by Sophie Lark
“Fine,” I say. “But where are we going?”
“We’re going to meet with the Griffins. Papa said to bring you.”
Well. Shit.
I didn’t much enjoy my last meeting with Callum Griffin.
I’m really not looking forward to a second. I doubt his temper was improved by a swim in the lake.
And what to wear to such an event?
I think the only dress I own is the Wednesday Adams costume I wore last Halloween.
I settle on a gray turtleneck and slacks, even though it’s too hot for that, because it’s about the only thing I have that’s sober and clean.
When I pull the shirt over my head, it sets the knot on the back of my skull throbbing again, reminding me how Callum Griffin shoved me aside like a rag doll. He’s strong under that suit. I’d like to see him face off against Dante or Nero—when he doesn’t have his bodyguard along for the ride.
That’s what we should do—tell them we want a meeting, then ambush the motherfuckers. Callum had no problem attacking us on the pier. We should return the favor.
I’m amping myself up the whole time I’m getting dressed, so I’m practically vibrating with tension by the time I slide into the back of Dante’s Escalade.
“Where are we meeting them?” I ask him.
“At The Brass Anchor,” Dante says shortly. “Neutral ground.”
It only takes a few minutes to drive to the restaurant on Eugenie Street. It’s past midnight now, and the building is dark, the kitchen closed. However, I see Fergus Griffin waiting out front, along with two bruisers. Wisely, he didn’t bring the shit stain that stomped on Sebastian’s leg.
I don’t see Callum anywhere. Looks like Daddy put him in time-out.
We wait in the SUV until Papa pulls up as well. Then all four of us get out at the same time. When Dante slides out of the front seat, I see the bulge under his jacket that shows he’s still carrying. Good. I’m sure Nero is, as well.
As we walk toward Fergus Griffin, his eyes are fixed on me and me alone. He’s looking me up and down, like he’s evaluating every aspect of my appearance and demeanor on some kind of chart inside of his head. He doesn’t look very impressed.
That’s fine, because to me he looks just as cold and arrogant and phony-genteel as his son. I refuse to drop his gaze, stubbornly staring straight back at him without a hint of remorse.
“So this is the little arsonist,” Fergus says.
I could tell him it was an accident, but that’s not strictly true. And I’m not apologizing to these bastards.
Instead I say, “Where’s Callum? Did he drown?”
“Luckily for you, he did not,” Fergus replies.
Papa, Dante, and Nero close rank around me. They might be angry as hell that I got us into this mess, but they’re not going to stand for anyone threatening me.
“Don’t talk to her,” Dante says roughly.
With a little more tact, Papa says, “You wanted a meeting. Let’s go inside and have one.”
Fergus nods. His two men enter the restaurant first, making sure it really is empty inside. This place belongs to Ellis Foster, a restaurateur and broker who has connections to both the Irish and our family. That’s why it’s neutral ground.
Once we’re all inside, Fergus says to my father, “I think it’s best if we speak alone.”
Papa slowly nods.
“Wait here,” he says to my brothers.
Papa and Fergus disappear into one of the private dining rooms, closed off by double glass doors. I can see their outlines as they sit down together, but I can’t make out any details of their expressions. And I can’t hear a word they’re saying.
Dante and Nero pull a couple of chairs out from the nearest table. Fergus’s men do the same at a table ten feet away. My brothers and I sit along the same side, so we can glare across at Fergus’s goons while we wait.
That keeps us occupied for about ten minutes. But looking at their ugly mugs is pretty boring. Waiting in general is boring. I’d like to get a drink from the bar, or maybe even poke into the kitchen for a snack.
The second I start to rise up from my seat, Dante says, “Don’t even think about it,” without looking at me.
“I’m hungry,” I tell him.
Nero has his knife out and he’s playing with it. He can do all sorts of tricks. The blade is so sharp that if he made a mistake, he’d lop off a finger. But he hasn’t made one yet.
It might look like he’s trying to intimidate Griffin’s men, but it’s not for their benefit. He does this all the time.
“I don’t understand how you’re the one that eats the most out of any of us,” Nero says, without looking up from his knife.
“I don’t!”
“How many times have you eaten today already? Tell the truth.”
“Four,” I lie.
“Bullshit,” Nero scoffs.
“I’m not as worried about my figure as you are,” I tease him.
Nero is vain about his appearance. With good reason—all my brothers are handsome, but Nero has that male-model prettiness that seems to make girls’ panties spontaneously combust. I don’t know a single girl who hasn’t slept with him, or tried to.
It’s a weird thing to know about your own brother, but we’re all pretty open with each other. That’s what comes of living in the same house for so long, with no mom around to keep them from treating me like just another little brother.
And that’s how I like it. I’m not anti-woman—I’ve got no problem with girls who want to be pretty or feminine or sexy or whatever the hell. I just don’t want to be “treated like a girl,” if that makes sense. I want to be treated as myself, for better or worse. Nothing more or nothing less. Just Aida.
Aida who is bored out of her mind.
Aida who is starting to get sleepy.
Aida who is heartily regretting annoying the Griffins, if only because I’m going to be trapped here until the end of time while Fergus and Papa talk and talk and talk forever . . .
And then finally, almost three hours later, the two patriarchs come out of the private dining room, both looking somber and resigned.
“Well?” Dante says.
“It’s settled,” Papa replies.
He sounds like a judge pronouncing a sentence. I don’t like his tone one bit, or the expression on his face. He’s looking at me mournfully.
As we head outside, he says to Nero, “Take my car back. I’m going to drive home with Aida.”
Nero nods and gets in Papa’s Mercedes. Dante climbs into the driver’s side of the SUV, and Papa gets in the back with me.
I definitely don’t like this at all.
I turn to face him, not bothering with my seatbelt.
“What is it?” I say. “What did you decide?”
“You’re going to marry Callum Griffin in two weeks,” Papa says.
This is so ridiculous that I actually laugh—a weird, barking sound that fades away in the silent car.
Papa is watching me, the lines on his face more deeply engraved than ever. His eyes look completely black in the dim light inside the car.
“You can’t be serious,” I say.
“I am absolutely serious. This is not up for debate. It’s settled with the Griffins.”
“I’m not getting married!” I say. “Especially not to that psychopath.”
I look to the driver’s seat for Dante’s support. He’s staring straight forward at the road, hands clenched on the steering wheel.
My father looks exhausted.
“This feud has been going on too long,” he says. “It’s an ember that smolders and smolders and continually bursts into flame, burning down everything we’ve worked for. The last time we had an eruption, you lost two of your uncles. Our family is smaller than it should be, because of the Griffins. The same is true for them. Too many people lost on both sides, down through the generations. It’s time for that to change. It’s time for the opposite to happen. We will align together. We will p
rosper together.”
“Why do I have to get married for that to happen?” I shout. “That won’t help anything! Because I’m going to murder that bastard the moment I see him!”
“You’ll do as you’re told!” my father snaps. I can see that his patience is at an end. It’s 3:00 in the morning. He’s tired, and he looks old. He is old, really. He was forty-eight when he had me. He’s nearly seventy now.
“I’ve spoiled you,” he says, fixing me with those black eyes. “Let you run wild. You’ve never had to face the consequences of your actions. Now you will. You lit the match that started this particular blaze. It’s you who will have to put it out again. Not by violence, but by your own sacrifice. You’ll marry Callum Griffin. You’ll bear the children that will be the next generation of our mutual lineage. That is the agreement. And you will uphold it.”
This is some kind of fucking nightmare.
I’m getting married?
I’m having fucking babies?!
And I’m supposed to do it with the man I hate worse than anyone on this planet?
“He crippled Sebastian!” I shout, my last-ditch effort to express how utterly revolting this man is to me.
“That’s as much on your head as his,” Papa says coldly.
There’s nothing I can say in response to that.
Because deep down, I know that it’s true.
6
Callum
I’m sitting on the back deck, watching the hired staff clean up the last remnants of trash and supplies from the party. They’ve been working all night. My mother insisted that it all be cleaned up immediately, so none of our neighbors would have to see a hint of disarray on our grounds on their way to work in the morning.
My sisters went to bed already—Nessa flushed and happy from the excitement of the evening, Riona pouting because I refused to tell her where our father disappeared to.
My mother is still awake, supervising the clean-up efforts, though not actually touching anything herself.
When my father’s armored car pulls into the drive, she abandons the workers and joins us back in the office. I feel like I’ve spent too many hours in here lately. And I don’t like the look on my father’s face.
“So?” I say at once. “What was the agreement?”
I’m expecting him to say that we came to some kind of financial agreement or handshake deal—maybe they’ll give us support with the Italian vote in the Alderman election, and we’ll promise them whatever permits or zoning they want on their next construction project.
So when my father explains the actual deal, I stare at him like he just sprouted two heads.
“You will marry Aida Gallo in two weeks,” he says.
“That little brat?” I explode. “No fucking way.”
“It’s already settled.”
My mother steps forward, looking alarmed. She lays her hand on my father’s arm.
“Fergus,” she says in a low tone. “Is this wise? We’ll be tied to the Gallos in perpetuity.”
“That’s exactly the point,” my father says.
“They’re filthy fucking gangsters!” I spit out. “We can’t have their name associated with ours. Especially not with the election coming up.”
“The election will be the first benefit of this alliance,” my father says, taking off his glasses and cleaning them with the handkerchief he keeps in his breast pocket. “Your success is by no means assured when you’re facing off against La Spata. The Gallos hold the key to the Italian vote. If you’re married to Aida when the ballot goes out, every single one of them in this district will vote for you. They’ll abandon La Spata without hesitation.”
“I don’t need her to win!” I snarl.
“Don’t be so sure,” my father says. “You’re too confident, Callum. Arrogant, even. If the vote happened today, the results might be a coin toss. You should always secure your victory ahead of time, given the opportunity.”
“Fine,” I say, trying to maintain my temper. “But what about after this month? Do you honestly expect me to stay married to her forever?”
“Yes, I do,” my father says seriously. “The Gallos are Catholic, the same as us. You’ll marry her, you’ll be faithful to her, and you’ll father children with her.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “Mother, surely you have something to say about this.”
She looks back and forth between my father’s face and mine. Then she tucks a lock of smooth blonde hair behind her ear and sighs.
“If the deal was struck, we will abide by it.”
I should have known. She always sides with father.
Still, I sputter, “What?! You can’t—”
She cuts me off with a glance.
“Callum, it’s time for you to become the man you profess to be. I’ve watched you play around with these girls you date—models and socialites. You seem to deliberately pick the most shallow and empty-headed girls.”
I scowl, folding my arms across my chest. It never mattered who I dated, as long as they looked good on my arm and didn’t embarrass me at parties. Since I never wanted anything serious, it made sense to find girls who were just looking for fun, the same as me.
“I didn’t know I was supposed to be finding a broodmare,” I say sarcastically. “I thought you’d want me to find the right girl and fall in love, like a normal person.”
“Is that what you think we did?” my mother says quietly.
I pause. I actually have no idea how my parents met. I never asked them.
“That’s right,” my mother says. “Fergus and I had an ‘arranged marriage,’ if you want to call it that. More accurately, our parents, who were older and wiser than us, and who knew us better than we knew ourselves, arranged the match. Because they knew we would be good partners for one another, and because it was an alliance that benefited both of our families. There were challenges, at first.”
A significant look passes between my parents. A little ruefulness and amusement from both of them.
“But in the end, our match is what made us the people we are today,” my father says.
This is fucking bananas. I’ve never heard this before.
“That’s completely different!” I tell them. “You were from the same culture, the same background. The Gallos are mobsters. They’re old school, in the worst sense of the word.”
“That’s part of the value they’ll provide,” my father says bluntly. “As we’ve grown in wealth and influence, we’ve lost our edge. You’re my only son. Your mother lost both her brothers. There are precious few men on my side of the family. In pure muscle, we only have what we pay for. You can never be sure of the loyalty of hired guns—there’s always someone willing to pay more. Since Zajac took over, the Braterstwo are becoming a serious threat to us, something we can’t necessarily deal with on our own. The Italians have the same problem. With our two families aligned, the Butcher won’t dare strike at either of us.”
“Great,” I say. “But who’s going to protect me from my betrothed? That girl is a wild animal. Can you imagine her as a politician’s wife? I doubt she even knows how to walk in heels.”
“Then you’ll teach her,” my mother says.
“I don’t know how to walk in heels, either,” I say sarcastically. “How exactly am I supposed to teach her to be a lady, mother?”
“She’s young and malleable,” my father says. “You’ll train her, mold her into what she needs to be in order to stand by your side and support your career.”
Young and malleable?
I really don’t think my father got a good look at this girl.
Young she may be, but she’s about as malleable as cast iron.
“What an exciting challenge,” I say through gritted teeth. “I can’t wait to get started.”
“Good,” my father says. “You’ll have your chance at your engagement party next week.”
“Engagement party?” This is a fucking joke. I just found out about this five minutes ago, and apparently, th
ey’re already planning the public announcement.
“You’ll have to agree on your cover story with Aida,” my mother says. “Something like, ‘You started dating casually starting about eighteen months ago. It got serious last fall. You’d planned to wait until after the election to marry but decided you just couldn’t wait anymore.’”
“Maybe you’d better just write the press release for me, mother. Do my wedding vows, too, while you’re at it.”
“Don’t be disrespectful,” my father snaps.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I tell him.
I doubt the same can be said of my future bride. In fact, that might be the one silver lining of this fucking maelstrom—watching my parents have to deal with the little hellcat they’re bringing into this family.
7
Aida
My brothers are in an uproar about my father’s insane plan.
Dante didn’t say anything on the drive home, but I heard him arguing with Papa for hours afterward while shut up together in the study.
It was pointless. Papa is stubborn as a mule. A Sicilian mule that only eats thistles and will kick you in the teeth if you get too close. Once his mind is made up, not even the trump of judgment day could change it.
Honestly, Armageddon would be a welcome respite from what’s actually about to happen.
The very first day after the deal is struck, I get a message from Imogen Griffin telling me about some engagement party on Wednesday night. An engagement party! As if there’s something to celebrate here, and not just a slow-motion train wreck in process.
She also shipped me a ring in a box.
I fucking hate it, of course. It’s a big old square diamond on a bedazzled band, chunky and sure to bang against everything. I keep it shut up in its box on my nightstand, because I have no intention of wearing it before I absolutely have to.
The only good thing in this mountain of shit is that at least Sebastian is doing a little better. He had to have surgery to reconstruct his ACL, but we got the best doctor in the city, the same one who fixed Derrick Rose’s knee. So, we’re hoping he’ll be up and around again before long.
