Convenient Mafia Wife: Prequel (Syndicate Rules Book 1)

New York City, New York

Five Families

CATALINA

Papà is beside himself. The don is coming for dinner.

I don’t understand why my father is so happy. As Severu De Luca’s consigliere, he has dined with the don many times. Don De Luca has been to our home as well, though this is the first time he is coming to dine with us.

All of us. Papà, my Zia Lora, Zio Giovi, Carlotta and me.

Zia is my father’s widowed sister and she’s lived with us since mamma died. She and Zio Giovi came for the funeral and never left. I like Zio Giovi. He is kind. He’s much older than Zia though, his hair more silver and his face more lined than papà’s.

Zia’s full name is Madonna Candelora, like mine is Madonna Catalina and my sister is Madonna Carlotta.

It’s Jilani family tradition to name the girls Madonna and use our middle names when speaking.

Zia shortens her name to Lora and mine to Lina. Zio calls me tesorina, even though I am twenty-five. Carlotta calls me soru, sister. Papà doesn’t use my name. He prefers other epitaphs.noveldrama

I check the table again, to make sure everything is right. Using the hem of my t-shirt, I rub at a small smudge, so nothing mars the sheen of the dark wood table. The runner down the middle and the placemats are from my mother’s wedding trunk. They are all hand tatted Sicilian lace, sent to her by family in the Old Country.

In the center of the table is a large bouquet of flowers arranged in Zia Lora’s favorite crystal vase with matching crystal candelabras on either side. They catch the light from the chandelier and sparkle.

I make sure all the flatware gleams, without any spots of tarnish on the silver. The nearly hundred-year-old hand painted ceramic dishes are from my father’s side of the family. His great grandmother brought the original set over from Sicily.

Everything is set for a formal dinner and even though Zia is cooking, when the time comes, maids will serve the food.

Zia Lora, tall and slim like most of the Jilanis, comes bustling in, her face creased in a smile. ‘This looks lovely, Lina, but it is time you got yourself ready.’

‘Are you sure you don’t need me to do anything else?’ I ask.

‘No, no, you do not have time. Your sister went up to dress an hour ago.’

My sister is considered the most beautiful mafia princess on the East Coast, maybe in the whole country. Papà has been receiving offers for her hand since she was twelve years old. In the Cosa Nostra, mafia princesses can be promised from any age, though the formal engagement is never announced before they are sixteen.

With the same build and dark brown hair as Zia Lora, Carlotta also has amber eyes and perfectly symmetrical features. Wherever she goes, she turns heads. First it was always, ‘What a beautiful child,’ then ‘What a beautiful girl,’ and now they say, ‘What a beautiful woman.’

At nineteen and six years younger than me, I know my sister is a woman, but I still think of her as a girl.

Papà has refused to arrange a marriage for her; he is holding out for someone powerful.

Like the don? Is that why he is coming for dinner? Is he going to make an offer for my sister?

As papà likes to point out, though I was born into the mafia, I am no princess. I will probably never marry, though when I say that to Zia Lora, she gets upset. But papà has no desire to arrange a marriage for me.

Because I know the truth.

If he gives my hand to someone with integrity, I might tell my husband my father’s shameful secret and papà would be removed as consiglieri. If he gives me to someone like himself, I might tell that man too, but then my husband would have leverage over my father.

One day, my father might kill me, like he did my mother, but he won’t risk giving my hand in marriage so I can tell others what I know.

I walk upstairs, keeping a steady pace. If I don’t try to rush, I won’t limp. Sometimes, no matter how slowly I walk, I cannot hide that I am defective, as Papà calls me, though.

Is defective the right word? My right leg is shorter than my left because of the fall I took down the stairs, the same day as Mamma. Isn’t that wounded, not defective?

Papà thought we were both dead that day. I’m sure of it. But he was wrong. I lived. And I remember.

Carlotta comes rushing up as I reach the hall outside my bedroom. ‘You aren’t dressed yet. soru, you must change now. There’s barely time to do your hair and makeup.’

‘Brushing my hair will only take seconds and I don’t wear makeup,’ I remind my glowing sister.

Carlotta is wearing a soft pink dress by one of her favorite designers. Her luxurious dark brown curls are brushed to a sheen that falls like silk down her back. Her nude heels add four inches to her already above average height, making her tower over my own five-feet-three-inches.

She might be only nineteen, but she looks as regal as a queen.

‘You look wonderful,’ I tell her as we walk to my bedroom.

Carlotta’s pretty lips twist in a moue of discontent. ‘I don’t like all these pastel colors. I would look so much better in red.’

With her darker coloring, she’s absolutely right. But red is not a color for an unmarried mafia princess still in her teens.

‘Once you’re married, I’m sure your husband will buy you dozens of red dresses.’ Who wouldn’t want to spoil my sister?

She is not only beautiful, but she is sweet natured, if a tad selfish, but that is not her fault. She isn’t just a mafia princess, she is the princess of our family. Everyone loves her. Even our father.

‘I don’t want to have to get married to wear colors like red and…and black.’ Carlotta’s tone is filled with discontent.

It worries me. ‘Black is the color of mourning.’

‘Not in the real world, it’s not.’

Carlotta talks like everything outside la famiglia is the real world. She thinks the traditions and the culture of the mafia are antiquated and unrealistic.

In some respects, I agree with her. The prospect of living the rest of my life under Papà’s roof, simply because I am unmarried, fills me with dread. It’s supposedly for my safety, but I am in more danger here than if I lived on my own. I’d much rather get a job and support myself, but he’ll never allow that.

Running away would be considered betrayal. Betrayal to la famiglia can be punished by death. I’m not ready to die, so I don’t run away. Not yet anyway.

I have plans, plans I can’t even tell Carlotta because once I implement them, I’ll never see her, my aunt or my uncle again. Most importantly, I’ll never have to see my father again and I will be able to stop wondering if today is the day he is going to kill me.

When I run, I’ll have what I need to make sure I will never be found.

‘Please do not mention the real world as you call it at dinner,’ I implore my sister.

‘Of course, I won’t. I never tell Papà what I really think of mafia life. It would hurt him.’

Hurt him? I’m not sure. But it certainly would make him angry. And when he gets angry, it is never my sweet, sunny sister who he takes his ire out on.

It is me. Whether it is because I look like Mamma and not a Jilani, or because I know his secret, my father despises me.

At five foot three, with more padding on my curves than Carlotta will ever have, I am the spitting image of our mother. At least before the plastic surgery, the incessant diets and the blonde highlights my father insisted on.

Papà even made her wear contacts that turned her hazel eyes green. Trying to make her into the image of the woman he’d wanted to marry when he’d been forced to settle for my mom.

I push away the unhappy memories of the past. ‘What do you think I should wear?’ I ask my sister.

She grins and eagerly opens the door to my wardrobe. There is no closet in my bedroom because it is part of the original house, built over 150 years ago. It’s a small bedroom too, but I don’t mind. It has its advantages. Like a fireplace and being far away from my father’s suite.

After perusing my dresses, yanking hangers this way and that, Carlotta’s grin turns into a frown. ‘Don’t you have a single decent dress?’

I’m not the clothes horse that my sister is. I don’t care about designer labels or wearing the latest fashions. Most of my dresses are at least two years old. Not because papà doesn’t give me a clothing allowance. His pride would not allow that.

It is because I’ve been buying designer clothes and returning them for the past three years, putting the money I get back in my runaway fund kept hidden in my room.

Papà doesn’t notice my lack of fashion. Carlotta does.

‘Where’s that dress we bought when we were out shopping last week? It looked amazing on you.’

I wave my hand dismissively. ‘I didn’t like it and took it back.’

‘You’d never know you were so picky looking at the state of your wardrobe,’ she says repressively. She grabs the navy chiffon skirt I wore to my cousin’s wedding a couple of years ago and hands it to me. ‘Hold this. I’ve got a top that’s perfect for it.’

‘None of your blouses will fit me,’ I warn her.

Carlotta gives me a mischievous smile. ‘Well, it won’t fit the same, that’s for sure. It’ll show off your girls.’

I instinctively cross my arms over my generous breasts. ‘I don’t want my boobs on display, thank you.’

‘Do you really think I have anything that would put them on actual display? I’m not allowed plunging necklines. I’m too young.’ Her tone makes it clear what she thinks of that.

Carlotta is gone only a few minutes before she comes back with a white silk blouse and I breathe a sigh of relief. Until I have it on. It’s sleeveless, which I don’t mind so much. Papà isn’t stingy with the heating.

The soft cowl neckline is not at all provocative, but the silk must have some spandex in it because it’s stretchy, clinging to my curves. Once I have the skirt on, my waist looks tiny, but my chest and hips look even bigger than normal.

When I complain, Carlotta assures me that I look great. Knowing no one’s attention is going to be on me at the dinner, I decide it’s not worth the argument with my sister to change into something else. I put on a pair of navy blue ballet flats.

I don’t wear heels. Walking in them makes my hip ache like really, really.

Carlotta insists on putting my mousy brown hair up in a messy bun leaving tendrils to curl around my heart shaped face, but I put my foot down when she wants to put makeup on me.

I don’t have to imagine what Papà would say. The last time I wore make up, he shook his head and asked of no one in particular, ‘What’s the point of gilding a turnip? It still looks round and like it was grown in the dirt.’

I knew he was talking about me. I didn’t let it make me cry though. I don’t let him see me cry at all anymore.

We run into Zia Lora coming out of her room and she stops to look at us. ‘Don’t you both look lovely?’ She cocks her head to one side looking at me. ‘Wait, I think I have a pair of earrings for you.’

She rushes back to her room and is back only moments later with a pair of teardrop pearl earrings in her hand. ‘Put these on.’

So, I go down to dinner wearing my aunt’s earrings and my sister’s blouse.

‘At least my underwear are my own,’ I grumble.

My aunt and sister laugh.

Zio Giovi comes down the hall. ‘I see I have three gorgeous women to escort to dinner,’ he says gallantly, putting his arm out for Zia to take.

Carlotta and I take each other’s hand and follow them. My sister’s palm is sweaty and I realize she’s perfectly aware of what this dinner might mean. She’s nervous and I don’t blame her. It’s not every day a don comes looking for a wife.

We reach the foyer and Papà points to his side. ‘Come here, Madonna Carlotta. You will stand with me to greet the don.’

‘Both of your daughters should stand with you,’ Zia Lora says, her voice filled with censure. ‘What will Don De Luca think of you otherwise? That you are ashamed of one of your daughters?’

While it might be true, my father’s pride would never allow him to reveal that truth to someone outside the family, particularly his boss.

He glowers, but nods. ‘You stand beside your sister. It will give Severu a comparison that will highlight what a diamond my princess is.’

Carlotta frowns, but soon her expression clears. I do not show any reaction to Papà’s stinging comment. Starve a bully of his attention and he will grow tired of tormenting you. That’s the idea, anyway.

Zia Lora clicks her tongue. ‘You have two lovely daughters, Francesco.’

‘The Don will be spoiled for choice,’ Zio Giovi says with a warm smile directed at both myself and Carlotta.

Papà just harrumphs.

‘We will wait for you in the drawing room,’ Zia Lora says before she and Zio turn to go.

After a couple minutes of silence, Carlotta asks, ‘Is the don really coming because he’s thinking of marrying me?’

‘Do not be so forward stellina,’ Papà chides. ‘That is not a question you should ask.’

‘I shouldn’t?’ My sister sounds naïve, but I can hear the undertone of frustration in her words. ‘Isn’t it my life?’

Our father takes her hand and pats it. ‘It is not something for you to worry about. I will see to your future.’

Carlotta’s features tighten for just a moment and then they smooth into placid sweetness again. My sister is not as accepting of our father’s pronouncements as he believes.

The doorbell rings. A maid answers and leads not only the don, but his mother, brother, and sister toward us. The don’s bodyguards take up unobtrusive positions in the hall. One remains by the front door. All are alert and serious.

I’ve had glimpses of the don before, from a distance when he was let into our house and when he was leaving. I have never actually spoken to him though. Unlike Carlotta, my father has never taken me to a social gathering where I might meet Severu De Luca in person. Not as his father’s underboss, nor as the don he has been for the past five years.

This close, he takes my breath away. Don De Luca stands more than a head taller than my father’s five-feet-ten-inches. The don has a muscular, broad chest that makes his upper body look like a V. The slacks of his bespoke suit hint at long, muscled legs. It isn’t merely his size that fills the space around him though; it is his unmistakable aura of power.

His gaze traps mine and I cannot look away even though I know I should.

He’s 35, but there are no smile lines around his eyes or mouth. His brown eyes eerily reflect no emotion at all. Not eagerness to spend time with his potential bride, not pleasure in his consigliere‘s company. Nothing. His masculine lips do not crease in a smile of greeting. Dangerous and intimidating, it feels like he’s on alert for any source of danger despite being in the home of a trusted associate.

My father, who has always been the greatest threat in my existence, appears diminished in the dominant presence of his don.

Unbelievably, my vagina, which has been silent for twenty-five years, decides to wake up. It looks at the terrifying head of the Genovese Family and says, ‘Yes, I want that.’

I feel a sensation between my legs I have never experienced before. A feeling of emptiness that needs to be filled. Heat suffuses my body, making the drafty foyer feel suffocatingly warm.

In that moment, I realize that I have figured out the timing for my exodus from my precarious life. I’m running away the day after my sister’s wedding. I’ll leave my father’s house right after Carlotta does.

My reaction to the don isn’t just shocking. It’s embarrassing. If I don’t get it under control before they are engaged, it will be a betrayal of my sister too. I cannot lust after her fiancé, much less her husband. That is just wrong.

I may not be a made man, but I am Cosa Nostra. I have a sense of honor and I won’t compromise it.

Not even if my ovaries are sending up fireworks and cymbals are crashing in my vagina for the first time in my life.

I am not a sexual person. I’m not ignorant. I considered the possibility I preferred women, but my body reacts to no one. I am simply sexually inert.

Until this moment.

I break my gaze from the don, the man who is one thousand percent off limits and force myself to take in his brother. They look alike. Dark brown eyes, black hair, huge and muscular. But my vagina just yawns and goes back to sleep when my eyes land on Miceli De Luca.

Carlotta doesn’t seem to be under the don’s spell like I am. She gives a barely there smile and greets him and his family demurely, but she doesn’t offer her hand.

Papà frowns but covers it up with forced bonhomie. ‘Severu, you remember my daughter, Carlotta.’

‘And this must be your oldest daughter,’ Signora De Luca says with a warm smile after my father neglects to introduce me. ‘Madonna Catalina, isn’t it? We have not met.’

She’s beautiful. Though I know Aria De Luca is in her fifties, with her golden blonde hair and unlined face, she looks like she could be the don’s older sister, rather than his mother. As well as their dark hair, her children must have gotten their brown eyes from their father. Hers are green.

‘Please, call me Catalina.’

‘And you may call me Aria.’ She offers her hand and I shake it as the fragrance of rose, jasmine, vanilla and just a hint of citrus wafts around us.

I know it well. It was my mother’s perfume and I keep a bottle to spray on my pillow when I need the comfort to fall asleep.

Choking back unexpected emotion, I say, ‘Welcome to our home.’ I can’t make myself use her name and still think of her as Signora De Luca in my head. I am almost as awed by this elegant woman as I am intimidated by her powerful son.

The don’s brother shakes my hand as well. ‘Miceli,’ he says by way of introduction.

‘It is a pleasure to meet you,’ I reply. Though that isn’t strictly true.

Where I find the don’s forceful presence inexplicably exciting, this man just scares me. The cold look in his dark eyes doesn’t help.

My gaze skitters away from him only to land once again on his brother and I have to stifle a gasp. This is so unfair. My first taste of sexual desire and it’s for a man who is completely off limits and so out of my league, we might as well be on different planets.

Miceli gives my hand a squeeze. My gaze snaps back to his face. Miceli releases my hand with a frown. I try to give him an innocuous smile in return, but am sure it looks more pained than banal.

Miceli steps away and his sister takes his place. ‘I am Giulia Mancini. It’s nice to meet you, Catalina.’

It doesn’t escape me that all of these people have met my sister before. Because she is not kept like a prisoner in our home.

Then Severu De Luca is standing in front of me and my feelings of resentment are overshadowed by the reaction of my ladybits to his presence. His masculine scent overpowers the comforting fragrance of his mother’s perfume, eliciting an entirely different reaction in me.

Don De Luca takes my hand. More heat rushes up my neck and into my face. Moisture pools between my legs, soaking my panties. My ovaries practically explode and my vaginal walls contract with need. Oh. My. Gosh. All of this from his hand touching mine?

Can I fake a sudden illness and go hide in my room? I certainly feel fevered.

The don says in his deep voice, ‘Catalina, thank you for having us in your home.’ Like I am my father’s hostess.

Papà has never afforded me that distinction, but his boss assumes it and my father doesn’t have the courage to deny it as I’m sure he wants to.

I manage a quick handshake before jerking my hand away and tucking it behind my back, so I don’t accidentally touch him again. For the love of Mike. ‘Uh, Don De Luca. Thank you for coming.’

He doesn’t offer the use of his first name, and I would never presume to use it otherwise.

I can’t read his expression, so I have no idea if he notices my improper reaction to him. Though why should he? It’s not like he can just guess my panties are now damp. Can he? I have zero experience with men and sexual attraction.

His dark eyes look like they can see right into my soul. He turns away, showing no more reaction than if he’d shaken the hand of a mannequin. Relief and disappointment war inside me, but my brain reminds my body that relief should win.

Carlotta slides her hand into mine and holds tight. Her body is tense, and her fingers are cold to my touch. She’s nervous and no matter how difficult I know this dinner is going to be for me with my newly awakened sexuality, no way am I abandoning her.

I tell my vagina to go back to sleep. It shouldn’t be hard. Awake is not its natural state. And I walk with my sister into the drawing room.