“Do you know how many men offered their daughters to Nico Morello? He chose you. It’s an honor.”
“No man shouldofferhis daughter to anyone.”
Another sigh, this one heavy with impatience. “That is how it works.”
My parents’ marriage was arranged. My cousin Sofia, who’s five years younger than me, got married last summer. I went to the wedding, which was suspiciously absent of the love the event was meant to celebrate. I do know how it works; I understand the benefits of alliances.
Yet I thought I was exempt. It feels foolish to think, so I definitely don’t say it aloud. Salvatore has never so much as suggested he was considering claiming me as his daughter, and I still don’t understand why he’s choosing to now. By Mafia standards, I’m practically middle-aged. My parents married when my mother was nineteen. I’m nearly a decade older.
“I don’t care how it works,” I tell my brother. “I don’t want any part of this. I live in Chicago. My entire life, I’ve lived in Chicago.” My voice climbs a higher octave with each sentence, the panic I’m trying hard to suppress creeping in anyway. My muscles tremble with alarm, not only exhaustion.
Some sympathy appears on Enzo’s face, but his tone remains firm. “Not anymore.”
Maybe—maybe—I could stomach this fate if I’d been raised a Caruso. I’m not oblivious about what a woman’s traditional role is. We raise the next generation of made men. If I’d grown up in the mansion looming behind me, I would have anticipated this possibility. I would have prepared. I wouldn’t have chosen it, but I would have accepted it.
Instead, I was raised by Isabella an ocean away from here because an arranged marriage had killed my mother. She was shot while she was eight months pregnant with me by an arms dealer with a vendetta against Salvatore.
Nico Morello is important enough for Salvatore to approve this arrangement, so he must have plenty of enemies. If an association with the Mafia is going to kill me, I’d prefer it happen in Chicago, where I can play with the symphony every night and get brunch with Lola every Sunday and date whoever I want to.
“Just try?—”
Enzo interrupts my plea with a sharp, “It’s done, Carina.”
I thought, in his own twisted way, sending me to the States was my father’s way of loving me. Now I know the true reason—I was being stashed away until I served a purpose, like an animal raised for slaughter. I’m not sure why I thought my brothers might object to me being traded for whatever Nico Morello has to offer, but they can’t or won’t intervene. Luca knew before lunch yesterday. There’s no way he missed me smashing the bottle of wine, but he didn’t exit the kitchen to come to my aid. No one did.
“He’s young. Handsome.”
Enzo’s voice startles me from the spiral of my own thoughts.
“I don’t care how old he is. Or what he looks like.”
Though it does make me wonder what was shared about me that led to my selection. Presumably, Nico’s other options were younger. Probably virgins too. If he finds out I’m nearly thirty and lack a hymen, will he back out? What will happen to me if he does? Once I’m introduced as a Caruso, it’s not like I can revert to being dead again. Spending the rest of my life being monitored by bodyguards sounds better than marrying a stranger, but not by much.
“Do you care that he’s powerful enough to protect you?”
“Like Papà protected Mamma?” I snap.
Enzo’s expression turns to stone. Our mother is an off-limits topic, her murder an embarrassing stain on our family history. Not only a tragedy, but a failure.
“We all have our roles,” he tells me. “I go where I’m supposed to, when I’m told to. I do what I’m supposed to, when I’m told to. I carry this”—he pulls a slender black piece of plastic out of his shorts pocket, then slips it back inside—“around because Salvatore’s paranoid about being hacked. Any day, I could end up dead or in prison. All you’re being asked to do is spend money and have babies. Stop complaining.”
He drops his arm back over his eyes, apparently considering the subject closed.
I wish I had that luxury.
LOOK WHAT YOU MADE ME DO
There’s a single knock on the door. It opens before I have time to say a word. Or, more likely in my current mood, ignore it entirely.
Slowly, my eyes shift from the vanity mirror to the doorway. For the first time since that awful lunch with Salvatore, relief flickers in my chest.
I stand too fast, my knee knocking into one leg of the table, making the makeup spread across the surface clatter.
“I will give you two a moment,” Sienna says, giving my cream silk dress an approving nod before she shuts the door again.
Isabella offers me a strained smile. I manage a tiny one in return. I’m not sure what to say. I don’t especially want to discuss all that’s changed since we last spoke, yet pretending it isn’t happening won’t accomplish anything.
“Will you go back?” I finally ask when I can’t stand the silence any longer.
