Married To The Mafia Devil

Chapter 4: The Devil Himself

The punching bag swings back with a groan of chain and leather, and I hit it again. Harder this time. My knuckles are raw, but I don't stop. Can't stop. The rhythm is the only thing keeping the thoughts at bay—left hook, right cross, uppercut. Repeat. My breath comes in controlled bursts, muscles burning with the kind of pain that feels productive. Necessary.

Sweat drips down my chest, following the landscape of scars I've collected over the years. The one across my ribs still pulls when I overextend. A gift from a Castellano knife three years ago. I should've killed him slower.

The gym is dark except for the single overhead light that casts long shadows across the concrete floor. I prefer it this way—alone, at night, when the city sleeps and I can pretend the weight on my shoulders doesn't exist. Up here in the penthouse, forty floors above Manhattan, I'm as close to untouchable as a man like me can get. But we both know that's a lie I tell myself.

I slam my fist into the bag again, and the chain rattles like it's protesting.

"Boss."

I don't stop. Marco knows better than to interrupt my training unless it's important, but that doesn't mean I have to make it easy for him.

"It can wait," I say, driving my elbow into the bag's center.

"It really can't."

Something in his voice makes me pause. I catch the bag mid-swing, steadying it, and turn to face my lieutenant. Marco's standing in the doorway, backlit by the hallway's fluorescent lights. He's got his phone in one hand and an expression I don't like on his face. In the ten years he's worked for me, I've seen Marco handle executions, betrayals, and federal raids without breaking a sweat. Right now, he looks uncomfortable.

I grab a towel from the bench and wipe my face, buying myself a second to read him. "Talk."

"The De Luca girl," he says. "She's alive."

I go still. The towel hangs loose in my hand. "That's impossible."

"I thought so too. But she showed up at Salvatore's fight club tonight. Put down a hundred grand and her family ring like she owned the place." Marco shifts his weight. "Half the underworld saw her, boss. By morning, everyone will know."

De Luca. I haven't heard that name spoken aloud in eight years. We don't talk about the De Lucas. Not after what happened. Not after—

I force my mind away from that particular cliff edge and focus on the facts. "You're sure it was her?"

"Positive ID from three separate sources. Serafina De Luca. The youngest daughter." He pauses. "Your father's already heard. He wants to see you first thing tomorrow."

Of course he does. My father doesn't summon me unless he's planning something, and if the De Luca girl is alive, he's definitely planning something. I can already see the chess pieces moving in his head.

I toss the towel aside and reach for my water bottle, taking a long drink while I think. The De Luca territory has been carved up among the Five Families for years now—prime real estate, shipping routes, and political connections. But if there's a living heir with a legitimate claim...

"She could destabilize everything," I say, more to myself than to Marco.

"Yeah. That's what your father thinks too." Marco hesitates. "He wants you to marry her."

The water bottle stops halfway to my mouth. I lower it slowly, carefully, like I'm handling something explosive. "Say that again."

"He wants you to marry Serafina De Luca. Lock down her claim, and consolidate the territory under Moretti control. He's already talking to the other families about making it happen."

For a moment, I don't say anything. Can't say anything. The absurdity of it sits in my chest like a stone.

Marry her. Marry the daughter of the family we destroyed.

"The De Luca territory is worth more than any woman," I finally say, and my voice comes out cold. Clinical. Exactly the way my father taught me to sound when discussing business. Because that's what this is—business. It's always business.

But even as I say it, something twists in my gut.

Marco's watching me carefully. "You want me to set up the meeting with your father?"

"No." I set the water bottle down and walk to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city. Manhattan spreads out below me like a kingdom. My kingdom, or at least the parts of it that matter. "I'll go see him myself."

I can feel Marco's hesitation behind me. He knows me too well.

"Boss," he says quietly. "About the De Luca situation. That night—"

"Don't." The word comes out sharper than I intended. I don't turn around. Can't look at him right now. "We don't talk about that."

"Maybe we should."

"We don't." I press my palm against the cold glass, watching my reflection superimpose over the glittering lights. At six-three, I've got the build and the scars to back up my reputation. Dark hair that's too long because I can't be bothered to cut it. Gray eyes that my mother used to say were beautiful and my father says are useful because they don't give anything away. Right now, they're staring back at me like a stranger's.

The scar across my ribs catches the light. A reminder that I'm not invincible. None of us are.

"The intelligence I gave my father," I hear myself say. "The security weaknesses in the De Luca compound. I thought—"

I stop. What did I think? That my father would use it for leverage? For negotiation? I was twenty-two and stupid and desperate to prove myself. I handed him the keys to the castle and never asked what he planned to do with them.

Three weeks later, the De Luca family was dead.

I've carried that for eight years. Buried it so deep I almost convinced myself it didn't matter. Almost.

And now their daughter is alive, and my father wants me to marry her.

The universe has a sick sense of humor.

"It wasn't your fault," Marco says, but his voice lacks conviction. We both know the truth. Intent doesn't matter. Results do.

I turn away from the window and grab my shirt from the bench, pulling it on with more force than necessary. "Set the meeting."

"With your father?"

"No." I button the shirt with steady hands that don't match the chaos in my head. "With her. Serafina De Luca. I want to meet her before this goes any further."

Marco raises an eyebrow. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"Probably not." I allow myself a smile, cold and sharp. "But I want to see if she's as dangerous as they say."

Because if she's alive, she knows what happened. She knows who was responsible. And if she's smart—if she's half as cunning as her father was—she knows exactly who I am and what I did.

Which means this marriage is either going to be a strategic alliance or a very elaborate assassination plot.

I'm almost curious to find out which.

Marco leaves to make the arrangements, and I'm alone again in the gym with my thoughts and the ghosts I've been trying to outrun. I look at my bruised knuckles, then back at the punching bag, still swaying slightly from my earlier assault.

The De Luca girl is alive.

And somehow, I'm going to have to look her in the eye and pretend I didn't help destroy everything she ever loved.

I pick up the towel and head for the shower, but I can already feel it—the weight of fate settling onto my shoulders like a familiar coat. This marriage, if it happens, won't be simple. It won't be clean.

It might not even be survivable.

But the De Luca territory is worth more than any woman.

I repeat it to myself like a mantra, trying to make it true.

It doesn't work.