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Arianna doesn’t seem to notice my inner musings—or my dread. She says, “The worst part is, they told me his name. Papa wants me to marry Liam Baron.” Her pink cheeks are visibly pale. “He’s the Black Baron’s younger brother. I hope it’s false gossip and nothing more.”
Those words pull me out of my own self-pity, redirecting my concern to her. “Liam Baron?BlakeBaron’s brother?” His name alone makes me shudder. She nods. “I don’t believe that for a second. You know the aunties aren’t always right, they’re probably trying to scare you for a laugh.”
She doesn’t look convinced, and neither am I.
To have Papa create ties with the Russians through marriage is one thing, but Blake Baron, known as the “Black Baron”, is a man no one with any sense would want in their sphere—not to mention their family.
While the different families, whether Italian, Russian, or Irish, rule over their own domains, Blake Baron is both outside and above their influence. He deals in secrets. Sometimes those secrets turn into blackmail and ruin. He’s worse than any mafioso.
We used to be close friends with the Marino family until the Black Baron ruined them so thoroughly that they disappeared. More like they were wiped from the face of the earth, never to be heard from or seen again. That was five years ago and to this day no one knows if they’re in prison, witness protection, or simply dead.
The cold fingers of horror crawl up my spine. Papa couldn’t possibly pair Arianna with a member of the Baron family. Though as I have that thought, one of my father’s phrases echoes through my head:“Keep your enemies closer than your allies.”
He would do it. He’d marry one of his daughters into that family just to be closer to Blake Baron. With the illusion of asserting some kind of control over Baron’s power.
“Anyway, it doesn’t matter.” Arianna stands, smoothing the back of her dress to get the wrinkles out. “Tonight is your night. We should go down, everyone should have arrived by now.”
A sudden, hot fury replaces the cold dread.
“It doesn’t matter?” I repeat her words. “We’re talking about your life, your future. Of course it matters. You can’t just let Papa do anything he wants with you. You’re a person, a human, you deserve to be treated like one.”
“You’re letting him do what he wants with your life and your future,” she snaps. Her heated gaze pins mine. “You don’t even like your fiancé, but you haven’t told Papa.”
“I can handle Nik. You don’t have to worry about that.” I’ll never be happy with him, but he’s predictable, so I know what I’m getting myself into. Honestly, my fiancé could be a lot worse, he could be a Baron.
She scoffs. “We all know exactly what kind of man Nik Kozlov is. He won’t let you go to college, like you want. He’ll keep you pregnant, locked up in his house, his own personal broodmare.”
“What other choice do I have?”
“None!” She lowers her voice so we’re not accidentally overheard. “That’s my point. You have no choice, and neither do I. So, stop telling me to stand up for myself, when you’re not even willing to voice your own concerns to Papa.”
“Fair point.” I sigh. “I’m sorry. I always figured as the eldest daughter, I’d be the one to make the sacrifice for us. That you and Ginevra would get it easier, maybe even be able to marry for love, or do something else with your lives. It seems I was wrong.”
“Oh, Sophia, I’m sorry.” She steps close and flings her arms around me. I hug her back. “I know this is hard for you, I shouldn’t rub your face in it.”
“It is what it is. This is our life and all we can do is make the best of what we’re given.” I inhale her rose water perfume. “We should go downstairs.”
Nodding, she releases me and moves toward the door. “I’ll see you down there.”
When she’s gone, I push away my negative thoughts and straighten my spine. This is the life I was born into. I’m a mafia princess. In so many ways I’m privileged, with wealth, manners, and a predictable future set out in front of me. I never have to worry about the necessities of life. My family has taken good care of me, and soon that responsibility will fall to my husband. One day, when I’m old, my own children will make sure my remaining years are comfortable.
That’s how it goes, generation after generation. Even if, God forbid, I become a young widow, my family ties are strong. There will always be someone there to take me in.
My gaze wanders around my spacious bedroom taking in the walk-in closet full of designer clothes and shoes, the silk bed sheets, and the towering bookshelf full of hardbacks. In less than three months this won’t be my bedroom anymore. I’ll be married and living withhim.
Shaking away that unsavory vision, I make my way downstairs to what’s supposed to be an intimate engagement party with close family and friends, only to find that my father invited all of his business associates. It seems the Kozlovs did too.
The mansion is bursting with people, music, and conversation. As I walk through the crowd, countless people offer their congratulations. I smile and nod as if I want to be here. In my head, I’m willing my legs to stride toward the engaged couple’s designated table instead of running for the door and out into the frigid late February night.
As I approach, my gaze lands on my fiancé. Nikolai Kozlov is a six and half foot tall, blond haired, blue eyed Russian immigrant with a jawline that could cut glass. At least he’s easy on the eyes. And at twenty-six, he’s not too much older than me, at least we’re in the same decade.
I’ve heard plenty of horror stories of young women being forced to marryveryold men, all for the sake of an alliance. I count myself lucky for not being one of them.
Nik stands as I reach our table. His gaze flickers down my body, lingering at my breasts before rising to meet my eyes. I register a flash of lust followed by thinly veiled annoyance. Something about my appearance doesn’t meet with my fiancé’s approval. Instead of fear or anger, I’m filled with a sudden irritability.
Clamping down on that emotion before it can run away with me, I sit in the chair Nik pulls out. Such a gentleman. Too bad his good looks and basic manners don’t reach far beneath his exterior.
“Good evening,moy angel.” His voice is laced with the faintest hint of a Russian accent.
