“Yes, they will. Because…” I softened my eyes and pitched my voice a little higher. “We were so in love, we just couldn’t wait anymore!” Relaxing my face, I gave my brother a triumphant sibling ‘fuck-you’ look.
When I turned to Matteo, he looked impressed. Maybe even pleased. “Alright.”
I nodded. “Alright.”
“No.” The definite tone of my father shattered the agreement. Even Matteo frowned.
“Dad!”
“The two of you will get married next Sunday. If you don’t work out the details yourselves, I’ll do it myself.”
“As in hire somebody to.”
“No, Francesca. I will sit in my office all day having cake tastings and looking at dress designs.”
“Ha ha.”
My father smiled, but within a second, he was already standing at heading out of the office with an arrogant-looking Gìovanni. “I want the invitations sent this weekend, the latest,cara!”
I sank back into the leather chair the moment the door closed behind my father, the sound of it clicking shut echoing like a verdict. The study smelled of old mahogany and cigars – every inch of it masculine, imposing, suffocating. Golden light from the window spilled across Matteo’s sharp profile as he stood by the desk, one hand buried in his trouser pocket, the other adjusting his cuff link like none of this fazed him.
Matteo turned, his mouth curving into that signature half-smirk that somehow made me want to hit him and kiss him in the same breath. “Don’t look so happy,princesa.”
“Excuse me if I’m not exactly thrilled about my father deciding my marriage like it’s a board meeting.”
He chuckled lowly, the sound rich and unbothered. “Oh, trust me, I didn’t jump at the idea either.”
I tilted my head, meeting his gaze. “Then why agree to it?”
His smirk softened, just slightly. “Because your father knows how to negotiate. And I’m not one to say no to opportunity.”
I frowned, crossing my arms. “What kind of opportunity requires a wedding ring?”
Matteo leaned in closer, slow and deliberate, the way a predator moves when it’s not hungry – just amused. “Money.”
“Money?” I repeated flatly. It… Really had been true.
He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Money. Men. Trade routes. Call it what you want. It’s business,Donna.”
I looked away, out the wide window to the gray Long Island gardens, where the autumn wind moved through the trees like a quiet warning. “So that’s all this is,” I said softly. “Money and business.”
“Wasn’t that what you wanted?”
My gaze snapped back to him, sharper than I intended. He wasn’t mocking me – not exactly – but he was challenging me. Matteo always did.
He threw his arm around the back of our armchairs, the sunlight glinting off his watch, his golden-brown hair catching hints of copper in the light. “You get your title,” he continued, voice low. “Underboss Francesca DeMone. And I get a check. Everyone wins.”
“Except the bride,” I muttered.
He smiled at that – small, knowing, dangerous. “Next time,princesa,maybe your family shouldn’t bite off more than they can chew. Then we wouldn’t be here.”
I stared at him, exasperated and a little breathless all at once. Matteo was impossible. Infuriating. Infinitely composed in the face of chaos my family created.
And yet, somewhere deep down, beneath the irritation and the exhaustion, a part of me already knew – if I had tobe tied to someone in this world, it could have been a lot worse than him.
Still, I leaned back, folding my arms, chin tilted in defiance. “Fine,” I said. “Next Sunday, then. But don’t expect me to smile for the pictures.”
His eyes gleamed, a flash of amusement beneath something darker. “You’ll smile, Francesca. You always do.”
