Married With Malice: An Arranged Marriage Romance
Married With Malice: Chapter 1

TWO MONTHS BEFORE THE STORM…

My mother has decided this is the appropriate time to discuss my virginity.

Too bad she waited until half an hour before my wedding and six years after that piece of business was settled atop a lumpy mattress in a stuffy NYU dorm room.

Her fingers stroke the chunky gold cross nestled in the hollow beneath her throat. The edges of her accent are still intact twenty-eight years after she was shipped out of Sicily to marry New York mafia big shot Albie Barone. “Try not to cry out, Annalisa.”

“Sure,” I say.

I’ll agree to anything if only her speech will be over.

Alas, it’s not over.

My mother clears her throat. “You need to prepare yourself.”

I wonder if she’ll stop if I vomit on her.

“He may be rough,” she says. “The men sometimes are.”

Try as I might, vomit is not forthcoming. I should have eaten lunch.

“But in time you will learn to tolerate the act,” she says in a near whisper.

My mother must be under the impression that she has frightened me into silence.

She’s not wrong. I’m very afraid she won’t ever stop talking.

But she seizes my hands with fresh urgency. “And yes, there may be some blood but not much.”

Giulia Messina Barone didn’t have a normal upbringing. Cloistered in the walls of her father’s heavily guarded villa, her contact with outsiders was limited. She never dated local bad boys or giggled with other schoolgirls over dick picks. She must have been intensely lonely as the only daughter with older brothers who were allowed to do as they pleased.

In her sheltered formative years, my mother was raised to believe that future wives are obedient and chaste and don’t know what a rigid cock looks like until their wedding night. She has never seen fit to adapt to reality.

There’s no point in interrupting her. Her eyes will cloud with indignant tears. She’ll start spitting out prayers in Italian. She’ll wail about ungrateful children and then she probably won’t leave me alone to do what I need to do. My only option is to hang out here at the vanity table in a white silk robe and try not to cringe to death.

“But the blood is a mark of your honor,” says my mother, oblivious to my revulsion.

If this goes on for much longer I might jump out the window. We’re only on the second floor. The worst I’ll get is a broken ankle. That probably won’t be enough to postpone the wedding.

“And,” she whispers, “you need to save the wedding sheets to remind him of the gift you have given him.”

Maybe I’ve already cringed to death. Hell would be the logical place where I might receive a lecture on rough sex and virgin blood from my puritanical mother in the same hour I’m forced to marry Luca Connelly.

A sudden noise on my right sounds like a piglet is being strangled. Either Sabrina is choking on her lipliner or she finds my torment amusing.

My sister’s shoulders convulse with poorly concealed laughter. Any second now she’ll probably topple from the swivel stool because that’s the way her life tends to go.

Brina’s bad luck has always been a problem. Since we’re only fifteen months apart, I’m the one who got saddled with childhood instructions like ‘Keep your sister away from the bulldozer’ and ‘Don’t let Sabrina get bitten by the pond geese again.’

Callista, technically the oldest, would have been the rational choice to keep our younger sister from wandering into the nearest quicksand patch but Callista was always easily distracted. She was distracted by pretty flowers and pretty clothes and pretty boys. As a child she earned the nickname Dizzy and in time it evolved to Daisy. Now she’s rarely called anything else.

More recently, Daisy became distracted by a former minor league baseball player who parks his food truck at Jones Beach. She knew him for less than seventy-two hours before running off to marry him.

I love my sisters more than life itself but occasionally it’s a challenge to be sandwiched between one sister who has the blissful brain of a woodland sprite and another who might stumble into a beehive if you don’t stop her.

However, my sisters bear no responsibility for my situation as a borderline homicidal bride who is stuck listening to our mother stammer out a very belated sex talk.

“Tell me you understand, bambolina,” she pleads.

She means business if she’s breaking out the old world terms of endearment. I haven’t heard that one since I was about eight.

With supreme effort, I bob my head. “Blood. Sheets. Don’t cry. Got it, Mama.”

I’ll nod along to anything as long as there’s an end to this encounter.

“Actually,” Brina says, “Luca will be the one getting it tonight.” Behind our mother’s back she makes an obscene gesture, like she’s stuffed with a mouthful of dick.

For that, she gets a mascara wand thrown at her face.

Brina flinches and bangs her head on the wall. Then she thinks she has a concussion and the room gets noisy between my mother fussing over Brina’s head bump and Daisy arriving with an armful of flower bouquets.

At least no one is talking about wedding night sex anymore. Small victories.

My sisters and I are the products of a mafia marriage. Giulia was scarcely out of her teens when she was handpicked to cement Albie Barone’s legacy. There’s no doubt my father was envisioning a squad of strapping sons to drop from the womb of the pretty only daughter of a Palermo mob boss.

But three years and three daughters later, an emergency hysterectomy closed up shop for good. After that, my father was just shit out of luck. If you’re married to the daughter of a Sicilian mafia don you can’t just shrug and serve divorce papers if you want to keep important parts of your body attached.

At some point it must have occurred to Albie Barone that daughters have their uses too, although he still holds stale, outdated opinions about what women are good for. While I was growing up, sometimes I would catch him watching us with a deep frown of disbelief, like he was wondering what the hell went wrong while picturing the brawny sons that should have sprung from his loins instead of us.

Inducting females into the family business was out of the question. The best old Albie Barone could come up with is trying to arrange beneficial marriages.

Not that I ever intended to cooperate with that fucking noise. I always figured if push ever came to shove then I’ve got a passport and I can borrow Brina’s suitcase of wigs from her high school theater days. Eventually my father would get tired of searching every pocket of the globe or he’d die.

Now I realize that was just the wishful thinking of youth. If mafia billionaires want to find you then you’ll be found. And then you’ll be dragged across international borders by your hair no matter how loud you scream.

Right now I can’t help but wonder where I’d be if my father hadn’t ripped away the one talent I had. My only passion.

For a fleeting second, time splits in two and I recall the sensation of gliding from one end of the rink to the other at full speed. I can feel the tingling stomach drop as my skates leave the ice for a challenging jump. I can summon the pure exhilaration of a perfect landing and revel in the thrill that I will do the same again and again and never tire.

I was fourteen when my father decided that competitive skating was unseemly. He ended my skating dreams with a casual dinnertime decree. I screamed out words of hatred and he ordered one of his bodyguards to lock me in my room. For years I wasn’t allowed to go near the ice. When I finally returned to the rink after high school graduation it was far too late to get back to competing.

This isn’t something I talk about, not even to my sisters, but my bitterness will last forever.

Meanwhile, Richie Amato is another big name mob boss in the organized crime playpen of New York. He and my father always shared mutual respect and often teamed up to keep competing interests in check. While growing up, we saw a lot of Richie and his family.

In a contest between Richie Amato and my father, it’s hard to say who wins the title as biggest chauvinistic fossil. Bet it would be a tie.

Around here, the particulars of family business have never been entrusted to the ears of women but there are plenty of rumors to pick from.

Anyone who crosses Albie Barone or Richie Amato doesn’t get to stick around and commit the same error twice. The two of them have probably killed more men than cholera.

Just last year my father’s younger brother was gunned down in a cartel-linked hit. He and Richie Amato combined forces for a revenge spree that would probably make Rambo blush.

None of those details would have interested me at all, not even the loss of my uncle, a creepy bastard who was always staring at my mother’s ass while stroking his oily mustache. However, his murder was responsible for what came next.

My father is the superstitious type. Overnight he became more paranoid than ever. His security detail tripled and no one could walk through the front door without tripping over half a dozen thick-necked human pit bulls who were skulking around with guns on their hips. For a while my father would only eat meals at home and even hired a taste tester in case someone tried to poison his pasta fazool.

In the end, what my father decided he needed the most was a permanent pact with the powerful Amato family. With that kind of combined muscle and dominance, the rest of the New York families wouldn’t dare to cough out of turn without permission.

Like my father, Richie Amato has no sons. But he did raise two nephews after their parents died. Cale, the oldest, was always expected to someday take the reins as the head of the family. Then Cale made a career change and became a farmer in Colorado instead.

No joke. That’s really what happened.

Last I heard, he’s married to the Wingate daughter. The same Wingates who own the New York Dukes hockey team. I wouldn’t have guessed that ending for Cale Connelly, who greeted everyone with the same reptilian apathy and seemed born to serve among the caporegime. The image of Cale Connelly shoveling horse shit out of a barn doesn’t come easily but I’m plenty jealous that he was able to find an escape clause.

Lucky for Richie, he had a spare nephew waiting in the wings. I’d hardly be shocked if Cale’s banishment was somehow orchestrated by Luca, who took his big brother’s place without missing a step.

Almost everyone was surprised when Luca, the ‘nice’ Connelly brother who was pursuing a legal career, stepped into Cale’s shoes. While Luca never fooled me, I did think he’d reach for something more mainstream than mafia heir.

Now it’s Luca who will be running the show one day. The best way to fortify a permanent alliance between families is by marriage. Shortly after Luca assumed his brother’s role, my father announced that Luca would marry Daisy.

It’s not really shocking that Luca agreed to this. Everyone adores Daisy. My sister is a gorgeous, joyful ball of sunshine. Whatever she lacks in common sense she compensates for with lovable charm. Two minutes after people meet Daisy they’re ready to adopt her.

Naturally, there are a few reasons why I was never excited about adding Luca Connelly to the family.

We have history. It’s not good history.

At least no one seemed to be in any huge hurry for the wedding to take place while I wracked my brain for a way to get my sister out of this mess.

Turns out I wasted my time being grossed out about getting Luca as a brother-in-law. Something much worse was coming down the pipeline.

I feel justified in blaming Labor Day weekend.

And Big Man Bowie’s Burgers.

The first weekend in September, one of Daisy’s obnoxious social media influencer friends hired a dozen food trucks to cater her house party. Among them was the truck owned by former minor league baseball player Bowie Roland. He’s a genius when it comes to searing meat to perfection and he tops each burger with homemade garlic aioli. He’s even been featured on Food Network.

My sister was certainly impressed. Three days later, I was sound asleep at six in the morning when my phone started blowing up.

Daisy, who was supposed to be staying with friends in the Hamptons, had run off with her new beef-obsessed boyfriend and his burger truck. By the time I heard from her, they’d already driven to Atlantic City and gotten married.

No one could possibly be angry about this joyous news, right? RIGHT???

WRONG!

A match of chaos was lit by Daisy’s elopement with Big Man Bowie.

Once I started referring to him as Big Man Bowie I couldn’t stop. Now everyone calls him Big Man Bowie and there’s no way to fix this.

Too bad. His nickname is the least of his worries.

When it comes to mafia betrothals, you can’t just say, “Nah, never mind” and go skipping off with the first hamburger chef who catches your eye.

A Barone daughter was promised and a Barone daughter must be delivered.

By this point, Big Man Bowie was in very real danger of getting chopped up into bite-sized pieces and tossed into a fish hatchery.

As for Daisy, she was spoiled goods. She probably would have been mailed to Sicily and locked in a stone tower for a few decades.

Over my dead body. Someone had to put a stop to this madness.

Offering Sabrina as a consolation prize was out of the question. I’d sooner saw Luca Connelly’s big hands off with a bread knife than allow them to touch my hapless baby sister. God knows what that demented prick would have done to her.

Behind all of Brina’s trash talk and the fact that she looks like a pouty, oversexed vixen, she’s as worldly as a kitten. Besides, she has big dreams of finally finishing her degree and becoming a video game designer. This doesn’t really fit in with the lifestyle of a high profile mafia wife.

With my father in a humiliating bind and looking to save face with his new partner in crime, I made a deal with him. Daisy and Big Man Bowie were to be left unharmed. Sabrina gets to continue her education at video game school. And I’ll restore the family honor by making the ultimate sacrifice.

Sort of.

My intention is to make Luca’s life so miserable he’ll beg to be free of my wrath.

What do I care if the alliance between our families gets fractured in the process?

Everyone should have thought of that before trading our fates like poker chips.

The funny thing is that Luca and Daisy hardly spoke during their ‘engagement’. Luca kept his distance and was in no hurry to tie the knot. I was counting on the fact that he’d be even less excited about getting stuck with me. Surely I’d have no trouble delaying the wedding for a year or two. Or a decade.

Unfortunately, everyone was getting really antsy after the last debacle. My father has been downright gleeful about shoving me into Luca’s lap right away.

Now, a mere six weeks after Big Man Bowie and his hamburger truck upended everyone’s lives, five hundred guests are waiting for me to walk down the aisle at Holy Family Catholic Church. I’m told the governor and his wife are here. Hope they all like surprises.

“You need to get dressed now, Annalisa.” My mother tugs on my arm. “Everyone is waiting.”

Gently, I extract my arm from her grip. “Brina and Daisy will help me dress, Mama. You should go tend to the guests.”

My mother’s mouth purses with suspicion. Nobody would call her insightful but she still thinks I’m up to something. She’s right.

I snap my fingers to get Sabrina’s attention. Finally, my sister remembers her role in the skit we rehearsed.

“We’ll be helping Anni,” she says. “Really, Mama. It’s an American tradition for the bride to be alone with her sisters right before the wedding.”

“Aww.” Daisy puts a hand to her heart. “I didn’t know that. How sweet.”

It’s as if she’s already forgotten our conversation this morning. Now that she’s afflicted with Big Man Bowie lovesickness, she’s been even more scatterbrained than usual.

I shoot her a look. She responds with a clueless, radiant smile.

I’ll have to steer our mother to the door myself. “Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll be ready to walk down that aisle.”

My mother halts at the threshold and reaches out to tenderly stroke my cheek. “Luca is everything a man should be. And you will make him very happy.”

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

“I’ll give Luca Connelly exactly what he deserves,” I say and then shut her out of the room, snapping the lock closed in case she’s tempted to barge in again.

The wedding dress I’m supposed to wear hangs on the back of the door. It’s been tailored to fit me like a glove. It’s a classy vintage Dior. It’s the exact opposite of my bridal vibe.

Sabrina waits for my instructions while eating a candy necklace. Daisy is admiring the flower bouquets.

“These are beautiful, Anni.” She sticks her face into some flowers and inhales. “But why so much lavender? You always hated the smell of lavender.”

“I still do.”

However, I once saw Luca have a sneezing fit when he stood too close to my mother’s lavender bushes in the backyard. Might have been a coincidence but I’m hoping he sneezes himself into a bloody nose today.

My sisters and I all inherited our mother’s hair, thick and a deep chestnut shade. Mine hangs halfway down my back. Right now it’s been curled to romantic perfection and has never looked better.

“Hand me some pins,” I say to Sabrina as I sit down and hastily gather a curtain of hair into a clumsy knot.

In the mirror, I see Daisy set the flowers down and gaze at me with concern. “I wish you’d leave your hair down. You look gorgeous. Like a romance book cover.”

A pin stabs me in the scalp, making me even more grumpy. “Gorgeous is not the look I’m aiming for. Brina, get the dress.”

Sabrina briefly loses her left shoe on her way to the closet where I stuffed my real wedding dress hours earlier but she manages to extract the garment bag without any additional mishaps. She unzips the bag and makes a face.

“Where’d you get this from, a costume shop?”

I shake my head to make sure the pins are firmly in place. “Yes.”

She shrugs. “Well, it is Halloween next week. Seasonally appropriate.”

Daisy moves over to investigate. “Ooh, maybe this isn’t a good idea. Daddy will hit the ceiling.”

My teeth grind at the mention of our father. “Daddy is getting his way by selling me off to the heir of the Amato family. He’ll just have to live with my wardrobe choices. Now help me squeeze into this thing. I can’t reach the back so one of you will need to lace it up.”

The dress is a fright. If I was invited to a zombie vampire ball, this is what I’d pick. The black corset bodice is laced with blood red stitching. The skirt is composed of yards of layered black tulle. Before I leave the room I plan to add a lime green wig and a gothic black veil. The wedding photos will be hideous.

Awesome. Luca, with his perfect suits and his perfect looks, is all about appearances. The last thing I want is for Luca to look down the aisle and think for a second that he’s hit the jackpot.

What I do want is to watch him go slack-jawed with horror as the ‘How the fuck do I get out of this?’ level of panic sets in.

Seeing that kind of dread on his face would almost make this day bearable.

Almost.

If Luca has any complaints about swapping out one Barone sister for another then he has kept his thoughts to himself.

Then again, he was always good at behaving like a model citizen. Local football star. Top scholar. The pride and joy of his Uncle Richie, who raised him.

Total bullshit. Luca is a gifted chameleon. We’re exactly the same age so I’ve had the displeasure of watching him since we were kids.

Back then, he was an insufferable prankster who would squirt chocolate sauce on the seat of my chair and then paste on a deadpan expression of innocence as he handed me a napkin to clean off my backside. And all the adults would look on and cluck some variation of “Luca is such a sweet, thoughtful boy.”

Then five minutes later he’d pour hot pepper on my slice of cheesecake. He’d never get caught and tattling was out of the question. I do have standards.

By Luca’s teen years, he’d graduated to organizing vast gambling rings that emptied the pockets of the prep school crowd. I can easily picture him catfishing for amusement.

Not that his reputation ever suffered. Luca’s misdeeds never seem to catch up to him and the general consensus is that he walks on fucking water.

But I know better. On the flip side of that upstanding façade there’s a deranged mastermind. With talents like that he’d be set for life no matter what future he chooses. But Luca Connelly, even with the handicap of an Irish last name, will likely be king of the New York mafia one day. I just hope I’m far away from here by the time that day arrives.

Luca can keep the whole psychotic empire for himself. I want none of this blood and vengeance and constant power feuds that I was born to.

And I definitely don’t want him. I’m getting off this revolting ride the first chance I get. As soon as I’m sure that my sisters are taken care of.

Things would have been far easier if Luca’s older brother Cale was still going to inherit the Amato throne. I’m completely indifferent to Cale but I could have handled him. Cale would have stayed the hell out of my face.

No such luck with Luca.

He’s not the aloof and detached type. He’ll tap dance on my last fucking nerve for shits and giggles. The only way I can win is if I get under his skin more than he gets under mine.

So be it. Game on.

“Luca really is crazy hot,” Sabrina says as she watches me squeeze into my nightmare wedding dress. “Remember that one spring break when we vacationed with his family in Cabo? Hard to miss the sight of Luca in his swim trunks.” She lets out a low whistle and fans herself with her hand. “The boy packs some heavy artillery. And if all the locker room girl gossip is true, he’s very good at using it.”

“That’s disgusting.” I suck in my breath as Daisy tightens the corset laces. “Never utter those words in front of me again.”

Anyone with eyes can see that Luca is in the top one percent when it comes to looks.

More importantly, he knows this too.

Luca is used to making satin panties spontaneously combust just by waltzing his tall, muscled self through the door, raking a hand through his thick black hair and flashing his charismatic dimpled grin.

Brina snaps her candy necklace and rolls her eyes. “All I’m saying is that you could do much worse than fucking Luca Connelly every night.”

“Says the girl who has never fucked anything more substantial than her purple dildo.”

“Suck just a little harder,” Daisy says. “Almost done.”

“That was a low blow on the dildo insult,” Brina complains and crunches her candy necklace. “Ow, I think I cracked a tooth.”

“Sorry, I’m cranky. But I’d take a dildo over Luca any day. And Daisy, if I suck any harder my lungs will collapse.”

Daisy finishes with the laces and steps back to appraise her work. “Don’t be so negative. Luca took you to the prom so you must have gotten along just fine at some point. Just try to find that energy again.”

Sabrina overcomes her possible cracked tooth and howls with laughter. “Definitely don’t find that energy again.”

“Can we talk about something else?” I grumble while trying really hard not to pass out now that I’m locked in a corset vice. I’m a little dismayed by my reflection in the mirror. I look far sexier than I planned to look.

“I don’t get it,” Daisy says with a frown. “You were so happy to go to the prom with Luca.”

Nothing could be further from the truth but Daisy believes everyone is always happy because she’s always happy.

“Are you serious?” Sabrina is still shaking with laughter. “Daddy recruited him as a mercy date and then Anni tried to set him on fire.”

“That is a severe exaggeration of events.” I pull on the cheap green wig. I look like a maniacal comic book character.

My father did recruit Luca to take me to the prom. He ignored my horrified tantrum and took my car keys away until I agreed to go. He must have shelled out a hell of a bribe because I can’t imagine why else Luca would agree to take me anywhere. We had a long tradition of open hostility.

But Luca did show up, all groomed and shiny in his black tux. He brought me a corsage picked out by his Aunt Donna, kissed my cheek and shook my father’s hand.

And that’s why I can’t fucking stand him. Consistency matters. If you’re going to be an asshole then just be an asshole.

Don’t put on a show as if you’re prom-date-of-the-year material and then go have a public orgy at the after party.

Ordinarily, I couldn’t care less where Luca inserts his dick. That night I hung out in the bathroom most of the time to avoid him and then got towed along to the post-prom party where I sat alone on the beach, refusing to join the sex and drug debauchery.

However, Luca decided to make the experience memorable by turning me into the girl whose date had a three way with Katie Bishop and Daria Flynn.

They were still all twisted up together in a bedroom when I found them. It was the most revolting scene I’ve ever walked into. Luca’s tux had been left crumpled in a ball on the floor.

Maybe it wasn’t my proudest moment when I scooped up his clothes, ran outside and threw the pile into the firepit but he deserved it.

Luca was plenty pissed but I’d made my point. And he was extra salty about being forced to go home wearing nothing but a beach towel but there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.

As for me, I would have said all’s well that ends well and called our battle a draw.

But NOOOOO.

Luca bides his time when it comes to payback.

Fast forward to sophomore year of college when I had my first real boyfriend.

One I really liked. One I might have loved.

It was a complete shock when Matthew Pentone, college hockey player and taker of my virginity on that musty dorm room mattress, dumped me at Starbucks on New Year’s Eve. To this day he’s the only guy I’ve ever cried over.

And as if the whole Dumped At Starbucks episode didn’t sting enough, a few weeks later I discovered there was a reason for Matthew’s sudden change of heart.

He knew Luca.

They used to compete in the same sports leagues and they were friendly.

And Luca, who can’t just let bygones be bygones, deliberately sought out Matthew while he was home from college on winter break. He filled Matthew’s head with a bunch of lies, which explained why Matthew looked terrified when he stammered through his breakup speech. He kept tugging at his striped wool scarf and didn’t even finish his latte before running out of Starbucks like he was fleeing gunfire.

Now I’m the one with a grudge. I’m the one who gets to dish out some petty revenge.

A black veil gets pinned to my green wig. “How do I look?” I ask my sisters.

Daisy and Sabrina crowd in beside me at the mirror with doubtful expressions.

“You look….special,” says Daisy, always the cheerful diplomat.

Sabrina is more honest. “You look like you’re one full moon away from eating bats in a graveyard.”

Daisy smiles. “Your boobs do look fabulous.”

Sabrina shrugs. “Who knows? Luca might be into the whole Beetlejuice look.” Her expression turns troubled. “Are you sure you want to do this? If not, I’ll create a diversion and you can sneak out through the back door.”

I can envision my escape as if it were a movie scene; my sisters and I busting out of the church, dodging all the mafia thugs, stealing Big Man Bowie’s burger truck and speeding away to liberty.

Meanwhile, Luca Connelly gets left behind to suffer the very public indignation of being left at the altar.

What a lovely fantasy.

But it doesn’t erase cold reality. And in reality, I’m the only line of defense standing between my sisters and my father’s evil plots.

I don’t need to be happy about marrying Luca. I don’t even need to pretend. My father couldn’t care less if I’m unhappy. I’m fulfilling the promise I made and that will be good enough.

“Can’t disappoint a church full of waiting guests.” I flip the veil over my face. “Make sure someone gets a snapshot of the groom when he sees me walking down the aisle.”

Daisy hands me the largest flower bouquet. “Wait until you see how amazing the church looks.” She releases a dreamy sigh. “Bowie and I should have had a big wedding like this.”

“A big wedding?” Sabrina exclaims. “Are you nuts? Big Man Bowie is just lucky his balls are still intact.”

Daisy ignores the comment and plucks a flower from her bouquet. She sticks it behind her left ear. “I think there’s a wonderful chance that Anni and Luca will be very happy together.”

“And I think you’re already drunk.”

“You’re being silly, Brina. I never even felt the four mimosas I drank at brunch.”

I don’t have the energy to mediate this discussion. As I fling open the door I mull over the odds that Luca will take one look at me and sprint to the church exit. It could happen. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Anni, I’m really not drunk,” Daisy insists as she floats past with a hiccup.

Sabrina trudges into the hallway next. “My tooth still hurts,” she whines. “And I have a weird pain in my side.”

My girls.

A surge of fierce, protective love for my sisters is the only positive feeling I expect to have today. They need me and there’s nothing I won’t do to keep them safe.

I’ll even marry a man I despise.