Scorned Vows: An Arranged Marriage Romance (Scorned Fate)

“This was built in 1893,” Luca said.

I’d seen pictures of the Moretti mansion before. I didn’t want to be here. I’d envisioned a life with Luca in Chicago, not here. My husband assured me there were enough things to keep me occupied.

“It’s very beautiful.” I couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of my tone.

He gave me a long look before sighing. “You’re not excited?”

“I just don’t understand why I can’t stay with you in Chicago. I don’t even know what your penthouse over there looks like.” During our whirlwind courtship, he’d been in New York doing the wooing while I’d been staying at the De Lucci mansion. And in the days leading to our wedding, he set me and my family up at the Ritz.

“It’s not conducive to your pregnancy.”

“I’m barely four weeks pregnant.”

“I will repeat one more time,” he said in a tone I’d heard him use when he wanted the last word. “Do you think I don’t prefer living here instead of going to every seedy underground establishment with Dario and Carmine to make sure your father’s business stays intact?”

I didn’t know if I was being selfish and thought my marriage to Luca would be different from Mamma’s, who seemed content with Papà’s status and money. She preferred to be away from Papà. Maybe after ten years of marriage, I’d feel the same, but not right now. I didn’t want to be separated from him after our wonderful time in Paris. I stared out the window without answering.

At my silence, he continued, “I gave you three weeks. That’s more time than I’ve given any single person.”

“I sure hope so,” I retorted. “Because I’m your wife.”

“Goddammit, Natalya,” Luca snapped.

I flinched. It was the first time he’d paired my name with that expletive.

“What do you think is happening here? Surely you’re not ignorant about being a wife of a boss. I expected better from you.”

“And I expected better from this marriage!” I raised my voice and quickly said, “I’m sorry.”

“You’re being emotional because of your pregnancy,” he said. “I forgive you.”

Fuck you, Luca. “That’s probably it.” I surreptitiously wiped the tears from my eyes. I doubted tears would work with my husband, and I detested using them with histrionics like Mamma. How could he bear to be separated from me when he was at my side in Paris almost every waking hour?

“I’ll stay overnight.” Luca’s words made me feel worse. Now it sounded like he was doing me a favor, and I required so little. “Then I’ll return to take you to see the doctor in two weeks’ time.”

“What am I supposed to do for two weeks?”

“There’s an entire house to make your own.” He took my hand in his and kissed the back of my fingers. “Make a home for our family. A house you will be proud to call your own. Casa Moretti is yours now.” I looked at him finally, and feeling my gaze, he cast me the brief, charming smile I’d loved from the beginning. It did a little to lift my spirit, but not the angst that I wouldn’t be seeing him for two weeks.

Iron gates of the estate opened automatically to a long tree-lined driveway. The property was expansive, decorated with perfectly manicured lawns and Italian gardens. And even as I rebelled against the idea of being left alone, guilt also plagued me. Were my ideals too modern for a mafia bride? Maybe living with Sera at the De Lucci mansion for a few weeks had skewed my views. She was Luca’s niece, after all, and I could see how she was treated as an equal. Not just tucked away to mind the household, she was involved in business, granted it was on the legitimate side of things.

I tried to drum up excitement. The house was gothic looking and reminded me of Jane Eyre. Hmm, I glanced over at Luca. Was he my Mr. Rochester?

The Escalade came upon a roundabout with a tiered bronzed sculpture. I didn’t have time to get a good look at the figurines because the mansion door opened. I recognized Angelo “Ange” Moretti, Luca’s half brother from their father’s first wife. He was Luca’s underboss. Ange was forty-four, ten years older than Luca, and barrel chested compared to my husband’s broad-shoulders-to-trim-waist proportions. Ange reminded me of the guys who lifted heavy weights but were terrible about their diets. Trailing Ange was Martha the housekeeper of Tralestelle. Her hair was almost all gray and was gathered in a nape bun. I’d met her once. There were two younger women behind her in maid’s uniforms. They were not familiar.

Luca stopped in front of them while the SUV carrying Dario, Tony, and Rocco parked behind us.

We got out of the vehicle and Martha immediately came forward.

“Pleased to see you again, Mrs. Moretti.” She actually curtsied and introduced the girls Yvonne and Nessa.

“Call me Natalya, please.”

Ange shot me a brief nod and immediately pulled Luca aside and whispered in his ear.

My husband leaned away, and I watched his strained face turn more forbidding. Remorse and self-righteousness warred inside me. In my head, I could hear Mamma lecturing me. I was married to a powerful man, and I shouldn’t make it hard for him to perform his responsibilities.

“We’ll talk later,” he told his brother. “My office in twenty minutes.” They were already heading inside the house, leaving me forgotten with Martha.

The older woman’s gaze followed them, annoyance clear on her countenance, but when she turned to me, she was all smiles.

“Tralestelle mansion hasn’t had a mistress ever since Luca’s stepmother left.”

“Beautiful name.” In the stars.

“You should stand in the middle of the garden when the night is clear.” We followed the men into the house. “We’re far enough from any major city or town, so the lights don’t pollute the view.”

“The estate is quite isolated.”

“It’s on twelve acres of land.”

As Luca, Dario, and Ange veered toward a hallway, Martha led me up a sweeping staircase that was reminiscent of the one from Gone with the Wind. The gold and red carpet had the faded look not from being tread on, but from the passing of time.

At the top of the stairs sat a blue-gray cat with golden eyes. He surveyed us with a curious bored expression only cats could muster.

“That’s Mrs. B, and she rules the household,” Martha laughed. “You’ll need to show her you’re the new mistress.”

Before we reached the last step, the cat disappeared ahead of us.

“That looks like a British shorthair.”

Martha made a humming, positive sound. “Emilio’s first wife bred cats. They’re all feral now and like to stay away from the mansion. Once in a while, one of them will acquire a taste of fine living and lord it over the household.”

I laughed. I didn’t mind cats. “How many rooms are in this house?”

“Twenty. Emilio enjoyed entertaining before his Junior died.”

“Emilio Junior, right? Sera’s father?”

“Yes.” A sad smile settled on Martha’s face. “The boss pinned so much hope on his oldest son.” Then she lowered her voice conspiratorially. “But if you ask me, Luca was the smartest among all of them. He also inherited his mamma’s compassion.”

“Stop feeding nonsense to Natalya,” Tony said from behind us. “You’re making the boss sound like Mother Teresa. Don’t listen to Martha.”

“But that’s an interesting perspective,” I said.

“She saw only the boy who came home from school and went directly to check on the family of feral cats in the backyard,” Rocco added. Those were the most words I’d heard from him in one sentence.

“You can tell a lot about a man by how he treats animals,” Martha told them.

“I agree with that.” I thought Santino was a psycho from the start. When he came over to visit Papà and we were in the backyard, he’d shoot rabbits for sport. When I cried to Papà, Santino said they were nothing but vermin.

“Luca likes animals more than people,” Tony said.

“It’s because humans are stupid,” Martha replied.

I couldn’t agree with her more. An idiot with a gun was dangerous. I’d known many of them.

The corridors of the house were wide and tastefully ornate, with exquisite woodwork. Like most houses of the mafia, paintings hung on the walls. I wasn’t an expert in art history, but I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them were originals.

“These are your apartments. Luca said to put you in his room.”

Inwardly, I felt relief. Usually, when it was an arranged marriage, the groom might give time for the bride to adjust. But after three weeks in Paris, I would say we had fully adjusted in the activities of the bedroom.

Rocco and Tony put our stuff in the closet. A closet that took up an entire wall. I could see a row of Luca’s suits in charcoal, blue, and black, arranged neatly in columns.

Luca’s bedroom was very masculine. The bed had modern lines, quite unexpected given the rest of the house. Constructed of dark wood, the bedding was dark blue. The off-white walls blended into the drab beige curtains of the tall windows. Middle Eastern rugs, probably Persian or Moroccan, covered the parquet wood floor. They looked expensive.

After the two men left, I turned to Martha. “Did Luca say I have free rein to redecorate?”

“Well…”

“What did I tell you, tesoro…” Luca’s amused voice came from the doorway. “You have my black card.” He turned to Martha. “Thank you. I’ll take it from here.”

When the housekeeper left, Luca walked into the room and shed his jacket, then he loosened his tie and started to unbutton his shirt. “This is probably not your taste.”

I crossed my arms. “Are you talking about the room or yourself?”

“Oh, baby.” He smiled derisively. “I know I’m very much your taste.”

He walked into the closet.

Still pissed at him, I resisted following him to where things might lead to a quick lusty romp. I’d be satiated only physically, and in the end, sex would not fix my hurt feelings of becoming an abandoned bride.

I walked to the windows to check out the estate.

My breath caught. The perfectly manicured geometric shapes of the evergreens and hedges showed they employed a full estate staff. There were fountains, rows of flowers, and varied topiaries that gave relief to the overall greenery.

Luca came up behind me. My body went stiff when his arms came around my waist and drew me into him.

“It’s beautiful, no?” He rested his chin on my shoulder and I made myself relax a little.

“It is. So you grew up here?”

“Yes. I was a handful.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Martha said you have a soft spot for cats.”

“I wouldn’t believe everything Martha says.” Irritation entered his voice. I sensed he didn’t want any soft underbelly exposed. He turned me around. Luca had changed into a dark T-shirt and sweatpants.

“Is there anything in your wardrobe that isn’t too somber?”

“My ties?”

I rolled my eyes. “We need to give you some color.”

“I don’t want to take too much time thinking about what to wear,” he said. “Dinner will be informal tonight.” He kissed the top of my forehead. “We’ll eat in the kitchen. Say, seven?”

I’d been picturing ourselves having an afternoon snuggle and relax from our transcontinental trip. But I guessed he couldn’t wait to get back to business.

He raised a brow. “Anything wrong?”

“No.” Where the hell was he going?

“Good. See you later, baby.”

He let me go and headed for the door without looking back.

When the door clicked behind him, I stared at it for long seconds, then my gaze scanned the room to take in my new life. The large emptiness and sterility of it made me feel so alone and discombobulated. Nothing diminished the glow quicker than knowing I was going to be installed in this strange mansion while he was ninety miles away.

He said he had a lot to do in Chicago. Why couldn’t he give me a chance to prove that I could be his worthy mafia bride and offer support while he did it? After all, it was to help Papà’s organization. Besides, didn’t he say what we were building between us was more important?

Something brushed against my leg, and I nearly jumped in fright.

It was Mrs. B.

“Meow.” Her tail was languidly swishing behind her, eyes looking up at me expectantly.

I picked her up. “Your master is confusing.”

She began to purr.

Luca

“So how is Natalya adjusting?” Dario asked, looking away from his conversation with Ange when I stormed into the study. I went straight to the bar, poured myself two fingers of scotch, and tossed it back.

“She doesn’t like it.” I poured another inch of Glenlivet and took a slower sip this time, facing my consigliere and brother.

“I thought you had convinced her?” he said with an amused tone in his voice.

“You want to say something to me?” I challenged.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Dario said. “I told you she wasn’t the meek little woman her parents and Carmine made her out to be.”

“About Carmine,” Ange interjected. “Are you seriously going to saddle me with that stronzo?”

“Yes.” I started rummaging through the drawers and found what I was looking for. My emergency pack of cigarettes. I offered it to the men. Ange shook his head. Dario took one and smirked.

“I knew you wouldn’t last.” Dario picked up the lighter I tossed at him. I reached for the bronze ashtray and slid it his way.

“Natalya isn’t meek and I don’t want her to be.” I took a much-needed drag. I felt better already. Studying the burning tip of the cigarette, I said, “I merely overcompensated.”

Dario chuckled. “I can see that. I didn’t recognize you in Paris.”

She was easy to pamper, and if I were honest with myself, I enjoyed it. And that body of hers. Fuck, I’d never had pussy grip my cock that hard. But today, she was pissed at me. No doubt about it. I saw the heat in her eyes when I loosened my tie, but she didn’t act on it. I didn’t want to encourage her further either. We had our fun in Paris. “I’d given her an illusion of power. I need to correct that.”

My consigliere leaned forward. “I don’t like where this is going. You should have shown her exactly who you are from the beginning.”

“Don’t worry. You see how she is with her mamma. She’s malleable. She’ll adjust to what I’m capable of giving her.”

“She’s twenty-two. She’s probably infatuated with you,” Ange scoffed.

“It’s more than infatuation, brother, I can assure you of that.”

Dario’s chair creaked as he leaned back and crossed an ankle over his knee. “She’s in love with you?”

“Did you doubt I can accomplish that in three weeks? She can’t bear to be away from me.”

“But you want her to get used to being away from you,” Dario said. “You’re manipulating the poor girl.”

“You’re suddenly having scruples now?” I took the bottle of scotch from behind me. “Here, have another drink and get that stick out of your ass.”

“Maybe I need to shove one up yours.”

My eyes narrowed at Dario. “You may be my friend. And I like you. But I’ve shot people for less than what you’ve said.”

We locked gazes for a moment. We grew up together. Dario had seen what I was capable of, but he and Ange were the only people I’d allowed saying shit to me like that. But what he just said rubbed me the wrong way. I didn’t like the hold Natalya seemed to have over me. Not one bit. I couldn’t wait to get away from her. Clear the Paris haze that had been clouding my judgment.

“And I’m your consigliere. It’s my job to challenge you,” Dario replied evenly.

“Look. Natalya is important to this alliance with the Galluzo.” I let that statement sink into both men. “In fact, she’s the only one holding it together, but that can go south quickly. I need her on my side.” Because how do you get an addict further addicted? Give them a surplus and then take it away. They would be your slave for life.

“Then why do we need Carmine?” Ange asked.

“Because I promised Vincenzo I could clear his debts with the Russians. We’ll be working closely with the Galluzo to repair the damage Santino inflicted on their organization. Carmine will be picking up the reins after we throw him into the deep end with the Orlov.” Vasily Orlov was the pakhan—the boss of Russian Organized Crime (ROC) in Chicago. The man who claimed Santino owed him a great deal of money and had been creating trouble for Vincenzo.

Dario choked on his cigarette. Ange grinned like Mrs. B who swallowed a canary. A smile touched the corners of my mouth while I studied the burning tip of the cigarette. “You need to be careful with him, Ange. Don’t bring him to sit-downs that have nothing to do with the Russians. He has a tendency to say the wrong things.”

“Jesus Christ!” Ange groaned. “You’re getting back at me for the last shipment screwup, aren’t you? This is punishment, right, little bro?”

The little bro comment didn’t bother me when it was said among the three of us. Ange refrained from using that diminutive nickname in front of others. Although everyone knew how Ange had fumed when Emilio named me boss instead of him. “Maybe. But we need this to work.”

Ange’s face turned ugly with a sneer. “Why, so you can have control of the Galluzo, too?”

“That’s ridiculous. Who wants control of that mess? It doesn’t hurt to have leverage.”

“Like being married to the daughter of the boss,” my brother scoffed. “Isn’t she too young for you? How can she manage this house? How can she manage you? I already see the petulant pout I only see in teenagers when they don’t get their own way.”

“She’ll learn. You forget she grew up with the Galluzo and you know how Elena is. She made sure Natalya is prepared.”

“Growing up in it doesn’t mean she’s ready. Look at your brothers. They denounced Pop, changed their last names, and fled back to Italy to rejoin the archaic nobility of your mamma’s relatives.”

A chill descended into the room. Ange knew better than to bring up my two older brothers and to ridicule my mother. My mother had been a contessa. She was too good for this life but she fell in love with Emilio. Sometimes I wondered if Pop married her so he’d have the money to keep up with this estate. Chicago, like all the American mafia, suffered a blow when the Feds used RICO to go after the gangsters.

“And you’re forgetting if it wasn’t for Mamma’s money, we wouldn’t be sitting in this mansion right now. Or are you still salty that it isn’t you living here instead of me?”

The chill turned downright frosty.

Dario broke the ice. “Let’s not dig up old wounds. We know the boss of the family stays at Tralestelle regardless of what money takes care of the estate.”

“It continues to thrive because of the sweat and blood of my men,” Ange argued.

“You still believe that?” I stubbed out my cigarette. “Haven’t I shown you the profits from our real estate business? Your capos couldn’t keep up. We have no money to launder. I’m thinking of expanding our online bookmaking business.”

Ange sighed. “If only we started moving product.”

“If you mean cocaine and heroin, the answer is still no. We’re profitable with real estate and there’s less risk involved.”

I grabbed the folder Ange had laid on the table before I gave in to the urge to go for my gun and shoot the tip of his left ear. The myth of my crazy personality stemmed from an incident when I was barely eighteen. I shot the bastard from the Polish mafia who was lying blatantly to me, Junior, and Emilio in a private room of a popular restaurant. I’d been arrested and thrown into jail without bail as I awaited trial. Prison taught me a lot of things and it made me tougher. The eight months I spent in confinement worked in my favor because I thwarted several attempts to kill me. In the end, I was acquitted. At that time, going to jail was a rite of passage in the mafia, and Emilio hadn’t been too worried about his succession because Junior had been a capable underboss. But when my eldest brother died, that was when Pop told me to curb my temper and not cost him another twenty million in payoffs and legal fees.

I flipped open the folder. “I’ll tell you who the problem is. Orlov. Tell me where we’re at with him before our meeting tomorrow.”