Page 12 of Carlo (Sindicate Towers #9)

Controlling His Mafia Bride

I knock on the door of Salvatore Falcone’s office, knowing that missing this meeting could cost me my life.

Father or not, he doesn’t tolerate disrespect.

His secretary, Gina, flashes me a smile and a thumbs up.

She’s been his mistress for twenty years, ever since my mother died and I turned fourteen.

She knows everything that goes on inside this office and his heart.

Which are basically the same thing. The whole family hated her, but we’ve learned to accept her presence.

Or pretend to. But I don’t have time to worry about his relationship today.

He summoned me from my office on the other end of our floor in Sindicate Towers, and that means one thing: war.

I enter his elegant and imposing office with a knot in my stomach.

Ignoring the shelves filled with books, trophies, and photos of him with various celebrities and politicians.

Instead, I focus on the large mahogany desk which dominates the room, covered with papers and a sleek laptop.

Behind it, a wall of windows offers a panoramic view of Chicago’s skyline.

On the opposite wall, a fireplace crackles with warmth and light.

“Come in, sit down.” He waves me toward the high-back chair facing his massive desk.

It’s not until I’m halfway there that I notice the adjacent chair.

Freezing when I see who’s sitting across from him.

Huberto Torres is one of the most ruthless crime lords in the Caribbean.

He’s known as The Viper for his venomous bite and his cold-blooded tactics.

“Huberto, you know my youngest son.”

I grit my teeth at the description. I clean billions of dollars from our family’s dirty money.

A task that doesn’t allow for any mistakes.

Even one slip up, if even one penny isn’t unaccounted for, the feds will swoop in like the vultures they are.

Then none of us will taste freedom again.

It happened to Capone in this very city.

But no matter how hard I work, I’ll never be more than his baby boy.

I push my glasses higher on the bridge of my nose. Ignore the grunt from my father and turn to Huberto Torres. Forcing myself to walk forward and extend my hand.

“Mr. Torres,” I say politely.

He curls his lip and barely touches my hand.

“Matteo,” he replies curtly.

I’ve mastered cool professionalism in countless board meetings with the super-rich.

Men who want their share of Falcone money for their ventures and causes.

Reaching for our bloody money with their eyes closed.

I offer him the same professionalism I give the powerful.

People assume that wealth and power go hand in hand.

But that’s not always true. Huberto Torres has both.

Torres’s dark-as-coal eyes flit from the top of my head to the soles of my shoes.

He takes in the expert tailoring of my suit, along with my thousand-dollar shoes, and shifts his eyes skyward in exasperation.

Like my father, he made his way by breaking noses and busting balls.

Even though his suit matches mine in quality and price, I don’t have the dirt on my hands that they do.

I’m dirty—but they don’t trust my upper crust, expensive dirt.

He mutters a greeting before turning back to my father.

“Is he the best you got?” Torres’s voice is thick with his distinctive Puerto Rican accent.

I bite back a testy reply and take my seat.

Because, yes, I am . I graduated with honors from one of the finest Ivy League schools in the country.

Applying my master’s degree in finance to the money laundering I’ve done ever since—for the Falcones and others.

He should appreciate my skills, not insult them.

I understand money better than anyone. Torres’s insult hangs in the air while my father remains silent.

He’s always looked down on me as a disappointing geek.

I didn’t inherit his muscular build until I hit twenty.

I didn’t follow his violent ways, either.

Mastering martial arts instead of bare-knuckled street fighting.

A choice he relentlessly mocked. “What’s the point of this defense?” He’d ask. “Offense, my son. Offense wins the game.”

My father sighs and rolls his eyes and I accept the movement as the best defense he’ll offer on my behalf. “Yes.” He finally answers Torres. “I have plans for my other sons.” He narrows his eyes at me. Warning me not to ruin plans I know nothing about. “Matteo is a good boy.”

Not a boy, but okay.

Humberto explodes from his seat. His eyes wide and his fists balled.

I sit up. Planting my feet to jump to my father’s defense but he gives a quick slice across with his hands.

Signaling me to relax. “I don’t want nice or good.

She doesn’t deserve it. I want strong. I want a man who will make her pay for her crimes.

She should go to bed every night, trembling with fear, and wake up every morning with tears in her eyes. ”

He is unhinged. His rage indecipherable. Do they want me to ruin some woman financially? I’ve done it many times before, but his quest for revenge on this woman is feverish. I’ve seen my father angry before, but even Salvatore Falcone has never been this enraged over a woman.

“She will. Don’t worry, my friend. Matteo will make sure that she pays. Won’t you Matteo?”

“Of course,” I nod. “If she wronged your family, she’ll pay. I swear it.”

“You see,” my father nods in approval. “I told you Matteo is a good boy.” I look away to hide the quick flare of my nostrils. I tune them out by counting down from a hundred. I’m almost at fifty when my father asks, “Is this Saturday good for you?”

Good for what? I push my glasses back over my nose bridge. He narrows his eyes at my reticence. Oh well, it was only squash with Carlo and Mariano. “Saturday is fine.”

“Good. Everything’s settled.” He pats Torres on the back when we all stand, and he walks him to the door. “We’ll see you at noon for the wedding.”

“She should be married in hell. It’s the only place fitting for a devil like her…” Huberto is still fussing, and the two of them are chatting while I grab the chair to stop my world from spinning. Married?

“Don’t worry, my friend. She’ll learn her place. And instead of getting a funeral, we’ll get lots of bambinos to soften her up and build our families. No?”

Huberto rubs his hands together as if he’s prepared to stand watch and make sure I’ll get his daughter, my wife, pregnant.

What the hell?

* * *

“I don’t fucking get it,” Carlo roars, knocking a chair out of his path as he paces across the plush carpet of Syndicate Tower’s hotel suite.

The bachelor party is anything but celebratory.

No laughter, no dancing girls, no laughing pranks.

We’re not those guys anymore, and we haven’t been for a long time.

Not since our mother died and Salvatore Falcone decided to expand our family’s import-export business twenty years ago.

We all sit in silence, waiting for Carlo’s explosion to subside.

His anger is like a wild animal that can only be tamed with time.

He continues his rant. “She stole from us, and she gets rewarded.” His dark eyes dart to mine, then back to the floor as he realizes what he’s said.

“I mean, you’re no prize.” I raise my glass to him and smile, letting him know that he’s no prize either.

“But still, she was a guest at a banquet and steals a piece of art. Who slips a souvenir into their purse?”

Carlo’s voice rises to a fever pitch. “And now we have to pay for her crime with Matteo’s happiness?

It’s a fucking disgrace. This wedding is a sham, and we all know it.

Our father is forcing Matteo into this marriage for the sake of the family business.

” Carlo slams his fist against the wall, leaving a dent in the plaster.

“I won’t stand for it. We need to find a way out of this mess, and fast.”

“It was a rare porcelain Qing Dynasty Qianlong enamel gilding cup, so at least your bride has good taste.” Mariano corrects. “The cup loses value outside of the set, but it’s still worth seven thousand dollars. So she has expensive taste as well.”

Great, Mariano’s words set off another explosion from Carlo. “Seven thousand dollars! She stole a cup worth that much and got away with it? It’s outrageous. What kind of person steals from their host?” Carlo’s voice fills with anger and disbelief.

“Her father’s as rich as ours. A damn billionaire. She probably spends that amount on the lipstick she’ll wear tomorrow. It just doesn’t make any fucking sense.”

I take a deep breath, trying to keep my cool. “I know it’s not ideal, but it’s done. We can’t change it now.”

Carlo slams his glass down on the bar. “He shouldn’t have to do this. We’re not some fucking arranged marriage family.” He paces back and forth, his anger radiating off him like heat from a stove. “We’ve always been in control of our own lives. This is bullshit.”

Bruno stands up from his seat and places a hand on Carlo’s shoulder. “Calm down, Carlo. We can’t change it now. We knew the risks of expanding our business into other territories. We knew we might have to make sacrifices.”

Mariano nods in agreement. “Bruno’s right. The Torres family is a powerful player in the Caribbean market. We couldn’t have predicted this, but we have to make the best of it.”

I take a deep breath, trying to control the frustration that’s building inside me.

They’re right, of course. We’re not some ordinary family.

We’re Falcones. We know the risks of doing business with the Torres family.

But still, the idea of being forced into marriage with a woman I’ve never met is hard to accept.

“I know,” I say finally. “But it’s done. We can’t back out now. We have to make the best of it.”