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TIA
“We must put an end to this Moretti scourge,” Don Valencia states, slamming his fist down onto the table, his fork held like a sword he would like to spear through Leonardo Moretti’s heart right about now.
His plate of pasta jumps with the force of his displeasure, the china clinking as it finds the surface of the dinner table once more. Next to him, his grown son, Tony, remains focused on his food, tearing off a large chunk from the garlic roll served with his meal.
Father doesn’t even seem to notice as he studies our dinner guests with dignified understanding. “That’s one of the reasons I invited you all here tonight,” he confesses, scanning the table of prominent families that haven’t collapsed under the Morettis’ pressure. Yet.
The numbers are dwindling from just a few months ago, when my father last hosted a dinner to assess the potential of forming alliances while we still can—and how marriage is the best way to do so.
“My daughter Tia comes of age in just over a month, and I think each of the eligible men in this room would make a fine match for her.”
Next to my father, my mother looks on with patient resolve, her face neutral and accepting. Their marriage was arranged, she often reminds me. So, why wouldn’t I be as happy in my marriage as she has been in hers? It might not be a fairy tale romance, but it’s more pragmatic.
“Joining the great Guerra household with another family that’s rooted in Piovosa’s rich history,” Don Fiore observes, placing his utensils on his plate and leaning back in his chair.
“Indeed,” my father says.
Don Fiore’s eyes scan down the length of the table to land on me.
My heart skips a beat at his scrutinizing gaze, the way he seems to consider me like he would a prized horse he’s considering adding to his stable. Never mind the fact that the widower is well over twice my age and supposed to still be in mourning—or at least he would be if he cared at all for his wife of twenty years, whom he lost just months ago.
“With your daughters’ reputations of refinement and modesty, I’m sure it would be an honor to take Tia as a wife,” he says, his voice dripping with lecherous pleasure.
Beside me, my sister Maria makes a not-so-subtle gagging noise, and I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from smiling. Only after Don Fiore returns his attention to the head of the table do I dare glance Maria’s way.
At age sixteen, she’s probably the only one of my four younger sisters who can fully comprehend what’s coming for each of us eventually. And it’s coming to me far sooner than the rest. Marriage—likely to some gross old man like Don Fiore. Because that’s the only thing a houseful of Guerra daughters is good for. Our family name.
Seeing as Don Guerra was cursed with five daughters and not a single son, an alliance made through marriage is the only way my father can protect his legacy. Especially now, with the Moretti family’s seemingly insatiable appetite to conquer and rule our thriving Italian settlement sequestered in the Allegheny Mountains.
We need help.
And marriage is the perfect way to guarantee it.
“It would establish an unbreakable bond between two families who might not be capable of stopping the Morettis on their own but, when joined together, could send them running with their tails between their legs,” Father says.
“Yes, I would like to see that arrogant bastard brought down a few pegs,” Don Valencia states.
“I’m ready to wipe the smug smile off Leonardo’s face,” Don Russo growls. “It’s as if he thinks he’s already won the town. The way he’s throwing parties nearly every other week, pretending like we’re not at war.”
“So low class.” Don Amici scoffs.
“I’ve heard the balls he hosts are a new level of sophistication,” Lorenzo Valencia says, a hint of awe in his voice.
His statement triggers in me a curiosity, a thirst to understand, that’s been growing inside for weeks now. I want to know what it is about the Morettis that drives people to such extreme emotions. Love them or hate them, it seems everybody’s talking about the Morettis, and I want nothing more than to know what all the fuss is about.
Which is why I intend to sneak out. Tonight. After our dinner guests leave. I plan to go to a party hosted by Leonardo Moretti—the leader of the Moretti family, in all but title, and the rabble-rouser that my father speaks of as if he were the Boogeyman himself. From the way my father makes it sound, the Morettis are capable of unspeakable atrocities, and with Leonardo at their head, they have become all but an unstoppable force.
But as much as my father hates Leonardo Moretti, my cousins don’t seem to think it’s too dangerous to crash his house parties. Apparently, the guy rarely even makes an appearance at them. So, why can’t I?
Just this once.
My sisters and I live such sheltered lives, being home-schooled, residing on the family estate, and only entering the town with escorts. It’s a comfortable life, and one that’s so entirely dull. I don’t think I can stand another evening of reading by the fire. I want to see some of the world before my father marries me off to some gross old perv like Don Fiore.
I glance sideways at the three Valencia men in attendance just in time to catch Don Valencia giving his younger son a thunderous scowl. This is not the household to be handing out compliments to the Morettis. Even a harmless one like Lorenzo’s.
But the older Valencia son seems too preoccupied with the meal to have noticed the tension in the room. “This tagliatelle is delicious,” Tony Valencia says around his mouthful of pasta.
