The Playgirl's Contract Marriage

The chandelier was spinning glittering and swaying. Or maybe that was just my pounding head. I blinked up at the glittering monstrosity hanging in the Rossi family foyer, it’s thousand crystals refracting the morning light into daggers that stabbed directly into my eyes as I shut them blinking a couple more times. My mouth tasted like cheap tequila and even poorer decisions, and the stiletto dangling from my left hand had definitely lost it’s partner somewhere between the club and my disastrous cab ride home. "Late again, principessa?" The voice froze me mid-stumble. Deep. Controlled. Laced with the kind of quiet fury that made even mad men piss themselves with fear. I turned slowly melodically, the marble floor cool beneath my bare feet, and came face-to-face with my personal reckoning. Douglas Rossi didn't just enter a room he conquered it like it was his to own. Even at 6:30 AM, my father looked like he'd stepped off an expensive runway, his tailored Tom Ford suit emphasising his broad shoulders that had carried the weight of the Italian mafia for three decades. The silver streaking his thick jet black hair only added to his lethal elegance, like an alpha wolf who'd earned every scar. Right now, those storm blue cloud eyes were fixed on me with glacial disappointment and scared the s**t out of me. I resisted the urge to check my reflection in the hallway mirror. I already knew what I looked like wild chestnut brown curls escaping their up do, last night's smokey urban decay eye makeup now smudged into raccoon circles under my eyes, and a little shiny black Versace dress that had seemed like a good idea at midnight but now felt like a neon pink flashing sign flashing "Walk of Shame slut." The bite mark on my collarbone throbbed in time with my throbbing headache. "Party ran a long time," I said, flashing the straight white smile that usually made men forgive me for anything. “It's not my fault.” It didn't work on fathers. Especially not my one. Douglas's nostrils flared as he took in my dog s**t state. "The Bianchis hosted a gathering last night, and it was massive." Ah. So that's why he was lying in wait like some impeccably dressed black widow spider. I rolled my stiff shoulders, the memory of Stefano Bianchi's sweaty hands making my skin crawl. "And I declined their invitation. Politely." I said carefully, hoping it would dissipate his anger. "By setting fire to their most limousine?" "The upholstery was hideous and disgusting anyway seriously tacky." I waved a hand, my chandelier like blue feathered earrings chiming with the movement. "Consider it doing them a favour." The temperature in the foyer dropped twenty degrees. Behind my father, James materialised from the shadows like the world's most dangerous ghost. At twenty-eight, my adopted brother had perfected the art of silent judgment, his obsidian dark eyes tracking my every twitch. The morning light caught on the scar running through his left eyebrow a heroic souvenir from when he'd taken three bullets for me at sixteen. It always reminds me of the way he was hurt in the first place. "Lyra," my father said in that deceptively calm voice that preceded the soon to come hurricanes, "do you know what the Capello family said to me at Massimo Bianchi's birthday gala?" I picked at a loose sequin on my dress. "That my ass looked fantastic in this dress and the squats I am doing are working?" "They asked if I needed to hire a chastity tutor for my daughter for her hooker ways." The words landed like a slap to the cheek my face fell instantly. I forced a laugh, the sound brittle even to my own ears. "Tell them I'm already certified in being a good girl. Gold star and everything." Something dangerous flashed in Douglas's eyes. "Enough. You're twenty-two years old. It's time to stop behaving like some common. You're the only daughter of the Rossi family. You should remember your responsibilities." "w***e?" I finished sweetly. "Funny. I don't remember you complaining when Maria and Isabella paraded through here last summer in teeny tiny bikinis.” The grandfather clock in the study ticked loudly in the sudden silence. James went very still. Even the house staff seemed to hold their breath. My father's voice dropped to a whisper. "Marry James." The floor tilted beneath me. "What?" "One month." Douglas continued as if discussing the weather. "Or I freeze every account, revoke your trust funds, and have you removed from the family holdings you will be outcasted no one will so much as know your name anymore just the w***e that broke the code.” The blood drained from my face. This wasn't one of his usual threats I could see the finality in his gaze and it scared me. Across the foyer, James's expression remained carefully neutral, but his fingers flexed at his sides. I turned to the one person who might still be on my side. "Mamma?" Victoria Rossi stood at the top of the staircase, her silk red robe pooling around her like liquid silver. At fifty, my mother remained stunningly beautiful, but her eyes the same gold-flecked hazel as mine were hollow. "Tesoro," she began, then faltered. That tiny hesitation told me everything I needed to know. The walls of the foyer seemed to close in around me, the Rossi crest carved into the marble floor suddenly feeling less like heritage and more like a gilded cage. I'd spent my whole life playing the spoiled mafia princess, but this? This was a checkmate. James took a step forward, his voice deceptively gentle. "Lyra-" I didn't let him finish. With a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob, I turned on my bare heel and stormed out, the massive oak doors slamming behind me with satisfying finality. The morning air hit my flushed cheeks like a slap. Somewhere in the city, a church bell tolled seven times. I had no wallet, no phone, and one shoe. Perfect. However, even though I am in a sorry state, I am still the honored Mafia Princess. I will not submit to anyone, including my father. I'll make them understand it all.