Hunted By The Mafia Prince

Chapter 3: Don’t Ask

Sienna’s POV:

My engagement party is a hot mess from the start. Alfonso can’t find his suit, Carina keeps crying and ruining her makeup, Mama’s screaming at the staff for putting too much cheese on the Bruschetta, and Papa’s reassuring her there’s no such thing as too much cheese.

Me? I’m concerned about more important things.

Like how the lighting in here makes my skin look yellow.

I usually have the perfect olive skin-tone that most Italians share. But now, as I stare at my reflection in the back of a spoon, I see that I look like a melon. The guests will say I tumbled in straight from a melon patch. Someone get this girl’s roots back in the soil, she looks too ripe!

Sighing, I set the spoon down and go to look for Mama. Maybe it’s not too late to change the venue. Or at least, get these people to fix their darn lights. That chandelier’s pretty and all, but I’m the one supposed to glow here.

“Signorina Falcone!” Some guy I’ve never met shouts at me. “Congratulations!”

I slap on a wide smile, glancing at his left hand to check for a ring. Ring means wife, which means good conversation starter. When I find one, I say, “Grazie, signore. How are you? How’s the wife?”

“Forever complaining,” he informs me. “But I’m fat and lazy, so I guess I can’t blame her.”

I chuckle indulgently. “Well, you be sure to say hi to her for me, okay? Tell her I wish she could’ve come.”

“Will do, Signorina, will do.”

As we part ways, a large hand appears on the small of my back, applying some pressure. I jolt and nearly shriek aloud.

“Relax,” Matteo says. “It’s just me.”

“Just a little mob boss fresh out of jail— who could be more harmless?”

He ignores my jibe. “Who was that guy? I thought the guests weren’t coming for another half hour.”

I shrug. “No idea.”

Matteo shakes his head in amusement, and I take the opportunity to look him over. He’s dressed in another one of his all-black suits. I’ve yet to see him out of one, but I’m not exactly complaining.

He looks expensive. And hot.

He offers me his arm, and I loop mine through it. We walk through the venue, headed towards the entrance where my family was waiting to greet the guests.

“The place looks nice,” Matteo remarks.

It does.

There’s a buffet-style setup on one end of the room, and throughout the rest of the space, there are strategically placed small, round tables that reach up to my waist. Everything in here is either covered with pretty flowers, ribbons, or shiny diamonds. Occasionally, all three.

Mama had counselled me that the diamonds were an excessive expense, but I’d insisted on them. If I couldn’t have a love marriage, I would have my shiny diamonds, dang it! And besides, she’s the last person to talk about wasting money. I’ve seen pictures from her parties. She isn’t fooling anyone.

“You look nice, too,” Matteo adds, in the same off-handed tone.

His words are harmless, flattering, but I can’t help but notice the way he says them, the way he looks at me as he does. It’s less like a man looking at a woman he finds attractive, and more like someone looking at a pretty vase they plan on purchasing.

“I know,” I say after a beat.

I lift the floor-length hem of my dress slightly to show him my heels. “And thank you for the shoes. They’re beautiful.”

Beautiful doesn’t cut it enough. I don’t think I’ll ever take these shoes off again. I’m wearing them to the grocery store, to the beach, to heart surgery if I ever have it.

“I’m glad you like them,” he says.

I nod. “Best engagement present ever.”

“Oh, they’re not your engagement present,” he informs me. “They’re your ‘don’t kill me in my sleep on our wedding night’ bribe. You’ll get your engagement present later.”

“Well, I don’t know how you’re gonna top these. I wept tears of joy when I saw them.”

“Did you, really?”

Nodding again, I tell him, “I tried cuddling them in bed at night. Mama had to lock them up and hide the key to stop me.”

He laughs quietly, just as my parents come into view.

Mama’s obsessively fixing Alfonso’s tie, even though there’s absolutely nothing wrong with it. She proceeds to dive into his thick head of curls and attempt to tame it.

Poor little brother.

I quicken my strides to go to his rescue.

As soon as we’re within reach, Papa beams and clasps Matteo’s shoulder, while Mama looks at our linked arms with an approving smile. Alfonso welcomes the reprieve from her attention, mouthing his thanks at me.

We all chatter about the weather and the guest list and other casual crap, except for Carina, who stands there looking miserable. I guess Matteo notices, for he attempts to bring her into the conversation.

“What do you think, Carina?”

She forces herself to look at him, then she goes completely still.

Under the light of the setting sun, Matteo’s eyes look especially golden, almost like a filter, and he has a sweet half-smile on his face that shows a bit of white teeth and a lot of dimples.

My sister promptly bursts into tears and runs off.

Matteo blinks. “Is she—”

“Don’t ask,” we chorus at him.

He nods, but it’s clear from his expression that he did not sign up for this.

***

The party’s in full-swing when it happens. There are dozens of armed, short-tempered Made Men present, so no one’s really surprised when a fight breaks out. Weddings are typically sacrilegious in the mafia, and an unspoken truce is mandated for all those attending. Engagement parties are free game, though.

“Get your hands off my wife, you son of a—“

“She wasn’t your wife when she was screaming my name the other night!”

“Oh, please, the only reason anyone would scream your name is if you’re suffocating them with your fat ass.”

“Damn,” I say mildly. “That was a good one.”

Some old lady shoots me a dirty look. I hold my glass up towards her in a silent toast, but she huffs and turns away. I don’t really care. She’s probably the guy’s mother. They have the same aforementioned fat ass.

Unfortunately, the entertainment doesn’t last long.

Matteo and Alfonso slide in to break up the fight, and my fiancé drags both men out by the collars of their jackets.

I sigh.

We’re not even married yet and he’s already ruining my fun.

My view of him is suddenly obstructed by a tall female. I blink and tilt my head slightly to get a better look at her.

She’s dressed in a navy suit with a white blouse, her dark hair pulled back into a stern bun. She looks like she’s on her way to a business meeting, and the steely look in her dark eyes reinforces the impression.

I instantly know who she is, even though I’ve never met her.

“Sienna Falcone,” she drawls, and her disdain is audible.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, signora de La Rosa.” I offer a cold smile. “I regret that we couldn’t do it sooner. Everything happened so quickly, there was little time to arrange a meeting.”

“Yes, it was rather sudden, wasn’t it?” Aida elegantly plucks a finger sandwich off a nearby tray. “I must admit I’ve been curious about my nephew’s unexpected entanglement with your family.”

I’m surprised, but I hide it. I wonder how she doesn’t know the details about this arrangement. Is Matteo keeping it a secret from her? From everyone? And if so, why doesn’t he trust his own aunt enough to tell her?

Despite my confusion, I make sure to keep my face impassive.

If the rumors are to be believed— which, in cases like these, they always should be— then this woman will pounce at any sign of emotion, like a shark attacks at the scent of blood.

My silence seems to displease her, as if she’d expected me to tell her everything right then and there. She takes a delicate bite of the sandwich, then she chews slowly, eyeing me.

Don’t ask me how a bite can be delicate, it just is.

“Matteo’s a very private boy,” she tells me. “He holds his cards close to his chest—always has, but increasingly so after that slut’s betrayal. He hides things, even from those who want nothing more than to help. I’m sure you can see how detrimental this can be.”

She waits for me to nod, then she continues. “I only want what’s best for my nephew, you see, but it’s difficult to protect him when I don’t know what the threat is. If someone close to him, someone who, perhaps, had access to his thoughts, were to share that information with me, I’d be grateful.”

Another pause, and another lengthy stare.

I smile without warmth. “Well, signora, I hope you find that someone.” ‘Cause it sure as hell isn’t me.

Her eyes flash, and she takes a step toward me. I remain calm and composed, keeping my back straight, my head high. In my peripheral vision, I see people around us dancing and chatting, laughing with one another, oblivious to the show-down that’s happening mere feet away from them.

In a dangerously low voice, Aida says, “You might like to consider how much better your life will be with me as your friend. A relationship with Matteo can’t protect you from everyone. He doesn’t have the same power here that he does in New York.”

Her words— or her threats, I should say— ring true, but I still don’t falter.

I flick my hair over my shoulder and state, “It’s a good thing I have my own family name to fall back on, then.”

“Yes,” she sneers, “a good thing, indeed.” Then she steps back, and her tight smile is back in place, like it never left. “Enjoy the rest of your party.”

“Thank you,” I murmur, but she’s already walking away.

I let out a breath. That woman’s a whole workout. I’m breathing hard like I’d just had a physical sparring on top of a mental one.

My mind is whirring with all this new information. Matteo holds out on his aunt. Why? Aida is desperate enough for info that she comes to me, a stranger, for help. Why? She wants me to spy on her nephew so badly she’s willing to threaten me for it. Why?

Why, why, why?

A vaguely familiar couple walks up to me, and I try to focus on them. There’s a time and place for thinking, and this definitely isn’t it. I make rounds greeting all of the guests, smiling and laughing when appropriate, asking the right questions, but I’m still not fully there.

And, of course, Papa’s the one who notices my distracted state.

I’m in the middle of a conversation about a man’s rat-infested kitchen when Papa approaches us. He sweeps me away right as the man begins to tell me, in excruciating detail, how their rats actually clean up after themselves by eating their own poop.

Papa and I step onto the space that’s been cleared out for dancing. I place one hand in his, the other on his arm, and we start moving to the beat of a Frank Sinatra song.

“I love you for saving me back there.”

“I love you, too,” he says, “but how does that beat raising you for twenty-five years?”

“Anybody could have raised me,” I inform him. “I was the perfect child. And besides, you didn’t do it alone, you had Mama. So you only get partial credit there.”

He smiles fondly.

Papa’s not a man of many words, but I’ve always been able to read him by his expressions alone. I know when he’s angry, when he’s stressed, when he’s pleased. And right now, all I see in his eyes as he looks down at me is pride. So much pride.

My heart fills up to the brim, overflows, then fills right up again.

I have to bury my face in his chest to keep from being overcome with emotion. He clicks his tongue and starts stroking my hair gently. We’re not even dancing anymore, we’re just standing there, hugging, in the middle of the dance floor.

I hear people making “aww” sounds, but I don’t care. I just wanna be a little girl again and hide in my Papa’s arms. I don’t wanna get married. I don’t wanna be a mob wife.

I don’t want to go to New York.

“I’m gonna miss you so much,” I whisper. “I can’t stand the thought of leaving you all.”

“Vita mia,” he says. My life. “Don’t do this to an old man. You want me to start crying in front of all these people?”

He pulls away gently so he can look at me. “We’ll see each other for the wedding, and after that for holidays, and birthdays. You’re going to make yourself a new home, but you’ll never lose the one you already have, va bene?”

“Alright, Papa.”

“And if Matteo ever upsets you,” he continues, “if he brings a single tear out of these beautiful eyes, you call me. I don’t care if he’s Capo or the president of the United States. I will fly over there, and I will kill him.”

Coming from a man like Papa, this isn’t an exaggeration. It’s not a figure of speech. It’s a promise. He will literally go to New York and murder Matteo. Probably through the most painful means available.

The threat of violence shouldn’t be reassuring, but it is to me. It reminds me Papa has my back. And I’ll always have his.

I smile at him, and he kisses my forehead.

Once we finish our dance, Matteo takes it as his cue to come over. Papa lets my hands slip from his, and Matteo’s there to pick them up. He leads me to the center of the dance floor as cheers erupt from the crowd.

We dance and dance until my feet hurt, and he twirls me in his arms until the world around us is a blur of glimmering lights. Every once and a while, I glance at the diamond ring on my finger, and I think about what it means.

I’ve become someone new tonight.

I’m no longer simply Sienna Falcone, daughter of Brandon Falcone. No, this ring has given me a new title— Matteo Dellucci’s fiancée.

Tomorrow, we’ll fly to New York, and some time after that, we’ll marry, but for now we’re just two people fading into the night.