Scorned Vows: An Arranged Marriage Romance (Scorned Fate)

“What did my daughter complain about now?”

My shoe barely stepped into the room before this poor excuse of a mother went on a tirade.

“Elena.” Vincenzo’s face was red. “Enough. We just got Natalya back. Can’t we just be thankful for that?”

Her mother put a hand over her chest, panting. “I’m having a hard time breathing. Can you get my blood pressure monitor, Vincenzo?”

This manipulative bitch. “Stop, Vincenzo.”

Horrified, Elena looked at me, but Natalya’s father did as I ordered. He knew his wife was faking it. If there was something Carmine had hinted at, it was Elena’s tendency to use her health to manipulate the people around her. I’d checked on their medical records recently and Elena was healthier than her husband with acceptable blood pressure levels. I wouldn’t even care if she dropped dead at my feet. It might save us a bunch of headaches. Vincenzo, in the meantime, was more at risk, and knowing Natalya had genuine love for her father, I felt the need to protect him more.

I advanced on her. Her eyes widened. Even Vincenzo held out an arm. “Now look here, Moretti.”

I pointed a finger at Conte to silence him. I owned his balls, what with Berto and me on better terms than he was with his underboss. Vincenzo was a mere figurehead.

“Listen up, Elena. Be thankful you’re here and not hiding in some shithole in Italy because Berto and I negotiated your travel,” I gritted. “But I will not tolerate you insulting or belittling my wife, capisce? While you’re under our roof, and our guests, I do not want to see a single frown line on my wife’s face because of you. I would prefer if you not talk to her. But if you can act like a mother who actually cares that her daughter is alive, care that you have a daughter who fights for what’s right and uses her God-given talent to do so, then start groveling now. God knows she deserves a better mother.” Vincenzo did not escape my anger. “A better father. I still don’t understand how you’re not proud of what she has done and accomplished.”

“It was for her protection,” Vincenzo said. “We panicked when she hacked into her school. My advisers said it was not good to have a daughter with that skill because our enemies might exploit her, and we couldn’t find a suitable match for her. You know how most of these bosses have egos.”

“Can’t say I don’t have an ego, but I would be proud to have a wife who can outwit me.”

“You’re of the new breed of bosses, Moretti.”

“I did tell Natalya we need more women in our ranks because men are idiots. But that’s not the point I’m making. I don’t want Natalya to feel insecure in her own home.” My ire at Elena rose again. “If I hear a single word criticizing my wife of anything—and I mean anything—I’m sending both of you packing for Italy and leaving Berto to deal with you.”

“How dare you—”

“Shut up, Elena,” Vincenzo snapped. “You’ve done enough.”

Natalya’s father walked up to me with a solemn expression. He gripped my jaw and gave me a kiss on both cheeks. His eyes were suspiciously glassy. “Thank you for being a good husband to Natalya. I may not have been the best father, but”—he pounded his chest—“it feels good here, knowing if I die, she is in good hands.”

Vincenzo had the inclination for theatrics, but I could see the sincerity in his eyes.

“We’ll see you upstairs.” I cleared my throat and turned around. I proceeded down the hallway, clenching and unclenching my fists, not realizing how if Elena continued to run her mouth, the desire to strangle her would be there.

When the elevator doors slid open, Ange was about to step out. He moved aside to let me in and punched the button for the penthouse.

“Natalya sent me to rescue Elena from you.”

A grin touched my mouth. “She did, did she?”

“Elena is a piece of work.”

“Being married to a man with too much power will do that to you,” I said. When we reached the penthouse, I saw Natalya with Martha. They finished setting the table. Tony was the one watching over Elias. They were in front of the television watching cartoons of a certain type I believed were meant more for the likes of Tony.

My wife gave me a brief glance, and I gave her a reassuring one that communicated I hadn’t murdered her mother yet.

“Come on, sport, you shouldn’t be watching that.”

“Stewie!” My son chortled. I glanced at Tony. “No evening cartoons.”

“Elias likes Stewie.”

“I heard him swear in the last episode,” I muttered.

Tony laughed. “Elias already said the F word in the car.”

“I still need to get on you about that, Luca,” Natalya called from the kitchen.

“Thanks for reminding my wife.”

“Don’t worry, boss, they cut out the good stuff on this channel.”

It was apparent, curbing the cursing with Elias was a losing battle given Tony was his constant companion. He had genuine affection for my son, which went a long way in my trust. Swear words aside.

When I went into the kitchen, I told Natalya, “All the cursing out of Elias’s mouth is Tony’s fault.”

She and Martha exchanged glances and shook their heads in what I could only describe as resignation.

The study was at the end of the west hallway. When I first married Natalya and when I was in Chicago, I only used the penthouse for crashing. Most of our meetings were in the evenings at clubs or restaurants. I wasn’t lying to Natalya that it was useless to play house with me and she was already pregnant then. I’d since changed my routine. I left Ange to handle the street business, and I rarely entered clubs anymore.

We were doing less and earning more, taking advantage of technology. That was the smart shift in our operations.

“Where’s Dario?” I asked.

“He’s meeting his contact with the Chicago PD right now,” Ange said. “I’d say Voss is bluffing. I sent one of the capos and his crew to go over every surface with luminol. We can change the flooring and paint the walls if you want, but it would be weirder if we have construction vans over there with no permits.”

“Does it need any cosmetic repairs?”

“Nah, we just changed that shit five years ago. We were able to sneak things in.”

“And we don’t want to do it now when there are eyes on us.” I walked to the end of the study, where I had the corner view of Lincoln Park. “Voss wants to rattle us. I bet he paid a visit to Orlov too.”

“Speaking of our Russian friend, he’s taking this tournament seriously.”

I turned away from the window and took a seat behind my desk. Opening the drawer, I pulled out the bottle of special whiskey. I tipped my chin to where the glasses were. “What’s Orlov up to? Living in the gym?”

Ange slid a glass to me. I filled his and then mine. “Salute.”

My brother took a measured sip before saying, “No, he’s trying to trim down.”

I quirked a brow. “Really?” I swirled the amber liquid in my glass.

“He knows you’re faster.” Ange chuckled, fished out his phone, and swiped it to the photo app. “Forgot to send these to you. This is from our guy watching him.”

“What the hell?” I had a good chuckle. It was several pics and videos of Orlov with an entourage of trainers running alongside him like he was competing for a world-boxing heavyweight title.

“What are the odds now?” I asked.

“He’s still the underdog, three to one.”

“Hmm…that’s a lot of pressure.”

“That came from Koshkin’s camp,” Ange said. “You know how the Russians are. They’ll swing the odds in their favor.”

“Maybe we should bet on Orlov, then.”

Ange grinned. He knew members of the administration of both camps were forbidden to bet on the Orlov-Moretti matchup. The soldiers could, though.

“You’re evenly matched. It could go either way. Your southpaw was a well-kept secret ten years ago. No one knew how powerful your left hook was back then, but I see you’ve developed quite a back kick.” My brother leaned forward. “We still have to work on your ground game. If Orlov pins you to the mat, you’re in trouble. He still outweighs you by thirty pounds. And if those biceps wrap around your neck.”

“Game over.”

“Not exactly.” Ange’s grin grew wider. “We can work on that too.”

“In other words, you’re going to enjoy knocking me out in the next two weeks,” I said dryly.

My brother’s face took on an evil expression that had me rethinking our training sessions.