The Rival Heiress

Elena Marchetti knew something was wrong the moment her father didn't look up. Salvatore Marchetti always looked up. It was the first thing he'd taught her, back when she was six years old and trailing him through warehouses that smelled like diesel and money: look a man in the eye when he walks into your room, or he'll think you're afraid of him. Her father had spent thirty years making sure no one ever thought that. Tonight, he kept his eyes on the folder in front of him. "You wanted to see me," Elena said, closing the office door behind her. The house was too quiet for eight o'clock — no music from Nico's end of the hall, no clatter from the kitchen, no soldiers murmuring in the foyer. Someone had cleared the floor. That alone told her this wasn't a conversation. It was an announcement, and she was the last to hear it. "Sit down." She didn't. "You're scaring me, Papa. Just say it." Salvatore finally raised his head, and for a moment she saw something she'd never seen on his face before — not in the boardrooms, not at the funerals, not the night Uncle Carmine didn't come home. He looked like a man who already knew he was about to lose something and had decided to do it anyway. He slid the folder across the desk instead of answering. Elena picked it up. A marriage contract. Her name, typed clean at the top. Beneath it, a photograph clipped to the second page — a man she hadn't seen since she was fourteen years old, standing in a tailored suit like he'd been born already knowing how to wear one. Damian Rossi. The room tilted, just slightly, the way it does right before you understand something you already know is true. "No," she said. "Elena—" "No. Tell me this is a joke. Tell me you didn't—" She dropped the folder onto the desk like it had burned her. "The Rossis killed Uncle Carmine. They burned down the Halsted warehouse. Nico still has the scar from the ambush on Grand Avenue, Papa, you were there, you carried him out yourself—" "I know what I carried out." Salvatore's voice didn't rise. It never rose. That was almost worse. "I know exactly what this family has buried because of that name. And I am telling you, as your father and as the man who has kept you alive for twenty-four years, that in six weeks you are going to marry Damian Rossi, or this family will not survive the year." "Then let it not survive as that." Her hands were shaking. She hated that they were shaking. "Let Nico take over. Let someone else—" "Nico would have us at war with the Rossis by Friday and dead by Christmas." He said it flatly, without cruelty, the way he said most true things. "You know that. You've always known that. It's why I'm not standing in his office tonight." Elena stared at him. Twenty-four years of being told she was too sharp for her own good, too observant, too much like her father and not enough like a daughter who should have been kept soft and out of the business — and now, in the one moment it mattered, he was finally admitting he'd seen it too. It didn't feel like a compliment. It felt like a sentence. "Three men came to see me this morning," Salvatore said, and something in his tone shifted, dropped lower, the way it did when he was about to say something he wished he didn't have to. "Not our men. Not Rossi men. I don't know whose men they were, and in thirty years in this business, that has never once happened to me before." Elena went still. "What did they want?" "They didn't want anything. They wanted me to know they could have. That's the whole message, Elena — they walked into my house, past twelve armed men, and they left without taking a single thing, just to prove they could have taken everything." He finally looked away from her, out the dark window, toward the gate at the end of the drive. "Someone is circling both families. I don't know who. I don't know why. But I know this house is not as safe as it was a month ago, and the Rossi house isn't either, and two families at war can't watch their backs from a third direction." "So the answer is to put me in his house." "The answer is to end thirty years of killing before whoever this is finishes the job for both of us." He pushed the folder another inch toward her, final. "Vincent Rossi agreed an hour ago. His son doesn't know yet either. You'll meet him Thursday, at the engagement dinner, in front of both families, and you will smile like you chose this, because the only thing more dangerous right now than marrying a Rossi is letting anyone see that we're afraid." Elena looked down at the photograph one more time. Damian Rossi's eyes, even flattened onto glossy paper, looked like they were daring her to say something. "I don't know him," she said quietly. "I don't know anything about him except that his family put my brother in a hospital bed." "No," Salvatore agreed. "You don't know him at all." He didn't say the rest of it — that in six weeks, she'd have no choice but to. Elena picked up the folder, because there was nothing else to do with her hands, and walked out without another word. Behind her, she heard her father exhale for the first time since she'd walked in, a long, tired breath that sounded less like relief and more like a man setting down a weight he'd been carrying alone for longer than she wanted to know. She made it exactly to the top of the stairs before she stopped, leaned against the banister, and let herself feel, for thirty seconds, exactly how terrified she was. Then she straightened her spine, the way her father had taught her, and went to find out who Damian Rossi actually was — because in four days, she was going to have to marry a stranger with her family's blood on his name, and she refused to walk into that dinner not knowing exactly what she was up against. She had no idea, yet, that he was about to find out the same thing about her — and that neither of them would be half as ready as they thought.