Hunted By The Mafia Prince

Chapter 1: Holy Middle Finger

*6 Years Ago*

Sienna’s POV:

I’m not normally a b***h. In fact, I’m often told that I’m quite pleasant to be around. But when I’m woken up at the asscrack of dawn, shoved into an itchy, uncomfortable dress, and smothered with makeup before I even get a sip of coffee…

Well.

Suffice it to say, that doesn’t make me the happiest camper to be around.

That’s why I’m scowling when my sister rushes into my bedroom in her customary pastel colors. Carina’s wardrobe consists entirely of the softest, brightest shades, which I normally find endearing, but currently despise as they’re worsening my headache.

Taking note of the smile on her face, I ask, “What’s up?”

The volume of her voice, apparently.

I wince as she erupts into a series of incoherent squeals, accompanied by wild hand gestures and wide eyes. I don’t know where she gets all this energy from, but she needs to stop shrieking before I throw my hairbrush at her.

“Carina, slow down,” I groan, rubbing my temples.

“I can’t slow down!” She shrieks, like I’m the one being ridiculous. “How can I slow down when Matteo freaking Dellucci is on his way? Oh my god, oh my god, I’m gonna pass out.”

She presses the back of her hand to her forehead. “I think I have a fever! Oh, no, what if I die before he gets here? Then he’ll forever think of me as that random dead girl. I can’t let that happen.” She runs over and grabs me by the shoulders, shaking me so violently I almost barf on her shoes. “Are you listening to me? We can’t let that happen!”

I swat her away. “Get a hold of yourself, woman!”

She lets out a whine.

It’s only then that I process her words. I give a long, slow blink. “Wait a second,” I begin, unsurely. “Did you just say Matteo Dellucci’s coming?”

“YES!”

Now my eyes are wide to match my sister’s.

She’s well and truly lost it. I mean, we always knew she was a little more on the unhinged side, but this is just… I cover my mouth with my hand in horror. She needs to be sent to an asylum right this instant.

I take her into my arms and start stroking her back. My poor, poor sister.

“Sienna, are you listening to me?” She demands. “What are we going to do? What do I wear? What do I say to him?”

Straight up delusion and hallucinations. Definitely sending her to the asylum. I wonder if Papa will let me turn her bedroom into another closet when she’s gone…

“He’s going to be here any minute now! Alfonso went to pick him up from the airport. I’ve been preparing breakfast for him all morning.” She sighs dreamily. “I can’t wait till he takes a bite of my buns.”

I’m tapping my chin now, really mulling over the closet idea. I could finally be able to store my clothes, shoes, and jewelry all in the same place. I nod to myself. Yeah, I’m definitely asking Papa about this.

Maybe I can also take those Louboutins Carina got last Christmas. They don’t let you bring stilettos into asylums, do they?

There’s a knock on my bedroom door, and when I glance over, I find Bianca hovering there uncertainly. She's fidgeting with her maid uniform, her dark head bowed.

“Signorinas,” she says, “your guest will be arriving soon.”

I look from her to my sister, who’s now beaming brighter than the sun.

Wait a damn minute…

***

Carina and I head to the dining room where Papa requested our presence. I keep my head high and my back straight as I walk, years of etiquette training kicking in. Carina’s gripping me so tightly that whoever discovers my fossil will find her nails engraved into my wrist bone. I don’t know why she’s so nervous.

Men always adore my sister. Carina’s fair-haired, blue-eyed, and pale-skinned— every Italian’s dream girl. She’s two years younger than me, but she’s had more suitors than I probably ever will. This Matteo Dellucci guy will be smitten with her just like all the rest.

When I tell her as much, she beams at me and shakes her hair back, visibly encouraged.

Even before we’re in the dining room, I can predict the sight that’s gonna greet us. Papa would be sitting at the head of the table, with Mama perched to his left, and Alfonso to his right. There will be two empty spots on either side, one for me, one for Carina.

We’ve sat like this for over a decade, so it’s no surprise to me when we step in and find exactly that.

Only, there’s one exception this morning.

Our guest.

Sitting on the other head of the table, he has his back to the door at first, but Papa draws his attention to us by calling out, “Ah, there they are.”

Matteo Dellucci turns around, and Carina actually whimpers at the sight of him.

Personally, though, I’m less concerned with his physical features and more focused on the other aspects of his appearance. Between his Brunello Cucinelli suit, his Ferragamo leather shoes, and the shiny Patek Phillippe watch on his wrist, he’s wearing at least fifteen thousand dollars.

In other words, he looks nothing like a man who’s spent the last six months in the toughest jail in New York City.

He rises to his feet as we approach. Scanning his expression, I find little more on his handsome face other than polite interest.

Papa introduces us. “This is my eldest daughter, Sienna, and that’s my baby girl, Carina. Girls, this is our family’s good friend, Matteo Dellucci.”

Matteo approaches me first, since I’m the eldest, and when I put my hand in his, he brings it to his lips for a chaste kiss. Then, he goes to repeat the process with Carina, and she tells him, “I hope you had a comfortable trip here. I imagine Italy’s quite the flight to make from New York.”

Imagine, she says. Like she hadn’t stalked his flight to know the second he landed in Rome's airport.

Matteo looks at her through his lashes. “If it took a long trip for us to meet, I can’t say I have any complaints.”

We both smile— my sister’s wide and cheerful, mine a little more reserved.

He waits for both of us to sit down, then drops into his own chair. Watching him now, I guess it’s easy to see why he’s so popular. He looks nothing like the ruthless mob boss that the American government paints him to be.

Of course, I know better than anyone that looks are always deceiving.

We may not live in New York City, but the Delluccis are well-known by most Italian mafia families. Matteo, in particular, is a popular subject among men and women alike. They say he’s polite, charming, and oh so very handsome.

A true gentleman.

Hmph.

Papa gestures for us all to begin eating, and so we do. I unfold my napkin and spread it over my lap neatly, listening to the men making small talk about work.

Not anything too detailed, obviously.

They don’t talk business in front of women. Our delicate sensibilities wouldn’t be able to handle it.

Cue eye roll.

Then again, I guess it would be a little uncomfortable to hear about murder first thing in the morning. I mean, with an afternoon snack, sure, but at breakfast? Probably not the most appetizing.

I attack the first caffeine container I can find.

Coffee, coffee, coffee.

I try to keep my sips as lady-like as possible since we have company, but all I wanna do is take shots of this espresso right now.

“He has such a nice voice,” Carina murmurs randomly.

Looking away from my coffee reluctantly, I glance over at her. Surprise, surprise, she’s staring at Matteo with heart eyes. I mentally facepalm.

I love my sister more than anything— other than my beautiful Harry Winston heels— but she falls for men way too easily. A guy will absent-mindedly hold the door open for her, and she’ll be talking about it for months.

I know I’m not being fair, though. It’s not her fault. We’re sheltered, and we hardly ever get any male action, especially when unsupervised. Papa’s really protective, and our family, like most traditional mafia families, has a “no boys before marriage” rule.

I realize Carina’s still waiting for a response from me. I quickly agree with her statement because, well, Dellucci does have a nice voice.

It gives me Thomas Shelby vibes, but instead of a British accent, Matteo has traces of a New York one. His voice is deep, and very smooth, like butter, and… Ugh, what the hell? Is Carina’s crazy rubbing off on me?

I make a mental note to keep away from her in case it’s contagious.

Matteo looks over at me all of a sudden, like he can hear my thoughts. His amber eyes bore into mine, taking stock, reading me. I feel like I’m being analyzed, but in the next second, the warmth returns. Like the flip of a switch.

I narrow my eyes at him.

He tilts his head, curious.

Then Papa addresses him, and he breaks my gaze, facing forward.

“Stay with us for as long as you need,” Papa tells him. “I insist.”

A smile. “Grazie, signore, but that won’t be necessary. I’ve already made arrangements with my aunt.”

“Your aunt?”

“Aida La Rosa,” Matteo clarifies. “I assume you two know each other?”

I scoff under my breath.

Everybody knows Aida. She’s the only woman in Italy who leads her own crime family. Grown ass men are terrified of her, and the rumors of the things she’s done to her enemies are the stuff of nightmares. She’s literally the boogieman.

“I… yes.” Papa clears his throat. “Yes, of course. A lovely lady, she is. Very kind.”

“Kind,” Matteo repeats.

I get the feeling he’s making fun of my dad, and I don’t like it one bit. Setting my fork and knife down, I lean forward slightly and pin him with my gaze.

“Well then, signore,” I begin, ignoring Mama’s warning look. “If it’s not hospitality that you’re after, what exactly do you need from us? I assume you didn’t come all this way just so we can admire your eyes.”

“What’s wrong with my eyes?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Carina’s quick to assure him. “You have very pretty eyes.”

He offers her a blinding smile, and would you look at that? Dimples. As deep as coal mines.

I’m pretty sure my sister is ready to leap out of her seat and jump the guy’s bones right now. I really hope she doesn’t. That would kinda ruin the whole intimidation act I’m trying to nail.

I clear my throat pointedly, but Matteo ignores me. He sets his elbows on the table— where are his manners?— then he steeples his fingers together over his plate. His attention is solely on Papa now.

“I’m sure you’ve heard about the problems I’m facing in New York,” he says. “It was difficult to maintain control from behind bars, and even now that I’m out, some men refuse to fall in line. I think my problem is that we’ve got too many American-born solderatis. They don’t have the right stuff anymore. They don’t honor the values that we do.”

Papa nods in agreement. I know this subject is very dear to him. As a member of the older generation, he always mentions how he feels that the younger men in the U.S. are veering too far off the traditional path.

Judging by the calculating look in Matteo’s eyes, I can’t help thinking he knew this as well.

“I need loyal Italians,” he continues. “I need real Made Men. And I know you have lots of those at your disposal.”

“You want us to give you our men?” Alfonso demands, incredulous.

But Matteo ignores him, too, still focused on Papa.

“You’ve been a friend of the Dellucci family for years,” he tells him. “Pops holds you in very high esteem. That’s why I’ve come here to seek your help. I’m going to be Don soon, and I want to lead a new generation of men. One that will restore the Famiglia to its former glory.”

Papa frowns, not in disapproval, but in thought. I can tell he’s halfway to agreeing, even though he says, “I can’t just hand over my men to you. They’re loyal to me. I don’t think they’d appreciate me offering them up to someone who isn’t my blood.”

Matteo leans back in his chair and drops his arms from the table. He glances over at me with a smile that I don’t trust.

“I may not be your blood,” he says slowly, “but I can still become your family.”

Papa follows his gaze to where I’m sitting. My pulse starts thundering in my ears because I’m not stupid. I know what he’s implying. Papa’s not stupid either, so the fact that he’s silent means he’s considering this.

A moment passes, and I’m holding my breath, all sorts of prayers running through my head. I don’t usually talk to God, but right now I’m making him promise after promise. I’ll never miss a Sunday at church again. I’ll start saying Grace before eating. I’ll read the bible two thousand times. Hell, I’ll go join a convent and become a nun.

Okay, maybe not that last one. Nuns have crappy fashion sense. I’d have to hide my thighs underneath all those long, loose dresses.

And I have really sexy thighs.

But anyways, you get the point. I did not want this to happen.

And in a holy middle finger from God, the next words that come out of Papa’s mouth are, “You’d have to marry one of my daughters.” Then he smiles at Matteo. “I like the way you think… son.”