He dared to bring my mother into this. I ground my molars. But they were safe, living in New York with my mother’s family. This was only Don Grimaldi’s way to rub salt in the wounds.
“I need my space.” I braced an ankle over my opposite knee. “I won’t come back…here.”
Not after being chased away. Not after the years of minimum contact.
“No.No!” The don cut his hand through the air. “You will move back home. You will assume the role of my heir, preparing for the day you eventually take over. And you will pay special attention to Arabella.”
Both feet fell flat on the floor, and I sat up straight. “Absolutely not.”
My grandfather sneered down at me. “She’s your fiancée, ragazzo. It’s only a matter of time—”
“She’s a fucking child!” I snapped.
And that was exactly why my sister was safer away from the don’s schemes. He didn’t care even a little bit about using a female as a bargaining chip.
If only Arabella was with them….
Franco lifted a shoulder as if to say what of it. “You will escort Arabella when she turns eighteen next month. By Saint Valentino’s Day you will propose. I have your great-grandmother’s ring reset and ready. Make it a spectacle. The poor girl deserves some semblance of romance. And by next Christmas, youwillmarry her.”
He had it all planned out. Every fucking detail. I fit into this picture with no say as to my wants, desires, or feelings. It was worse than I expected.
“I don’t want her,” I growled.
“Want has nothing to do with it. She’s our ward. Whoever marries her is seen as my heir.” Franco puffed on the cigar. Fat smoke rings popped in the air. It was different when his own son was alive. My father would have taken over. But now with so many grandsons, nephews, and distant cousins, the spot for leadership was open to a healthy debate. As the oldest grandson, I had a better shot than most to secure the vote from the leading families. Marrying the don’s ward would only increase the odds.
“It makes sense for you to marry her now,” my grandfather continued. “Secure the line with a few brats while you wait to assume the throne. What more could you want?”
It was a rhetorical question, but my brain shouted anything. Absolutely anything but that prescribed future.
Did I want to be the boss of a crime syndicate? Probably. It was something I was suited for, after all. Unlike the boys at school, between literature and higher mathematics, I was breaking bones, running drugs, and learning the ins and outs of being a criminal.
My father saw to that.
He was the true heir.
His philosophy was that a leader should know every facet of the business. He had his son start at the bottom and work his way through the ropes. My capability wasn’t the question.
But these last few years in exile? Sheer bliss. Complete freedom.
I saw the world with a different light.
When the summons came to return, after the unfortunate incident that sent me into exile had been resolved, I avoided the call of duty for as long as possible. The Sicilian broker, who wanted me dead for putting his nephew in a coma from which he never recovered, had finally died from too much cocaine, which eliminated the immediate threat to my return. But I spent the last six weeks dodging calls, avoiding the goons dear old grandfather sent, and contemplating faking my death.
In the end, this was my place.
So here I was.
If only Dad survived.Things would be different.
But an assassination was one fate that couldn’t always be avoided.
“You will do this, Dominico.” The don loomed over me.
Gritting my teeth, I rose. “I cannot stay here.”
His jowls wriggled, a protest forming on his tongue.
“Here me out,” I said, twisting his notions to suit my purpose. “Wouldn’t it be unseemly to reside under the same roof as the woman I’m destined to wed? Especially since she’s still so young?”
