He takes the seat to my left, the Bottaros each shuffling down a spot with the shift in power. My betrothed gets pushed to the seat on my right. The place that should be filled by my brother, but instead has Violet Bottaro, the woman now set to take my last name.
This time tomorrow, she’ll be Violet Vendetti, wife to the Capo dei capi of the Vendetti Empire. We’re the strongest Italian familia to head up the Mafia in New York and Italy.
We’re the most ruthless familia to ever hit America, and she’s sitting right at the top of it.
I’ve never been so humiliated in my life. First, I discover the man in the club that humid night in Milan was no other than Matteo Vendetti himself, but that he’s also who I’m supposed to be marrying. And the bastard had his father check for my innocence like I’m some budding flower. Absolutely ridiculous and piggish. Had Mr. Vendetti been any other male, I’d have crushed his nuts in my grip until he was on his knees in front of me, begging for my forgiveness. With the Vendettis, however, that would’ve been a death sentence for me.
I’m Sicilian, a Bottaro, and a Mafia Princess, you don’t touch me without my permission. Ever. Matteo Vendetti may be sitting at the head of the table, all smug with his nose up in the air like the bastard Capo dei capi that he is, but I’ll get my payback. If there’s one thing I am, it’s patient. Just ask my papa. He told me he’d offered my hand in marriage, and I’d stopped speaking to him until he paid for a trip to Milan for fashion week with my cousins. Now I’m thinking that stubbornness hadn’t actually paid off as it led me straight to Matteo without realizing it. Could my papa have known that Matteo would be in the country at the same time and that’s why he finally let me go?
And Matteo will soon learn that I get what I want. He may be in charge, used to getting his way and is known to be ruthless, but he’s never been with a Sicilian woman. Or has he? Why does that thought bother me? Why do I even care about a thickheaded, rude Italian Capo?
Was it because of the way he touched me in that club amongst the sweaty bodies, the flickering colored lights, and the air thick with pheromones? I’ve thought of no other since then, except for the man who kissed me as if he were dying—the man now meant to be my husband.
Shaking those thoughts away, my mother catches my attention. With an exhale, I watch her load various items on my plate: bruschetta, mozzarella, and olives. Amazingly she doesn’t chastise me that the cheese will go to my hips if I eat too much as she usually does. She’s constantly shoveling food into my brother’s plate, however, telling him to eat up.
On autopilot, I make the sign of the cross and tilt my head as if I’m paying attention to the prayers. I don’t need the murmured “thanks” from my betrothed to offer up the dinner prayer to the Almighty. I’ve been praying to him nonstop since my father uttered the words “prearranged betrothed.” According to my papa I should feel lucky to be so old, as he wedded my mother at sixteen. He doesn’t understand that nineteen isn’t old at all. I want to go off to college like my cousin Patricia, and yet I’m stuck marrying into an empire filled with deadly mobsters.
According to my cousins—I have a lot of them—they tell me that the Vendettis take their bloodline very seriously and that they’ll expect me to have a child within the first two years. It can’t be true; that’s an absolute outlandish requirement. Surely Matteo can’t expect me to sit home and pop out children left and right for him. I’m the Bottaro Princess, not a damn breeding cow.
If he’s anything like the other Italian men of his age, he’ll no doubt have a few mistresses waiting in his bed already. I doubt he’ll look at me twice. Perhaps even he’ll forget about me after we say our vows. He can go back to whatever whore of the night he’s chosen and I can sleep peacefully in my suite that I’m sure they’ve already prepared for my stay. It’s probably not even on the same floor as his highness’s. Can’t have his flings see the old wife; it’d be bad for his sex life.
Why does the thought of him having a sex life outside of me irk me so strongly? I don’t want him to touch me after his pigheaded way in the sitting room, ordering me checked like some common slut with a disease. However the thought of him with another woman has me wanting to claw her eyes out as well. I can’t allow him to discover that though. Men like him take advantage of whatever they can to control you.
“All set for tomorrow, ragazza carina?” Mr. Vendetti asks me from across the table.
As if it’s not uncomfortable enough knowing he just had his fingers inside me, but I’m forced to sit directly across from him. It could be worse I suppose; the man is handsome and charming. I’m surprised he’s not married, being close to my own papa’s age. I wonder if he thought I was a pretty girl before he got up close and personal with the juncture between my legs or if he thinks of me that way knowing I saved myself for his son. I’ll never understand Italian men and their obsession with women being virgins and then expecting them to have many children for them. Isn’t it enough you had us praying religiously in the Catholic church like good women and saving ourselves, then turn around to demand we push out five sons and name all of them after you?
I snort to myself and go back to my other thoughts. Did I really, though? Save myself? In a sense, I guess so, though I let the man in Milan have a piece of me. Hell, I would’ve let him have all of me had my cousins not dragged me away. Even if I can’t stand this man beside me, Matteo Vendetti, I’ll treasure the moment when we met before, and neither of us knew the identity of the other.
“How does one truly prepare to marry a man she doesn’t know?” My eyebrow quirks and I can see fire light his irises. He’s used to submissive women, I suppose, but what else can be expected living most of your life as the Capo dei tutti of New York—essentially the Americanized Italian Mafia King.
“Ah, carina, but you are in luck as your future husband is my Matteo. Women line up just to spend a night in his bed.”
A snort escapes and my mother practically hisses at my outburst. “That’s what I was afraid of.” I flick my gaze to the man next to me but his face is a blank slate. It’s going to be interesting learning how to read this guy.
My mother cuts in, eager to please the Vendettis. “We’ve had the most beautiful dress made. It suits her figure; your son will be pleased.”
“Sons,” he corrects and my mother sputters. I can’t help my stomach from dropping at his words as well. It’s one surprise after another and I seem to have been thrown to the wolves.
“Excuse me?” she asks, and I eagerly wait for his answer.
He waves her off. “It’s nothing, just family tradition when the Capo dei Capi marries.”
Her gaze flicks at me curiously, no doubt wondering what I’m in for and how I got to be the one in line to marry Matteo in the first place. His bloodline is practically Italian royalty, and I’m not from their part of Italy. If we were home, I wouldn’t be considered “good enough” for him, and I’d more than likely be his throwaway whore than his wife. I don’t know how my father pulled it off, either. Sure, we’re part of the five influential families in Chicago, but marrying the boss of bosses in New York is a damn big deal in our world. My papa no doubt had some favors in his back pocket he called in.
I also can’t help but wonder, who could want us dead that badly for him to show his hand to the Vendettis?
Salvatore plops down on one of the large, onyx covered sitting chairs in my suite, his movements sloppy. “Well, Matty? What did you think?” He peers at me, his sable irises hazy from too much wine at dinner.
I shrug as the rest of my younger brothers file in, each sitting or leaning on various surfaces. There are seven of us in all, and none of us are small in stature by any means, thanks to my father’s strong genes. We easily fill a room when we’re together and we’re always around each other when we’re home. It’s far too dangerous to be in one place when we’re out in public. That’d be an enemy’s greatest wish fulfilled.
“She could be mia fidanzata,” Cristiano,
my youngest brother of sixteen interjects, and I must close my eyes to stop them from rolling. Of course, my baby brother would have a crush on Violet. She’s beautiful and a new face. Most think Cristiano is my son not my brother; few know that our parents had a seventh child. Even fewer are aware that it’s what broke my parents’ marriage completely.
Santino, the second to youngest who favors my mother Liliana’s looks the most, scoffs. “You wish she was yours to marry. Matteo would kick your ass, stupido.”
I wouldn’t, but I let them believe what they want. Being the oldest at thirty-three and having brothers that are sixteen and eighteen years old has been an interesting experience, and any respect I can instill in them, I do. My father has been busy being the Capo, and in doing so, I’ve stepped into a heavier roll than just the big brother. My siblings know they can come to me and depend on me for anything they may need.
“Romano says she’s nineteen—too old for you, little brother,” Luciano supplies. He’s twenty-one and levelheaded compared to the rest of us.
We all refer to our father either as “Father” or “Romano,” and Romano Vendetti prefers we call him by name, especially around company. Most everyone knows we’re his sons, but just in case they don’t, he likes to keep it formal with names. None of us have called him papa since we were seven years old. It seems at that age he made us stop being children and started molding us into becoming little Mafia soldiers.
Valentino, the third oldest of us clears his throat and rasps, “Speaking of...you’re Capo dei capi now, Matteo. You know what happens tomorrow night is tradition. You sure you’re okay going through with it?”
Does it bother me, our so called familia tradition? Of course, it’s fucking twisted; however if I must do it with anyone, my brothers are the one’=s I’d chose. “I have to be,” I say with a shrug.
Dante, our middle brother grumbles. “No, you don’t. You’re the head of the familia now. If you don’t want to do it, you don’t have to.” He looks so much like Romano, people probably believe he’s our uncle and not our sibling.
“Romano will be there to witness,” I remind them, rubbing my hands over my slack covered thighs.
Salvatore murmurs, unscrewing the flask he keeps tucked inside his suit jacket at all times. I wish he’d stay sober, but that’ll never happen. “You could take him, Matty. We’re all behind you.”
“Don’t talk like that. He’s retired now. You all should treat him like a father; this is your chance to have him in your life as such and without him telling you to take care of business matters.”
Cristiano perks up again. “I may be the youngest, but even I know that’s never going to happen.”
A few of us chuckle, because he’s right. No way will my father ever fully retire and spend his days playing golf and getting fat. He’ll always be a mob boss in his cold, black heart, even if I’m sitting at the head of the table now. He relinquished his reigns for one reason only; I’m just like he is.
“So, the bella?” Dante asks.
Clearing my throat, I nod. “We keep tradition. She’ll be ‘queen’ of the empire.” I make air quotes like an asshole. She’ll be a queen by name and status at least. Will I allow her to interfere with my empire? Not hardly. “It’s a small sacrifice, and in return, she’ll gain each of your protection.”
Valentino grins. “Little fidanzata will be pissed. I could see rebellion in her gaze at dinner. When we strap her down tomorrow night, she’ll curse us all to hell and then some. You better say your prayers tonight brothers.”
They snicker. We’re a bunch of twisted freaks and Violet’s about to find out firsthand about the family she’s gaining.
The wedding’s simple, but still opulent, as expected with anyone with my family’s status and wealth. Understated some would call it, I suppose, and nothing even remotely close to a traditional Italian wedding, where everyone’s expected to attend. Hell, at those, there are so many damn cousins, you usually end up kissing at least one of them and never realize you’re even related.
My first kiss was to Rosa Marie. Found out five years later when we attended her engagement party that she was the daughter of Romano’s youngest brother, Sergio. Never would’ve guessed, and it made for an awkward congratulatory hug. Thankfully she’s not here today, probably busy at home with ten bambinos of her own.
Violet shows up wearing electric blue lipstick, and her mother nearly bursts into tears, apologizing repeatedly because she’s mortified by her daughter’s behavior. However, I’m aware that it’s Violet’s one tiny way of standing out against whatever mold her parents seem to attempt to shove her into. She’s young and rebelling, and despite my more traditional beliefs, the blue’s sexy as fuck. It’ll definitely make for some interesting wedding photos for her to explain to our own bambinos someday.
Can’t say it surprises me, though, after our first meeting and seeing her so colorful that night in Milan...I like this version of her better. My little Vendetti Queen with blue lips; I think I’ll keep her. After tonight she’ll be ruined for anyone else anyhow. Not that my brothers or I would ever let another man have her. Tonight, we go by tradition; tonight, we make her ours for good.
A few hours past exchanging the standard set of vows to one another, my new wife and I sit at a long, rectangular table surrounded by each of my brothers. Smaller, less imposing round tables filled with various people are spread out in front of ours, so we may watch them if we wish. They’re all probably shitting their pants to see such power together at one table at the same time. Only the most influential individuals were invited to this trivial impromptu reception celebration. It’s more of a coronation than a marriage that took place today. The people gathered are here to get a small glimpse at the new Capo dei Capi and his young queen. Seeing all of the Vendetti brothers together is just an added bonus to feed their fantasies of a power they’ll never attain.
“Eat, Princess.” Salvatore loads Violet’s plate with some fresh fruit. I haven’t seen my wife eat today, and it appears I’m not the only one who’s noticed.
“I’m not hungry.” She shakes her head and his irritated glare meets mine. He doesn’t have to say anything; I’m thinking the same thing he is.
“Violetta.” Her name comes from my lips on a purr in fluent Italian. “You will need your strength…listen to Salvatore, carina.” I growl under my breath so that the nosey ears won’t pick up on my bride’s discord at being here.
“Vi-O-Let,” she enunciates with a hiss in response and my palm grips her thigh, a bit tightly, causing her to suddenly sit up straighter. “And I can’t,” she finally admits.
My gaze meets hers; she hasn’t looked me in the eyes since we exchanged our vows in front of the Father and our immediate family members. “Excuse me?” I keep my palm firmly attached to her thigh, craving for her attention to remain on me.
With a frustrated huff, Violet mutters, “My dress is too tight.” She exhales like she’s finally been able to admit something that’d been bothering her for some time. “And I can’t eat without it digging into my skin more than it already has.” Her perfect fingers fidget with a bit of thread on her thigh as she speaks. When her eyes close briefly, her hand smooths the wayward thread flat and it sparks an idea.
With a curse, I push her forward and grip the delicate lace in my palms. “Lace is just a damn appetizer anyhow,” I rasp as my hands rip the back open. She gasps, but there’s too much noise—chatter, music, and the clink of heavy silverware on plates and such that no one pays us any attention. Not that anyone would dare speak up about it anyhow; they’d likely get their tongue removed.
Motioning to the pineapple chunk, she obeys. Rather than act as the proper lady I’m sure she’s been raised to be, she forgoes the silverware and picks the juicy fruit up between her fingers. She bites into the lush, sunny fruit and sweet juice dribbles over her bottom lip, trailing down her chin. I can’t stop myself from pulling her close to suck the droplets clean. I want to f
uck her badly, even if her indiscretion in the club lights fire in my veins, I can’t help but be drawn to Violet.
She’s breathing heavily as I release her, and then her fingers are at my own lips, feeding me a chunk of the fruit. It’s the first time we’ve connected since Milan and I won’t ruin it. Parting my lips, I accept her offering—a gift obviously—after ridding her of her delicate constraint. Had I known it was that constricting, to actually cause her such discomfort not to eat, I’d have told her to change directly after the ceremony was over. Hell, I’d have said forget the dress and married her in something less formal. That would’ve been a scandal in her mother’s eyes, no doubt—not that I care.
Having felt the expensive, intricately-sewn material tear between my fingertips and then tasting her soft chin and delicate, sweet sculpted bottom lip has me wanting to pull her completely free of the beautiful bright ivory material. Lace on such a gorgeous woman is beyond dangerous to a man like me. I can only wonder how my brothers must feel, sitting here, knowing she’s mine but also being aware of what will happen tonight....what will be done to her.
The server offers Matteo a glass of champagne, her lashes fluttering obnoxiously. He scoffs, glaring at the poor woman. With his pompous attitude, he’s probably angry at her for merely breathing. This man has such an ego. I can understand why she’d be dazed in his presence. I was the first time I breathed the same air as him.
Thankfully, his response is enough to shake me out of the spell he’d briefly had me under when his lips met my chin. Jesus, I’ve never been so wet between my thighs in my entire life. Okay, maybe the night he had his fingers inside my pussy, but his mouth tasting me just a moment ago was purely erotic. Damn if it doesn’t make me want him to continue in that brief pursuit too.
The Vendetti Empire Page 3