minutes away, watching the pendulum swing side-to-side, much the way my heart felt pulled in two opposing directions.

The knock at the door caught me by surprise, tearing a gasp from me, and making my heart trip faster.

“It’s time,” the unfamiliar voice called.

When I was a girl, I pictured this moment a million times.

The door would open.

And there my father would be, teary-eyed, and ready to offer me his hand, to walk me down the aisle, to give me away to a man he deemed worthy.

Taking a deep breath, I walked toward the door, awkward in the long gown, and reached to pull it open.

My father was not there.

A small part of me hoped he might be, that he would change his mind, that he would take back the things he said about not playing a part in this ‘tragedy.’

All I found was an empty wall of cold gray stones.

And one of Renzo Lombardi’s men standing there, ready to walk me toward his boss.

He said nothing.

The way his gaze didn’t even travel over me, let alone linger, had a familiar insecurity rising through my system so quickly that I had to force my spine to straighten as we neared the chapel.

I hesitated at the last moment, some part of me whispering to run. Turn around, head for the doors, make my way out onto the streets, and run all the way back to my childhood home, back to the comfort of my old life.

“This is you,” the guard said, waving toward the entryway into the church.

I nodded, realizing at the last second that I’d left my bouquet in the bridal suite.

I hadn’t planned this wedding. Hadn’t picked out the flowers. When they’d shown up at the door—lush white chrysanthemums nestled in a circle of dark greenery—I’d immediately started sneezing, having to tuck them into the bathroom with a closed door to keep my allergies at bay.

My groom had planned this wedding.

He’d picked that bouquet.

Perhaps a soon-to-be husband should know which flowers his wife-to-be might be allergic to.

But of course Renzo didn’t know.

Because Renzo Lombardi didn’t know me at all.

As the organ trilled the beginning of The Bridal March, though, it was too late to turn back to grab them.

Instead, I clasped my hands together in front of me.

And took a step into the archway.

In the dimly lit grandeur of the gilded cathedral, where shadows danced like whispered secrets, silent objections hung heavy in the air, making a slight tremble start in my hands, then begin to work upward.

A sea of black suits and dresses flanked each side of the aisle, looking more like a funeral than a wedding.

No one stood to marvel at the bride.

No one dabbed their eyes or offered me smiles.

My heart beat louder than the organ that echoed the hallowed halls as I forced my wobbly legs to press forward, to make progress toward the altar.

Where my groom was waiting for me.

Unlike the men on my side of the aisle who seemed to wear their suits like second skins, Renzo Lombardi looked stiff and uncomfortable.

He looked like a dream, though, and some part of me was sure that when he finally turned to look at me, he would see his mistake, call off the wedding, and find someone who matched his stunning good looks.

Renzo was tall and fit with dark hair and eyes so deep they were almost black, framed with thick lashes, in a face full of sharp, classically handsome angles.

He had a face that may have looked too perfect, if not for the violent slash of scars that cut through his lip and brow, giving him an intimidating, dangerous look.

Not that he needed that.

He was an intimidating and dangerous man.

And here I was, about to belong to him.

I thought he might never turn to face me as I passed row after row of my family, their faces grim, their postures tight.

But then, suddenly, his focus shifted.

And his dark gaze landed on me.

My step faltered as my belly flipped, and I had to force my next step forward, then the other after that, as his focus stayed on me.

I wished I could read him, that I could know what he was thinking when he finally set his eyes on his bride. A woman whose voice he wasn’t familiar with, whose personality he knew nothing about.

Did he find me adequate or wanting?

His features were blank, his inner thoughts impenetrable as I ascended the two steps to the altar.

The tremble that had started in my hands had worked itself through my entire body, leaving me vibrating as the two of us turned instinctively to face the priest when he began his speech about the sanctity of marriage.

He didn’t wax poetic about love and joy.

Perhaps he knew this was not a marriage of souls.

But a union of families.

A ceasefire in the form of a marriage contract.

I watched as the rings were passed to the priest to bless, then as he nodded toward Renzo, who turned to face me.

I didn’t seem to remember to offer him my hand, so he reached downward toward it, having to pry it away from my other one, the touch an electric current I felt all the way up my arm, though he seemed entirely unaffected.

“I, Renzo Christopher Lombardi, take you, Lore Ann Costa, to be my lawfully wedded wife,” he said, and the silence in the cathedral made me wonder if the congregation could hear the frantic hammering of my heart at those words. “To have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, ‘till death parts us.”

Suddenly, I felt a shock of cool as the wedding band slid on my finger, caging in the engagement ring that had shown up at my father’s door the day after news got around that I agreed to marry Renzo.

The priest cleared his throat, making me jolt, realizing I was supposed to be taking the other ring from the priest.

I lifted my shaky hand, worrying that it might drop with all my trembling as the priest started to say the vows I was meant to speak.

I wasn’t even sure anyone other than the three of us could hear me, my voice so small and tinny as I repeated them back.

“I, Lore Ann Costa, take you, Renzo Christopher Lombardi, to be my lawfully wedded husband.”

In the pews, my family shifted uncomfortably, their jaws set tight, and I realized the priest had skipped over the part of the ceremony about anyone having objections. As if he knew half of the people in attendance would feel the need to stand and make their concerns known.

“To have and to hold from this day forward for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, ‘till death parts us.”

At the last second, I remembered to slide the ring up Renzo’s large finger, barely even paying attention to the priest, I was so focused on the task.

“You have declared your consent before the Church. May the Lord in His goodness strengthen your consent and fill you both with His blessings. What God has joined, men must not divide. Amen.”

He did not demand the groom kiss the bride.

And a moment I’d been waiting for and thinking of for longer than I would ever dare admit never happened.

Renzo’s hand merely grabbed mine, nearly crushing it in his strength, and pulled me back up the aisle I’d just walked down moments before, through the cathedral, and toward the intimidating wooden doors, then out into the crisp autumn air.

He said nothing.

And I was too busy choking on the heart lodged in my throat to do so either as he pulled me down the stone steps, then led me toward a waiting black SUV where a man stood near the open door.

Not sure what other choice I had, I climbed awkwardly inside, gathering my train just in time for the door to slam, closing me in, leaving me alone yet again as my groom climbed in the front with the driver.

There was no divider between the seats, but the men might as well have been a world away, not seeming to notice my presence at all as I watched out the darkened window to see my family emerge from the church, heads pivoting from side to side, trying to find me.

But we were already pulling away from the curb.

Tears stung my eyes, and I had no choice but to squeeze them closed to prevent them from spilling down my cheeks as the car swerved into traffic, making my jangled nerves scatter even more.

What had I been expecting?

That he might see me there in my wedding gown and suddenly fall in love with me?

This was a business arrangement to Renzo.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

He didn’t know…

He couldn’t, I reminded myself, cutting off those thoughts, knowing they would only make my efforts at stemming the flow of tears fail.

I had no idea what Renzo Lombardi expected from a wife.

But crying in the backseat on her wedding day was likely not it.

I sucked in a breath, trying not to sniffle too hard, aware of the almost painful silence in the car, only broken by the muffled city noises outside as we drove… somewhere.

Adding to the list of many things I did not know about my husband, the location or type of home he had was one of them.

My father and brothers had used this as one of the many reasons I should not marry Renzo.

Being that Renzo’s territory was Brooklyn, far from my family’s domain of Manhattan, and that he protected his area with an iron fist, none of us knew where Renzo’s home was, what it was like, where I would be spending the rest of my life.

The car took a turn that had my belly bottoming out, making my eyes fly open, immediately noting how much speed we’d picked up since I’d closed my eyes to fend off the tears that threatened.

Both of my hands went out, one pressing on the leather seat at my side, the other grabbing the handle of the door as the car took another hairpin turn onto a narrow street.

Then another quick turn.

I glanced up toward my husband, but noticed no tension in his body. As if this was an everyday occurrence.

I tried to force myself to relax as well, but the whole day was too nerve-racking to calm myself down.

Until, finally, what felt like a long time later, the SUV slid into a suspiciously empty parking spot directly out front of a red brick apartment building situated on a corner. It was a six-story structure that I figured might house around sixteen to eighteen apartments, given what I knew about general apartment sizes in the city.

From what I understood about the Lombardi crime family, they were every bit as wealthy as my own. It seemed strange that Renzo would rent a normal apartment instead of a penthouse in a skyscraper or have an entire brownstone to himself. Like the ones I spotted several blocks up.

The engine cut, though, and the driver and Renzo climbed out, the doors slamming making me jolt.

I stayed put, having not been told to follow as the two men stopped on the sidewalk, talking for a moment before the driver nodded and walked off down the street.

Renzo glanced at the car for a long moment. I was watching him closely enough to see him suck in a deep breath, then exhale it, before making his way to my door, reaching for the handle, and pulling it open.

“Come on, mouse,” he said, then waited for me to follow his instructions.

I did, my heart doing a little flip-flop at the pet name.

As soon as my skirts were clear, the door slammed behind me, and Renzo started to walk toward the building, leaving me to follow behind.

With no other choice, I did, a small crack forming in my heart at realizing that this wasn’t going to be what I’d been fantasizing about for so long.

A fairy tale wrapped up in a mafia contract.

Renzo said nothing to me as we moved into an elevator, then climbed the floors as I counted.

All the way to the top.

The doors slid open, not revealing the long hallway of apartments I’d been anticipating, but a small closed-off area featuring two chairs and tables, both manned by Renzo’s men flanking a big, metal door.

Renzo gave them each a nod, then used the keypad to unlock the door, and moved into what was now our home without me.

I hadn’t imagined he’d carry me over the threshold, of course. But I thought that maybe he’d hold open the door for me.

“Mrs. Lombardi,” one of the guards said, making my pulse skip at my new name, reaching for the door himself, and holding it open for me. “Welcome home.”

Taking a deep breath, I moved through the door.

Because, whether this was anything like I’d hoped or not, this was my home now.

With a husband who clearly wanted nothing to do with me.