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CHAPTER1
Gemma
It’s my eighteenth birthday.
Most people would be excited for the milestone, but me? I’ve dreaded it for the past two years. My eighteenth birthday means I’m old enough to be married off to some mafia man who I’ve probably never met.
I’d rather stick a hot poker into my eye.
I lie in bed, refusing to get up, even as my mom yells at me through the door. “Gemma! Come down. You can’t stay in bed all day.”
I grumble under my breath and stuff my pillow over my head. Let my mom, Giulia, yell at me all she wants. I’ll just ignore her. Not like it isn’t a scene we play out frequently.
That is until she bursts into my room and yanks the pillow off my head. “Gemma. You can’t escape this. You’re coming downstairs. I’ve made you a birthday breakfast. It took a lot out of me, so I expect you to show some gratitude. Then we’re going shopping for a dress. I want to make sure it fits you in case we need to get it tailored.”
“Why do I need a dress?” I still haven’t moved, even though I can feel her irritation growing, her fierce gaze on my back.
“Because I’m throwing you a party to meet potential suitors.”
“When is that again?”
She huffs. “In a week. I would’ve preferred to get a dress sooner, but you’ve been difficult. I was hoping, since it’s your birthday today, you’d be more willing. But if you refuse to go shopping with me today, then I’ll choose a dress for you. How does that sound?”
Thatgets me out of bed.
She gives me a tight smile as she turns away. “I thought so. See you downstairs.”
If my mom had her way, she’d dress me in something pink and sparkly. I’mmostdefinitely not a pink and sparkly girl. I prefer dark colors to match my ever-present mood.
Stepping into the hallway, my youngest sister, Mia, barrels into me. At ten years old, she has all the energy in the world. “Watch where you’re going,” I grumble as she squeaks out a “Sorry” before running down the stairs. As if on cue, she stumbles and lands on her butt, crying out.
“That’s what you get,” I tell her from where I stand looking down at her from the top of the staircase.
“You’re not very nice, Gemma,” she shoots back, rubbing her butt. If I were my older sister, Emilia, I would have run downstairs and coddled her, making sure she felt no pain. I would have stroked her hair and rubbed her back and gently reminded her to not run down the stairs.
But I’m not Emilia.
She’s in LA, married to Marco Aldi, a powerful mob boss. She used to be the glue that held our family together, especially after our dad died. But ever since she married Marco and gained new responsibilities, her old duties have fallen onto me.
As it turns out, I’m not the most comforting or gentlest person on the planet. I’m expected to be a second mom to my six younger siblings, but fuck that. Giulia is their mom. She can handle it.
I’d rather exist in my existential crisis stage and brood over being forced to find a husband.
As a daughter of the powerful Moretti family, it’s expected that I marry someone with power and prestige to help further our family’s influence. It sucks, is what it is. Why do I have to be used as some cow being sold to the highest bidder?
I walk around Mia, patting her on the head, which is as good as she’s gonna get from me, then head int the kitchen, where Mom really outdid herself for my birthday breakfast. Stacks upon stacks of pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon, French toast, and even freshly squeezed orange juice. Mom refuses to let us drink processed orange juice.
At the head of the table sits my uncle, Franco Moretti. With his dark looks, he’d be considered handsome if he weren’t such an annoying asshole.
“Gemma,” he says as I sit beside my sister, Francesca. “How does it feel to be eighteen?”
“Same as seventeen.”
His lips thin. “It shows.”
I huff. See? Asshole. I grab a piece of bacon and start munching on it. “So, Franco, how does it feel to lose another person in this household? Once I’m gone, you can’t control me anymore.”
“Enough, Gemma,” Mom scolds, setting down a plate full of food for Franco. He squeezes her wrist, and she tenses, waiting for him to let go. Once he does, she practically runs to the other end of the table, where she sits between my two new baby siblings, Lucia and Luca. As one-year olds, they’re messy eaters, fussy, and always crying or stinking. And on top of that, they’re walking now, so they’re always getting into some kind of trouble—the kind that I usually have to help with.
