“We’ve come to witness the sacred ritual of baptism,” the priest continues. “What name have you given your child?”
“Nicolo Lorenzo Rossi,” Orlando says without hesitation, his chest nearly swelling with pride. Angelina beams at the baby, and as Nicolo begins to sniff and fuss, Elise automatically begins to sway from side to side to soothe him.
The priest begins the ritual of anointing, first making the sign of the cross on the baby’s forehead, then leading Elise and the baby to the solid marble baptismal font that stands in front of our semi-circle. He lifts a small golden cup, Elise holds the baby over the font, and with the ritualistic prayers, Father Richard pours water over Nicolo’s head.
The baby starts, opens his mouth, and wails so loudly you’d think he was being tortured. Undeterred, Elise smiles and holds him steady while Father completes the baptism. Her pretty, dainty hand, adorned with several slender gold rings, her nails manicured and painted a bold, vivid red, cups the baby’s head gently.
“Here, Uncle,” she says, handing me the baby after the last sprinkling of water. I reach for him, gathering him up in the miles of satin, while he continues to wail his heart out. “Why don’t you hold your godson?”
I hold him up to my shoulder and tuck one hand against his bottom, and imitate her swaying from side to side. I have lots of younger siblings and a niece, as well as tons of cousins, so I’m not new to this. The baby nuzzles my shoulder and begins to quiet.
Elise’s lips gently part and her eyes widen as she watches me, but the look only lasts a few seconds before her gaze shutters and she looks away.
I don’t know what the look means. I don’t much care, either. We’re following the steps laid out to us from our fathers before us and their fathers before them, from generation to generation.
“Come, Elise. Follow me.”
She mutters something under her breath that sounds like as if I have a choice. She’s right. She knows I’ve set her bracelet to close proximity, and if she’s more than ten feet away from me her wrist will begin to heat. It won’t heat to burning, but it won’t be pleasant.
“What was that?” I ask in a low voice out of the side of my mouth, still smiling for the flashing cameras all around the church. The smell of incense envelops us so strongly it’s nearly cloying.
“Oh, nothing,” she says in a voice as sickly sweet as the incense. “I said exactly what you want to hear. Yes, Tavi. That’s what you want to hear, isn’t it?”
Ah, so she’s decided to toy with being smug. We’ll see if she’s still smiling when I get her alone.
“Good girl,” I say, in a tone as mocking as hers. “That’s exactly what I want to hear.”
Among other things. We’ll get there.
Four weeks. Four weeks until we take our own place at the altar, when we both take vows to each other. Orlando and Angelina will be the only ones in our wedding party, but we’ve caved and allowed Mama and Nonna to plan the huge, lavish wedding that’s our custom, the wedding Romeo and Orlando never had with their wives. They’ve waited long enough. It’s our turn now.
Four more weeks until we consummate our marriage. When our obligations will be complete.
In theory, anyway.
I’ve watched my brothers grow soft with marriage and brides, allowing their wives to basically do what they want. They think they’re in charge, that they’re the heads of their houses, but I’ve seen how lenient they’ve become.
That won’t happen with me.
I won’t have a wife that doesn’t know her place.
And even though Elise has been kept prisoner, she’s nowhere near done paying the price for what she’s done.
Elise will be my wife, and she’ll learn exactly what that means.
CHAPTER 2
Elise
I hate him. I hate his beautiful, arrogant face. Those full lips that smirk in mockery. Those eyes that only scorn, that large, muscled body of his that he’s worked to strengthen so he can intimidate and overpower, and those ruthless, ruthless hands of his that do not know how to treat a lady at all.
He’s everything Piero never was and stands for everything I hate.
My heart aches at the fleeting memory of Piero, the bodyguard I knew from childhood, the only man I’ve ever loved and ever will. The man now dead because of me. But the ache is brief, quickly passing when I shove it away. I won’t dwell on Piero. I can’t bring him back.
Instead, I focus on Tavi. Ottavio Rossi. The man I’ll be essentially shackled to for the rest of my life. The thought alone makes a lump form in my throat. I swallow and look away, blinking back tears.
I knew from childhood that I’d never marry a man I loved. But it didn’t stop me from dreaming. I wish I never had. I wish I’d found joy in other parts of life and resigned myself to a future with a man I don’t love, but instead I let myself fall. I let myself hope.
I hate Tavi, but I have to marry him. It was the only way I was able to save my life and Angelina’s. I feared they’d kill her once they knew who she was, when we switched places. I feared she’d bear the brunt of the punishment we’d earned for defying the most powerful mob in New England.
So I came to The Castle, the family home north of Boston on the North Shore. I allowed myself to be taken and imprisoned. It was a choice I willingly made.
And here I am.
Four weeks until I bear the final yoke that will make me a full-fledged Rossi.
Yeah, you could say mine is a classic case of leaping from the frying pan straight into the goddamn fire.
I sigh and look to Angelina and Orlando, the happily married couple walking hand in hand beside Tavi. That was supposed to be me, if Angelina and I hadn’t decided to change the course of fate. You could say our plans didn’t work the way they were supposed to, and now my best friend is married to one of Boston’s most dangerous.
Next up? Me.
They might call it marriage, but we all know what it really is.
Incarceration.
Modern-day slavery.
Call it what you will, but I know exactly what I’m getting into.
Before my mother and father were estranged, I knew enough to witness their loveless marriage. I knew what marriage meant to them, to my aunts, and to my uncles. I’m an only child, so I knew from an early age what was expected of me.
And now it’s my turn.
“Shh, baby.” I startle at the sound of Tavi’s voice. My cheeks flush, and my heart does a strange little leap. But when I look to him, he’s only crooning at the baby. I turn away quickly so he doesn’t see my reddened cheeks.
I thought for a moment he was talking to me, but I should’ve known better. He wouldn’t use that gentle voice, and he definitely, definitely, wouldn’t use a term of endearment. Seems the only soft spot in his whole damn heart belongs to his niece and nephew.
I have to remind myself who Tavi is, because it almost softened me to see him holding his godson. But he scowls every time he looks at me, those dark blue eyes of his narrowed and angry. His muscles tense. While the others laugh freely, and some are even jovial, Tavi never cracks a smile. But when he holds his godson… when he holds that precious little baby to his chest, his eyes begin to soften a little, and I begin to wonder if maybe, just maybe—