Chapter One

Francesca

“Do you understand your duties as a wife, Francesca?”

His cold eyes narrow in, and another chill runs down my spine. Yes, I’ve been taught about the birds and the bees and know exactly what happens on one’s wedding night if that’s what he’s asking. I’ve also been made very aware of the fact that he wants an heir. The “Boss”

needs a son to carry on his name and become the next reigning hitman so that he may one day rule the Scorcini family. How lucky of me to get to bring an innocent child into this dark and twisted world of organized crime. Breed an army for the monster.

“Our wedding will be held on New Year’s Eve.”

New Year’s? That’s only a month away. “The event will be big and lavish. Very important figures from far and wide will be in attendance, and I expect you to be on your best behavior, Francesca.” My stomach twists tighter, and I’m starting to feel cold and clammy.

“Regarding your attire…”

He looks down, his eyes scanning my outfit with a look of disgust. “I have hired someone to make you look worthy of being my wife.” Worthy? Could he be any more of a pompous ass? “Once our nuptials have concluded”—God, he makes it sound like a legal meeting, not a wedding—“you will remain by my side for the entirety of the evening, proving to my guests how excited you are to become my wife.”

Excited? I’m being forced to marry the man. Excited is the furthest thing I’m feeling. One minute I’m having dinner with my father, thrilled to share the news of my new job, and the next… I’m being surrounded by a group of dangerous-looking men as Dad informs me that his boss has taken an “interest”

in me. And by interest, he meant that Mr. Scorcini had chosen me to be his enslaved baby maker. He knows nothing about me, other than my looks and the fact that I’m twenty-two years old. He’s never met me or held a conversation with me to see if there was anything beyond my appearance he was attracted to. But...that’s how the man operates. He’s ruthless. Like my father has told me time and time again since the day of our dreadful dinner, Mr. Scorcini takes what he wants and makes no apologies. And you, “the chosen one”—more like chosen victim in my case—need to oblige the man, or else, you get to feel his wrath.

“Once we are off on our honeymoon, I will have business matters to attend to, and you will have your freedom to do as you please.”

Wow, how romantic. Not that I should be expecting anything different. I doubt the man has a romantic bone in his body. Heaven forbid we use the time away to get to know each other better. All I know of the man is that he’s six and a half feet tall, looks as deadly on the outside as I know he is by reputation, and is forty years old.

“You may explore the sights. With guards, of course.”

Of course. My entourage of big brutish men is already on my tail 24/7. I wouldn’t expect anything less from my soon-to-be husband, aka master. “When I return in the evenings, I expect you to be there waiting for me so that you can fulfill your wifely duties.”

Another knot of nerves gets lodged inside my throat and I struggle to swallow. It’s getting harder to breathe. The room is growing hotter, and I feel the sweat forming on my brow. This really can’t be happening. Yet, as I look toward my dad, my fears are only confirmed. I’ve been chosen by the Kingpin and there is nothing I can do about it. My fate has been decided by these men. I’m being forced to marry a dangerous monster. A ruthless man who has a dark scar running from under his eye, down to his neck, revealing exactly what kind of danger he’s gotten himself into in the past.

His black eyes are as cold as a winter storm, always narrowed in like he’s angry. His chiseled jaw is sealed in its rigid line, never budging, always ticking like a timer about to go off at any minute. His mouth is forever set in a scowl, never cracking even a hint of a smile. It’s as though he’s not even capable of feeling happy. It’s like he only has one mode: asshole.

And lucky me, I get the privilege of being in the grumpy man’s presence day in and day out. Until I’m old and gray.

“Do you understand what is expected of you, Francesca?”

My eyes drift up from my twisting fingers. He’s staring down at me. The narrow crease across his brow urges me to speak or I will find myself at the end of his wrath. “Yes, I understand.”

I understand that my freedom has been taken from me, and that I’ve been handed over to the devil.

“Good. Now, Maritza is going to be coming by tomorrow with dresses for you to choose from for our engagement party tomorrow evening.”

Engagement party? Not sure how one celebrates a forced betrothal, but I’m not going to question the man. I’ve heard what happens to those who question his authority. That’s the exact reason my father agreed to this arranged marriage in the first place. Otherwise, he’d probably have lost his head. Mr. Scorcini saw my picture on Dad’s phone, grabbed the device from his hand, and decided then and there he was going to have me. And if my father wanted to prove his loyalty to his boss—in other words, not risk his life—he needed to agree.

“Andretti will be picking you and your father up at six p.m. tomorrow evening and will bring you to the restaurant, so it will behoove you to get your hair and makeup done. The photographer will take pictures throughout the night, so make sure your lips are ruby red.”

Wow. He’s not only going to dictate what I wear, but apparently, my lipstick color too. I wonder if this is what my future holds: him telling me what I can eat, what I am allowed to wear, who I’m entitled to converse with and when.

“Oh, and here.”

He reaches into the inner pocket of his ten-thousand-dollar suit jacket. “Make sure you wear it at all times. And do not lose it. It was my grandmother’s.” He holds out what has to be a five-carat emerald cut diamond ring, which is cushioned by a set of smaller diamonds. If I weren’t so struck by the beauty and size of the sparkly ring, I’d be annoyed by the callous gesture of him practically shoving the thing at me instead of him taking my hand and sliding it on my finger himself. There isn’t an ounce of this that feels like an engagement. Instead, it feels like a transaction. Yet…I’m supposed to sleep with him the night of our wedding and give him children.

I take the thing and put it on my hand, feeling the heaviness of this unbearable situation weighing my hand and heart down.

“Thank you,”

my father speaks, nudging me in the arm.

Right. I’m supposed to be grateful for my future life of servitude with this monstrous man. I’m supposed to feel honored that the most feared Kingpin has chosen me as his queen. “Thank you,”

I force the words out, hearing the irritation in the crispness of my tone.

My father shoots me a look, and I know I’m in trouble. I’m sure he’ll have another lecture for me as soon as they leave, reminding me of my place and how I am blessed to have such fine things in life. After all, I’m going to get to live in a mansion with a chef and maid, surrounded by guards with guns who will risk their lives to keep me safe. At no point will my father even consider the fact that this is absurd and that forcing me into this marriage is wrong. The first time I made my argument to the fact, he proceeded to list cultures in today’s times who still have arranged marriages. He googled couples and showed me the proof of their wedded bliss.

Yet none of them were married to a Mob Boss. So, his point is moot. It’s like comparing apples to a pile of bullshit. No pun intended. My situation is not sweet, and it stinks to high heaven.

“I need to leave. I have business to attend to. I’ll see you tomorrow evening, Francesca.”

And as fast as he drove in on his dark armored chariot with its fully tinted blackout windows, he’s gone. No casual conversation or interests in learning anything about who Francesca Lanaldo is. Because all he cares about is that I show up for my wifely duties when summoned by my master.