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Prologue
Francesca
Two and a half months ago
“C’mon, Francy. Don’t be a sore loser,” my brother Michael condescendingly patted me on the shoulder, knowing he was just riling me up further. “You still have tomorrow to unleash the revenge you’re already plotting.”
“Yeah, Sis. No need to sulk about the epic ass-whooping you and Rafe just took,” Antonio said, pushing my buttons further while reveling in his short-lived win, his grin as wide as the damn Cheshire cat.
“I’m not sulking. I’m just trying to have a drink without you three idioti bugging me.” Idiots.
I hate losing.
I hate it a lot more when it happens against my brothers.
I’d be listening to exaggerated tales about it at every family gathering, all the way from now until chickens sprouted fucking teeth.
Every year, we would come out to this same shooting range in upstate New York for Rafe’s, one of my brothers, birthday.
Rafael was a thrill junkie, just like me. Needless to say, a weekend full of shooting guns and playing paintball was just up both our alleys. It was good practice, too. The only thing not going according to plan was losing against those other two numbnuts, Antonio and Michael.
Still, it wasn’t reason enough to make me sink my sorrows into a glass, or probably a bottle, of whiskey like I was trying to do.
There was a lot more than a blob of paint staining my mood.
None of my three brothers knew yet.
It was just too soon to deal with it out loud. Right here, in my mind, it was still hypothetical. Once I voiced it, once I put it out there in the universe, it would become real.
Immutable.
Irrevocable.
In-fucking-nevitable.
But Michael was right. I was plotting.
I was trying to find a loophole. A way to fight against fate, and apparently, what the life of a Mafiosi princess entailed.
In this life, women were nothing more than bonds to ensure peace. A quick and desperate bandaid to fix a problem that grown fucking men couldn’t find a satisfying solution to without involving us.
I took another sharp gulp, finding pleasure in the awful, burning trail that lit my throat and determination on fire.
Fuck, this tastes like shit. But it will get the job done.
I’d find a way out.
I’d fight my way down that aisle or chew my ankle free of this shackle before I even stepped foot in a church.
Love was for dumb, trusting believers. I knew that, and while my faith in ‘happily ever afters’ had long left my soul, I was still having a hard time swallowing this pill.
Me, Francesca Amato, arranged to marry!
“Then come with us,” Rafe pleaded again. “It will be fun, and they promise not to bug you about the game. Antonio, Michael.” He sternly called, waiting for their reply.
“We promise,” Michael said, his hands up in mock surrender.
“Thank you, Rafe, but not tonight. I’m just not feeling it.” I was in no mood to go to a club tonight, watching my brothers scan and measure up every woman before choosing their prey for the night. “And no, it’s not because of a stupid paintball game,” I grunted towards Antonio, who was getting ready to sink his teeth into my indisposition. “Although I will make you eat that stupid grin tomorrow, today I’m just going to head up to bed early.”
