The mafia's arranged bride

2.Matteo

I never imagined I'd be in a courtroom for anything other than being an attorney, but here we are, so I guess we'll work with that. I was already 15 minutes late, so I met all of them sitting in the courtroom.

My suit felt foreign on my body, too stiff, too formal, even for me. The little gleam of gold on my lapel caught the light as I moved. Mom had made sure I wore it, claiming it's my special day. Right before I left the family last night she had whispered Alana Federnaz, my soon to be wife's name.

A family heirloom, she said, tears in her eyes as she pinned it on me this morning. Whatever she says anyways. I'd learned long ago that arguing with Mama was a losing battle, even for someone who argued for a living.

The courtroom felt different today. The same wooden benches I'd stood before a hundred times, the same high ceiling with its peeling paint, the same musty smell but everything was wrong. All wrong. This wasn't my arena anymore; it was my cage. I could feel eyes on me as I walked down the aisle. Not just family, but associates, allies, people whose loyalty Papa had bought or earned over decades. They were here to witness the transaction, to see the second son finally do his duty.

Marco sat in the front row, his thick arms crossed over his chest, a smirk playing at his lips. He was enjoying this, the bastard. Watching me get shackled while he remained free to do whatever,whoever,he wanted.

Liam was there too, in his wheelchair, his nurse beside him. His eyes were clearer today, which somehow made it worse. On his good days, he understood what he'd lost, what I'd inherited in his place. The guilt in his gaze made my jaw tighten.

I walked straight to my father, who stood at the front of the room. He looked, his look signaled he was disgusted I was late, but I didn't give a hoot.

Antonio Salvatore in a suit was a dangerous thing. He commanded the room without saying a word, his silver hair slicked back, his jaw set in that way that had made grown men confess to crimes they didn't commit. His eyes, dark and calculating, burned into me.

Fifteen minutes. I'd made him wait fifteen minutes, made our guests wait, made our new allies wait. It was a small rebellion, petty even, but it was all I had left.

"Matteo," he said, my name a warning on his lips. Low enough that only I could hear, sharp enough to cut.

"Papa," I replied, my voice flat, giving him nothing.

That was when I looked at the bride.

She stood beside an older man, her father, I assumed. The man had the same rigid posture as my father, the same weight of command, though his suit was cut differently, northern style. Milano money, probably. Or Torino.

He was giving away his daughter to secure his position, just like Papa was using me to secure his. We were all just pieces on the board.

But the girl, the woman, she was something else entirely.

Her head was bowed to the ground, her face hidden behind a delicate veil of white lace that seemed almost too pure for a room like this, for a union like ours. I couldn't see her features, couldn't read her expression, couldn't tell if she was frightened or furious or simply resigned to her fate.

Her hands were folded in front of her, steady, no trembling. Interesting. Either she was braver than I expected, or she'd already accepted that there was no escape from this.

I really could care less about what she looked like, but her body; the body was magnificent. The dress was elegant, expensive, the kind of thing Mama would have spent weeks selecting.

It hugged her curves in all the right places, cinching at her waist before descending in smooth lines to her ankles. Whoever she was, she took care of herself.

The fabric moved with her breathing, subtle, hypnotic. And there, on her left ankle, partially hidden by the hem of the dress, a delicate gold anklet caught the dim courtroom light. Sexy. Unexpected. A small rebellion of her own, perhaps? Something told me this girl had more spirit than the bowed head suggested.

Thank heavens at least she'll be a great f**k. We'll worry about her face later on.

Mama would lose her mind if she could hear my thoughts, but what else was there to think about? This wasn't a love match. This was business.

And if I was going to be stuck with a stranger for the rest of my life, at least my nights wouldn't be completely miserable. I'd had enough women to know what I liked, and from what I could see, this one had potential.

The curve of her hip, the way the dress draped over her body, the surprising touch of that anklet, yeah, we'd figure something out.

The person in charge of the ceremony cleared his throat, and it all began.

Some judge Papa had in his pocket, or maybe someone neutral both families could agree on. His voice droned on about unity, family, tradition, words that meant nothing to me. Legal binding, he called it. Civil ceremony.

In the eyes of the law, we'd be husband and wife. The church wedding would come later, Mama insisted, something more romantic, more proper. As if any of this could be made proper.

I barely listened to the words, my eyes fixed on the woman who would become mine in a matter of minutes. She still hadn't looked up, hadn't acknowledged my presence. Pride? Fear? I couldn't tell. Around us, the courtroom remained silent except for the official's voice. This wasn't the joyful ceremony Mama had probably dreamed of for her sons. This was a contract signing with witnesses, cold and transactional.

As for law,

I certainly do not do it for the money, it helps keep my sanity. And forget the fact that the burden of the leadership of the Salvatore family now rests on my shoulders.

The first 20 years of my life had been good, no responsibility of any sort, being the second son. Liam, my other brother, got it all until his muscles failed him and gave way. Liam collapsed with epilepsy and imbecility. Everything he had trained for went down the drain.

Papa never recovered from watching his golden son seize on the marble floor of our villa. Marco, for all his strengths, didn't have the mind for leadership, Papa said so himself. "Marco breaks things, he doesn't build them," he told me the night everything changed. That left me. The attorney. The playboy. The one who'd spent more time in courtrooms and bedrooms than in the family's inner sanctum.

And guess who was pushed forward? The second choice. The second son. Me. f*****g me. I was more than mad about the fact that my life was about to change. I already was in law school, trying to be a good attorney, and now this. I had to get used to it cause papa didn't give a f**k.

Right now, I'm 27 years old, and guess who's about to get a wife he doesn't know? Still me.

Some alliance Papa needs to secure, some family in the north he needs to tie himself to. I don't even know her name. Haven't seen a photograph. Papa says it doesn't matter, that love is for people who have the luxury of choice, and we Salvators don't have that luxury this time. Not with the Rossis circling like vultures, not with the politicians in Rome breathing down our necks. So here I am, fresh off a hot bath, about to marry a woman whose face I wouldn't recognize in a crowd, expected to bind myself to her for the sake of the family name.