I shake my head. “Nothing. Why?”
“That was just a strange reaction to a man who used to be very close to your family.” Does he miss nothing?
I shrug him off. If Maximo and I were friends, I’d tell him that I don’t trust Lazaro, and never have. But we’re not friends, nor are we particularly friendly given this stunt he’s trying to pull. So who he chose for his second-in-command is his business, not mine.
Several older men approach us and start a conversation with Maximo, ignoring me. After all, I’m a nobody. Arm candy, a pretty face. Gah, I hate it here.
For several long minutes, I attempt to follow along with their topics but find my thoughts drifting. With mafia menit’s always the same conversation, just different words: Money, opportunity, or who messed up and has to pay the price. I don’t even care anymore. This isn’t my world. I no longer live in their reality. They don’t own or control me.
Draining my champagne, I use my empty glass as an excuse to leave the circle. Not that they’ll miss me or anything.
I slowly meander around the ballroom, dodging bustling servers and giggling cliques of women who seductively eye the younger men around them. A lot of young daughters are here, which brings me to the assumption that this isn’t just a birthday party for Enzo Casella. By the end of tonight, he’ll more than likely have chosen his future wife.
The very thought gives me hives. They’re all up to the same old games, the same way of life. I used to be sucked into it as well, blinded by family duty and pride. Now I see the truth behind it all. You’re either a king or a pawn. Those are the only two pieces on this chessboard. Queens are an illusion, a promise we’re made so we’ll continue to play the game, only for it to end in disappointment when we realize we’re powerless.
Which is why I’ll never marry. And I will certainly never marry a mafioso.
I’m reaching for another glass of champagne when someone speaks to me.
“You’re here with Maximo Pontrelli, aren’t you?”
I turn to find a pretty blond batting her lashes. Two of her friends flank her, forming a half-circle around me. Their open gazes eagerly await my response.
“Technically.”
The blond leans closer. “Are you his girlfriend?”
“Absolutely not. That’s just gross.” I wrinkle my nose in disgust.
They politely laugh, even though I’m not joking.
“Oh good.” The relief in her tone startles me. Why is itgoodthat I’m not his girlfriend? What would she have said if we were involved?
A strange, uncomfortable tightness slithers beneath my skin.
“Why?” I ask, unable to keep my thoughts to myself. “Why is that good?”
The blond’s shorter friend speaks up. “Because we have a bet going about who he’ll marry. In case you don’t know this, he’s the new Pontrelli don and the most eligible bachelor in the city.” She openly checks him out, and annoyance plucks at my chest. “He’ll have to take a wife soon to solidify his new position.”
“I think it will be me,” the blond admits. She dreamily stares at Maximo and I want to puke—or slap her—maybe both.
“Why do you think it will be you?” My tone’s much more casual than my inner turmoil. Why do I care if this girl wants to be Maximo’s wife? Better her than me. She can have him.
Though for some reason, that thought doesn’t sit right with me. Must be the champagne, it’s messing with my head. I absolutely donotwant Maximo Pontrelli—especially now that he’s a don.
All three of them turn their attention on me, as the blond answers my question. “It will be me because I’m the best match for him.” Her tone and expression tell me that her conclusion should be obvious.
“I’m sorry, who are you?” I ask, trying and probably failing to keep the judgement out of my tone.
She tosses her hair over a bare shoulder. “Francesca Casella. I’m Enzo Casella’s cousin.” She looks me up and down. “Nice dress. I don’t remember seeing you around. Though I did grow up in Sicily."
Now that makes sense why I’ve never met Francesca, even though I grew up with the Casellas. Our families were fairly close.
“You wouldn’t have seen me around, my jet landed this morning.” With that explanation, I saunter off into the crowd. I’m not going to tell them who I am. That’s none of their business, and doesn’t matter since I’ll be leaving town soon.
But that girl, Francesca, I used to be her. I was so proud of myself for being the eldest daughter of a powerful mafia family. Before my parents decided on my arranged marriage to the Irish, I thought I’d have the pick of all the young, eligible Italian bachelors. I was so confident that I’d be their perfect match. That I’d live a fairytale life with a handsome husband and adoring children.
It’s all a bunch ofbullshit. Brainwashing and lies. We’re nothing more thanpawnsin this game. My sister once told me so, but I refused to believe her until I managed to gain a new perspective.
