Captive Bride (A Dark Mafia Arranged Marriage Romance) (Mafia Bride Book 1) Read online

  When you give me a son, you can claim you have a headache all you want. Until then, spread your legs and shut up, princess. That’s all you were ever good for, anyway.

  Do your duty. I’d heard my mother’s voice in my head that night. She would have told me to get it over with, that the sooner I was pregnant, the sooner he’d leave me alone. Men don’t like sleeping with their pregnant wives, she’d have told me. They’ll find someone else to keep them company, and you’ll be happy about it.

  My mother had been very good at managing my expectations when it came to my future husband. But there’s no way she could have prepared me for what Franco turned out to be.

  Finally, I make my way to my seat, clenching my hands together in my lap, forcing myself to look down at them as I wait for Father Donahue to make his way to the podium to start the service. I don’t look at the gleaming casket, surrounded by flowers, or the photos of Franco, smiling boyishly out from the frames. I especially don’t look at the one of us on our wedding day, the same hands that are wrapped together in my lap right now clasped in his. I know what photo it is. In it, I’m looking up at him, and he’s looking at me. When I first saw it, I thought the possessive look in his eyes was romantic. Now, I know that it’s psychotic.

  It’s the look of a man who sees the path to power and influence in front of him. Not a wife, not a lover. A ladder.

  “Brothers and sisters, we are gathered here today to mourn the passing of one of our own, Franco Bianchi.” Father Donahue’s voice, thick and rich with an Irish brogue, pulls me out of my thoughts. Sofia’s hand finds its way to mine, covering them, and I look up, startled. I hadn’t even realized she’d sat down next to me, Luca on the other side.

  Carefully, I loosen my hands, letting her slip hers between them. It feels good to have a friend holding my hand. Comforting. It makes me think, just for a moment, that perhaps she was right. If I can just get through this, the funeral, and the reception afterward, everything will be okay. I can grieve on my own, alone, in my own way. I can put all of this behind me and start anew. I can decide, for the first time in my life, who Caterina Rossi ought to be.

  I hardly hear the rest of the service. I don’t really hear Father Donahue give the floor to Luca. I’m barely aware of what Luca says, some manufactured speech about how Franco was like a brother to him, how unexpected his death was, how tragic. Those closest to Luca know the truth, of course but the rest of the sea of mourners in the cathedral will simply be nodding along, dabbing away tears with handkerchiefs, touched by Luca’s entirely fabricated eulogy.

  I almost miss Luca calling me up to give my own. Sofia’s hand on my back helps me to stand, but I have a sudden rush of memory—standing up to speak at my mother’s funeral not all that long ago, and then my father’s just after that, and the grief that rises up to choke me and make itself known in a splutter of sobs isn’t fake at all. It’s real, and I clap my hand over my mouth, sinking back into the pew as Sofia’s arm goes around my shoulders, supporting me.

  Distantly, I hear Luca making apologies for me, the grief-stricken widow. There’s a hum of sympathy, and Father Donahue moves things along just as Sofia and I had planned. I’m crying in earnest now, mascara tears running down my cheeks.

  I manage to pull myself together as we head out to the cemetery. I feel a tight knot in my stomach as Franco’s casket is lowered down next to his mother’s. At least the gravesite reserved for him wasn’t next to the father whose name he shouldn’t have had, the father who wasn’t his at all. It was next to his mother instead, whose mistake with his real father started all of this without her ever knowing the consequences it would have.

  I can’t help but glance across the cemetery towards the grave I know is somewhere over there, where the Irish are buried. Colin Macgregor. The man whose last name Franco should have had.

  Would things have been different? If his mother had come clean? She’d have been killed, probably, Franco given to some other family in a part of the country far from the offending Irish. It might have started a war, depending on how furious the cuckolded Bianchi husband was. But probably not. My father wouldn’t have allowed that, I don’t think. It would have been a humiliation, but one that was taken care of quietly.

  Instead, it had been allowed to spin out of control. All because of one woman’s lie.

  It’s hard for me to blame her as much as I might once have, though. I know what it’s like now to lay next to a man that you not only don’t love, but outright hate. I never met Franco’s father, but I know it’s possible that he was a cruel man too, that Franco’s mother had been so desperate for affection, for love, for pleasure, that she’d made a mistake that could have cost her life. She’d been desperate enough to cover it up, too.

  You can’t change any of it. I watch as they lower the casket down, my hands clasped in front of me. It does no good to look back. Only forward. I repeat it as I toss in the required handful of dirt, the white rose. I tell myself over and over again as I get back into the car to go home, a home that will shortly be full of people I’d rather not talk to, all expressing their sympathies for something that I’m grateful is over.

  Just get through it. It’s almost done. By tonight, I’ll be free of it.

  I’ve always been strong. My mother said I had a backbone of steel, but it’s been sorely tested lately. Soon, very soon, I’ll be able to let go.

  What would my life look like without the expectations of men?

  I can’t wait to find out.

  The line of mourners wanting to speak with me and commiserate with me all over again is as endless as it was at the cathedral. But at some point between the I’m so sorrys and the offers of cookies and tuna casserole, I manage to corner Luca in the living room by the fireplace, a little ways away from the clustered groups of guests.

  “How are you holding up, Caterina?” He looks at me with those intense green eyes of his, peering at me as if he can see the absolute truth of what I’m feeling. Maybe he can. Luca knows me well—better than Franco did, even. He was close to my father, after all. He helped arrange my betrothal. At one point, I’d wondered if I was going to marry him. I’d even asked my father about it before I knew that he’d been promised to someone else, someone he’d never expected to ever marry.

  Sofia, of course.

  I’m glad that Luca isn’t my husband. We wouldn’t have been well-suited for one another, even less so than Franco and I were. But now he’s in a different position altogether—one of power over me, as the don. And I’m more than a little afraid of what that might mean for me.

  “As well as can be expected, I think,” I say diplomatically, looking around the room. “I’m ready for some peace and quiet.”

  “Well, I’ll get them out of your hair as soon as I can do so without creating a scandal,” Luca says kindly. “My position does come with some perks, you know.” He looks at me carefully. “I want to make sure that you’re alright here alone, Caterina. That you—”

  “I’ll be fine,” I say quickly. “I’m not fragile. I’m grieving, but I’ll heal.”

  “No, you’ve never been fragile,” he says, his voice thoughtful. “But you look as if there’s something on your mind.”

  I pause, taking a breath. “We haven’t spoken since—” I swallow hard, trying to think of the right way to say what needs to be said. “I want to apologize, Luca,” I say formally, drawing my shoulders back as I look him squarely in the eye. “I had no knowledge of what my husband was doing or what he had planned, but I was his wife nonetheless. I know that you might hold me somewhat responsible for all that happened. And I want you to know how very sorry I am for all of it and that I wasn’t able to stop it. That I was blind to my husband’s betrayal of you.”

  Luca’s eyes widen in shock, and he steps forward, gingerly putting his hands on my upper arms. I hate that I flinch at his touch—at any man’s—but Sofia must have told him about the bruises because his touch is exceedingly gentle. “Caterina,” he says quietly, almo
st disapprovingly. “I don’t blame you at all. How could you think that? Of course none of this was your fault. The fault was entirely Franco’s, and he’s paid for it. You were his wife, but I had no reason to think that you were his confidant.”

  It’s hard for me to entirely grasp the weight of what he’s saying—I’m too overwhelmed by the events of the day still—but I feel relieved, nonetheless. I nod, blinking slowly as I grope for a nearby chair and sink into it, feeling as if I can breathe again. I hadn’t realized just how worried I’d been until Luca said, aloud, that he didn’t blame me in some way.

  “But Caterina,” he continues, his voice low and serious. It sounds far away, and I know that I’ve pushed past the point of what I can take for one day. I’m more tired than I’ve ever been, on the verge of passing out from emotion and sheer exhaustion, and I dimly see Sofia walking into the room, making her way quickly towards me.

  “I do need something from you,” Luca continues as Sofia walks to my side, gently helping me up. “For the good of the family, Caterina.”

  For the good of the family. How many times have I heard that over the course of my life? I nod automatically, leaning into Sofia’s arm as she wraps it around my waist. “Of course,” I say numbly. “Whatever you need.”

  Viktor

  On my way back from my last meeting, cocooned in the cool leather interior of my car, I can still hear the echoes of my previous conversation with Luca Romano in my head.

  I told him I’d give him a few days to break the news to my bride-to-be. A few days to put her dead husband in the ground, perform the appropriate ceremonies, let her have a night or two to grieve.

  But I’m under no illusions that the late Franco Bianchi was loved by his wife.

  And I’m not a patient man.

  “Franco Bianchi is dead. Colin Macgregor is dead. Are you agreeable that it’s enough?”

  Luca’s voice still rings in my ears, tight and angry. Angry at the loss of his best friend, even after everything that bastard had done. Admirable loyalty. But too much emotion for a man who leads other men. For a man who, to keep his seat, will have to do violent things. Ruthless things.

  Things that might break lesser men.

  I have a sort of grudging respect for Luca Romano. In marrying Sofia Ferretti, he kept a promise that he could have broken. The men who had made that promise for him were, by then, long in the grave.

  I should know—it was my men who put them there.

  He navigated the conflict between our two organizations admirably. He showed loyalty to the man who gave him his position, but didn’t flinch at removing him when that same man threatened his new bride. He held his own at the conclave, and he saw to it that Colin Macgregor was delivered and paid for his sins.

  All in all, Luca has earned his place at the head of the mafia table. But I still require my own pound of flesh, as it were, to pay me back for all that I’ve lost in the conflict. Good men. Good soldiers, loyal to their Ussuri.

  I am in need of a wife. And since Luca Romano took the one that I had intended for myself, he’s going to give me the one that I’ve requested in her stead.

  Caterina Rossi.

  There’s a poetry to it that pleases me, that Franco’s widow will pay for his recklessness by warming my bed. She’ll pay for his betrayal to his Italian family in the same way, by ensuring that the peace between our families remains strong when she spreads her legs for me.

  She’s not an innocent virgin like Sofia would have been. But in a way, that’s better for my needs. I’m not a young man any longer, and I need more than just a blushing bride.

  I need a woman who can handle the life I lead. A woman who understands the way things are, the things that must be done. Who doesn’t flinch at the things this life requires of us.

  A mafia princess, the daughter of one of the most brutal mafia leaders ever to run the North American side, is just the thing. In fact, I’m grateful now that it will be her and not Sofia. Sofia’s half-Russian lineage and innocence had made her a tempting prospect. Still, she would have flinched away from the brutality of the Bratva, would have had to be coddled through every fucking thing.

  Caterina will have a backbone, at least.

  Of course, a woman with a backbone can be difficult to manage.

  But if it does, reminding her of her place will be a pleasure in and of itself.

  I shift in my seat, feeling my cock swell at the thought of punishing Caterina Rossi, of teaching her what it means to be a submissive Bratva wife. Soon, very soon. I almost hope that there’s some fire to her, that she’s not broken when Luca delivers her to me. The prospect of subduing her is intensely erotic, and it’s been some time since I’ve been with a woman who was truly deserving of my—talents.

  Leaning back in my seat, I close my eyes and let out a long sigh. It’s a good day. Soon my new bride will be delivered to me, and my meeting went well. Despite the recent unrest, the latest order for the girls that my men are tasked with kidnapping and preparing for sale overseas was larger than usual. It will clear out my warehouse of stock, as it were. The sale of the girls, particularly two virgin daughters of brigadiers who recently found themselves on the wrong side of Bratva law, will be a lucrative payout.

  Now, after the exhausting process of the conclave, dealing with the Macgregors, and today’s meeting, I finally get to return to my own home and my children.

  I see them the instant that the car pulls into the circular driveway in front of my estate, jumping up and down eagerly as one of the maids tries to keep them from running towards the car. The minute the driver comes around to open the door, they wrench free of her hold, screaming with all the glee of nine and seven-year-old children.

  “Papa, papa!” Both girls shout as they run directly into my arms. Though I know it’s undignified in front of the staff, I can’t stop myself from crouching down, the gravel flying out from underneath their tiny shoes as they throw themselves into my embrace, both of them squeezing my neck at once.

  My chest clenches at the feeling of them in my arms, their blond curls cascading over my face as they both squeal out how much they missed me. “I’ve missed you too, dochen’ka,” I murmur, hugging them both. And I have. I miss them intensely whenever I’m gone.

  My two girls are all I have left of her. Of my Vera, my first wife.

  “Anika! Yelena!” Olga, the head of my staff and my interim nanny since my wife died, claps her hands. “Let your father breathe.”

  “It’s alright,” I tell her, scooping both girls up with ease and setting one on each hip as I stride towards the house. Olga clucks her tongue, shaking her head.

  “A man of your position shouldn’t be carrying children on his hip,” she says sternly, narrowing her eyes at me like an old grandmother. I just laugh, smiling easily at her.

  “We can make exceptions for today. I’ve been gone too long. Have you changed your hair? It looks very nice.”

  Olga, a severe woman who keeps her iron-grey hair pulled tightly back at all times and scoffs at the invention of modern beauty treatments like sunscreen and moisturizer, actually blushes, her cheekbones turning pink. She narrows her eyes, letting out a small huff as she waits for me to walk past. “Well, I suppose for today, we can make exceptions. But you shouldn’t spoil those girls, Viktor.”

  “Well, I have a surprise for them.” I set them down as we walk inside the marble foyer, ruffling their blonde hair.

  “A surprise!” Anika cries out, her blue eyes widening. “What is it, papa!”

  “I’ll tell you over dinner. Dinner is almost ready, isn’t it? Go with Bianca. She’ll help you wash up,” I add, seeing the pretty, dark-haired servant who helps Olga with the girls appear in the doorway.

  “I hope the surprise is a mother for those poor girls,” Olga says with pursed lips as I take off my shoes. “It’s been three years, Viktor. It’s time.”

  I straighten, looking down at her. Olga is the only member of my staff I would ever allow to call me by my
name, let alone speak to me as bluntly as she does. But with my own parents long dead and my wife gone three years past, Olga is the closest thing my children have to a babushka. And grudgingly, I’m fond of her too.

  “In fact,” I say calmly, “it’s exactly that. I will be taking a wife shortly, and she’ll be here within a fortnight.”

  A rare smile spreads across Olga’s face, the equivalent for her of a less restrained woman clapping her hands with glee. “A good Russian woman, like your late wife, I hope?”

  Something inside of me tightens, a bitterness that, by this point, runs bone-deep in me. “I’m not sure I would call Vera a good woman,” I say sharply. “And I’m sorry to disappoint, Olga, but no.”

  Olga frowns, her thick brows drawing together. “Then who is she?”

  “Caterina Rossi,” I tell her coolly. “The late Don Rossi’s daughter and a widow. She will be a welcome addition to this house and a good mother to my daughters. I’m certain of it. She was raised in a mafia family. She’s acquainted with our—ways.”

  Olga looks as if she wants to spit. “Their ways,” she snaps. “Not ours. An Italian woman, here, in my house? A Rossi? Raising those sweet girls? Viktor, how could you--”

  I feel my expression harden, my voice going cold. “It’s my house, Olga, and I’ll remind you of that only once. This is the Andreyev house, my home, and those girls are my daughters.” My jaw clenches as I glare down at her. “I allow you a great deal of freedom, for the way you’ve helped me in these past years. I owe you a great debt of gratitude for that, Olga Volkovna. But I will not hesitate to remind you of your place if need be.”