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“Yes sir.” She almost bobs a curtsy before fleeing out of the door, and I make a mental note to check when she was hired. I vaguely remember my last secretary being more capable.
I peer at my computer screen, flipping to my calendar, and that’s when I see exactly why Karen—Carmen—brought up the party. It’s tomorrow night, and I have to be there, even though I’d rather put my balls in a vise than go to Caterina Rossi’s engagement party. But I don’t have a choice, because not only is she marrying my best friend, but her father is my boss. The Don of the Rossi family, head of the Northeast chapter of the Italian Mafia, and the boss of New York City.
And I, like it or not, am his heir.
It’s a fate that I would have avoided if either my father had lived, or Rossi’s wife had given him a son. But my father, Rossi’s underboss, died seven years ago hunting down his best friend’s killer, and Rossi has only one daughter, a point of contention between him and his wife.
Without some sort of tie to the Rossi family, my life would be in danger the minute that Don Rossi went six feet under. I have no blood ties to the family, only Rossi’s fondness for my father and insistence that I should be his heir. In a perfect world, I would marry his daughter, giving me the unquestioned right to his seat. But I’ve been promised since I was twenty-two to a woman I’ve never seen and will almost certainly never marry, bound by a vow that our fathers made without ever bothering to ask either of us.
So instead, my best friend and future underboss, Franco Bianchi, is marrying Caterina. With her husband as my underboss, there will be no chance of a civil war breaking out among the underbosses who would want a shot at the highest-ranking seat. They would have to get through Franco to get to me, and once he’s married to Caterina, no one will question his right to his position.
If anything, marrying her should get himmyfuture spot as the Don. But I would trust Franco with my life—and I will be, once Don Rossi dies.
But for now, Rossi is alive and well. My responsibilities, however, are still extensive, which is why I’m still in my office at nine p.m.. As I toggle away from my calendar, an automated email alert pops up, letting me know that a deposit has been transferred to another account, under the name of Sofia Ferretti.
Sofia. I hover the cursor over the alert for a moment, and then move it away. There’s no point in looking at it—I know the exact amount, the same that’s been transferred to that account for the last three years, ever since Sofia turned eighteen. It pays for her housing, her food, and her utilities, with plenty left over as an allowance. Her tuition is paid separately every semester. And once she leaves Manhattan, as I’ve been told she plans to do, the money will follow her to whatever bank account she opens next.
I’ve also been told that she’s tried to evade the money a number of times, which seems irrationally stupid to me. The idea that anyone wouldn’t want such a large sum is baffling, and if it were up to me, I’d be happy to put a stop to it. But I can’t, because of a promise. The same promise that tied me to Sofia eight years ago, a girl then and a woman now who is a complete stranger to me.
I don’t even know what she looks like. I remember a chubby, round-faced pre-teen, with acne and a proclivity to keep her nose buried in a book. Not exactly the erotic picture that one would hope for when thinking of one’s future wife. I would hope that she’s blossomed into something more palatable since, but in the end, it doesn’t matter. The circumstances that would lead me into wedlock with her will almost certainly never occur. And until that day hopefully never comes, I’m free to do whatever I like, without the burden of marriage. When I die, my seat will pass to Franco’s eldest son, and the position of Don will once again belong to a son with Rossi blood in his veins.
It’s all very neat and tidy. But there is a certain faint curiosity that I feel every time I see the alert.What does my fiancée look like now? What sort of woman has she grown into?Her mother was astoundingly beautiful, and if she took after her even a little—
But now, as always, I shake the thought away. I have the attention of nearly every woman in Manhattan; I don’t need one more. Especially not one that would tie me down for life, turning me into the husband and father that I was never meant to be.
No, it’s better if Sofia Ferretti remains a mystery to me, and I to her.
Still, as I pack up and prepare to leave my office for the night, I can’t quite shake the memory of a pale twelve-year-old girl, staring at her father’s coffin as it was lowered into the earth, and the look on her face as she clutched her mother’s hand.
There was a promise made on that girl’s behalf, a promise that I inherited.
And if the day does come, I’m going to have to make good on it.
Sofia
To my relief, we start out simple. The first place Ana takes me is an upscale martini bar on a rooftop, where we bypass the line waiting to get in and all Ana does is tell the bouncer her name. The moment her last name slips out of her mouth, his face changes, and he doesn’t even glance at me as he ushers us both inside.
I’m shocked at how it makes me feel. I’ve never cared about any of this, but a strange sort of elation washes over me as the bouncer waves me past, as if I’ve just been admitted into a world that I was only vaguely aware even existed. The bar is full of women dressed in everything from expensive business suits to tight-fitted dresses like the ones Ana and I are wearing, with sky-high heels and perfectly done hair and makeup. The men are elegant and sleek too, clean-cut in suits that I can only imagine are tailored just for them, fitting so well that I can’t help but feel a slight buzz of desire as I look around the room. It’s impossible not to—the bar is thrumming with sexual energy, every man in here an alpha predator looking for his prey for the night. I can feel their gazes traveling over me like electric sparks on my skin, and I’m not sure that I like it. I feel too exposed, and I desperately wish that I didn’t only have one layer of too-tight fabric between my skin and their hungry eyes.
“I need a drink,” I hiss in Ana’s ear, and she grins.
“I’m on it.” She grabs my hand, pulling me towards the gleaming bar. There’s a handsome man in a white-button down and no tie standing behind it, his dark hair slicked back. He’s making something elaborate for a pencil-thin, beautiful woman leaning on the bar, swiftly moving the cocktail shaker from one hand to the next and then pouring it from several inches above the glass, finishing with a flourish before adding a wisp of lemon rind and setting the glass on the bar.
“What do you want?” Ana perches on one of the mahogany stools, pushing a long curl out of her face. “I’m having a gin martini, extra dirty.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“Just try it.” She smiles flirtatiously at the bartender, pushing a lock of silky dark hair out of her face. I can see his eyes flick immediately to her full lips.There’s a certain kind of power in what she does,I think, but I don’t understand how Ana and women like her wield it, how they can be so confident in their beauty and their sexuality. I know that I’m beautiful by the definition of the word, but all I feel right now is out of place and awkward, uncomfortable in my thin dress and exposed by everything I don’t have under it. I don’t know how to feel powerful like this.
The bartender slides the two martinis across to us, and Ana picks hers up. “To an exciting night out in Manhattan,” she says with a grin, tapping the thin edge of her glass against mine. She takes a sip, leaving a crimson stain on the glass.
Gingerly, I lift my own martini to my lips. It smells like a pine tree, and when I take a sip, I cough immediately. There’s a faint saltiness from the olives, but aside from that it just burns all the way down to my stomach.
Ana frowns. The bartender looks at me with a small smirk, and I can feel myself turning red.I should never have agreed to this.
“Here.” The bartender pushes a drink across to me, his face slightly more sympathetic. “Give this a try.”
I smell that same piney scent, this time mixed with lime, and when I take a sip this time it’s much more palatable—a bit sweeter, and tinged with enough lime that I think I actually like it. “That’s good,” I manage. “What’s that?”
