I won't lie to you

Ella

Most people spend their eighteenth birthday surrounded by friends and family, drinking copious amounts of alcohol and making questionable choices.

I’m apparently not most people.

I’m Antonella Polizzi.

Verified virgin. This apparently is important.

Raised from birth to become the perfect mafia wife.

So here I am.

Still surrounded by family, admittedly. But very few friends.

And definitely making questionable choices.

The first is standing here in a wedding dress that costs roughly the same as a small yacht.

The second is marrying Matteo Moretti.

Twenty-seven years old. Nine years my senior.

Head of one of the most powerful families in New York.

And, if rumours are to be believed, perfectly capable of strangling a man with his bare hands before finishing lunch.

Apparently he once shot one of his own guards in the head because he didn’t like his tone.

Dad says I shouldn’t listen to gossip.

Notice he’s never actually told me it isn’t true.

I should probably be hitching up several thousand dollars’ worth of ivory lace and sprinting towards the nearest witness-protection programme.

Instead, the double doors open.

My father offers me his arm and my gaze lands on the man waiting at the other end of the aisle.

My stomach gives one deeply traitorous flip.

Because Jesus fucking Christ.

Have you fucking seen Matteo Moretti?

Handsome doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Matteo is the kind of man who makes perfectly intelligent women reconsider every warning they’ve ever been given about dangerous men.

Black suit. White shirt. Black tie.

Dark hair pushed back from a face that looks like somebody specifically designed it to make terrible decisions seem reasonable.

Broad shoulders. Hard jaw.

Not a single fucking hint of nerves. Of course not.

He isn’t the one about to marry Matteo Moretti.

I am.

And yes, this marriage was arranged.

No, I wasn’t dragged here.

Nobody locked me in a room until I agreed or threatened to shoot my favourite cousin.

I said yes.

Willingly.

Because while there are undoubtedly several sensible reasons not to marry a dangerous mafia boss almost a decade older than me, there are considerably worse faces to spend the rest of your life looking at.

Shallow? Probably.

But if I’m signing away the foreseeable future, I’m allowed to appreciate the packaging.

Dad clears his throat.

“You planning on joining him?”

I realise I’ve stopped walking.

Fuck.

Matteo’s mouth moves. Barely. Not quite a smile. But close enough that heat climbs straight up my neck.

Fantastic.

Not even married yet and he already knows I was staring at him.

I tighten my fingers around Dad’s arm.

“Changed my mind. Witness protection appeals.”

Dad snorts.

“Too late.”

“Helpful.”

“You agreed to this.”

“I was clearly distracted by his face.”

That earns me an actual laugh. Several heads turn towards us.

Matteo’s eyes remain fixed on mine.

And somehow, despite everything I’ve heard about him, I find myself smiling back.

Because that’s the inconvenient truth.

I’m not frightened of marrying Matteo Moretti.

Maybe I should be. But right now? I’m curious.

Dad guides me forward before I can make another highly rational life choice and bolt.

The aisle is long.

Unnecessarily long.

Possibly designed specifically to give brides enough time to reconsider every decision that has brought them to this moment.

I make it six steps before my heel catches the underside of my dress.

Dad’s hand tightens around mine.

“Careful.”

“I’m fine.”

“You nearly died.”

“I stumbled.”

“In front of three hundred people.”

“Thank you for making it better.”

His mouth twitches.

I straighten, gather a fraction more ivory lace into my free hand and continue towards Matteo with whatever dignity remains.

Which is difficult when the man is watching every step.

He doesn’t glance around the room. Doesn’t acknowledge the whispers. Doesn’t look at the priest, his family, the men stationed discreetly around the edges of the room or the frankly obscene amount of money currently being displayed in floral form.

Just me.

That should probably be reassuring. Instead it does strange things to my stomach.

Matteo Moretti does not strike me as a man who gives anything his full attention accidentally.

The closer I get, the more ridiculous he becomes.

There should really be legislation preventing dangerous men from also being that attractive.

It feels irresponsible.

His suit is black, perfectly tailored across broad shoulders. His hair is darker than mine, pushed back neatly except for one piece that has apparently decided rules are for everyone else.

Very on-brand for a Moretti, really.

Then I notice his hands.

Because apparently my brain has chosen now to catalogue my future husband like I’m shopping for livestock.

Large. Strong. One resting loosely in front of him. The other at his side.

Those are supposedly the hands that strangled a man.

Brilliant.

Excellent thought to have while walking towards the altar.

I look back at his face. Much safer.

It isn’t.

There’s a faint scar near his eyebrow I’ve never been close enough to notice before.

I immediately want to know where it came from.

Probably murder.

Perhaps gardening.

Could go either way.

Then Matteo’s mouth curves. Just slightly.

My pulse trips.

Oh, fuck off.

Dad feels me tighten on his arm.

“You all right?”

“Wonderful.”

“That sounded convincing.”

“I’m marrying a murderer.”

“Alleged.”

I glance at him.

“That distinction is doing a lot of work.”

Dad almost laughs again.

Matteo definitely sees it this time. His brows lift. Questioning.

I shake my head once. Nothing.

His eyes narrow slightly. Apparently nothing is not an acceptable answer.

Noted.

We finally reach him.

Dad stops. For the first time all day, his amusement disappears.

So does mine.

The two men look at one another.

And there it is.

The part everyone keeps dressing in flowers and lace.

This isn’t just a wedding.

It’s business.

Polizzi and Moretti.

Two families becoming something stronger because their children put rings on each other’s fingers.

Romantic as fuck.

Dad takes my hand from his arm but doesn’t immediately release it.

“Matteo.”

“Sir.”

There is respect in the word.

Not submission.

Matteo Moretti could probably say good morning and somehow make it sound like he was negotiating a hostage release.

Dad studies him.

“You remember what we discussed.”

“I remember everything we discussed.”

A beat.

Then Matteo looks at me.

“She will want for nothing.”

I know that line. He said it weeks ago in Dad’s study.

Same calm voice. Same unwavering stare.

Your daughter will have everything she needs. She’ll have my protection, my name and my respect.

Then the part that had made my mother look satisfied and me lift an eyebrow.

In return, I expect loyalty, respect and obedience.

Obedience.

Such a lovely little word. Very modern. Very twenty-first century.

I’d asked whether he was planning to marry me or purchase a particularly argumentative Labrador.

Dad nearly choked on his whisky.

Matteo hadn’t laughed. But his eyes had.

I’d noticed.

Dad finally puts my hand into his. Matteo’s fingers close around mine. Warm. Steady.

Mine are freezing.

His eyes drop. Then lift back to mine.

“You’re shaking.”

“Excellent observational skills.”

Dad makes a sound suspiciously close to a cough.

Matteo’s mouth twitches.

“Cold?”

“Nervous.”

“Of me?”

I consider lying.

Then decide that seems like a stupid habit to start before we’ve even signed anything.

“A little.”

He turns my hand over between us. His thumb strokes once across my palm. It’s such a small gesture I doubt anyone else notices.

I do.

“Good.”

My eyebrows lift.

“Good?”

“Fear keeps people sensible.”

Well.

There’s the alleged murderer.

Then his thumb moves across my palm again.

“But you don’t need to be afraid of me today, princess.”

Today.

Interesting choice of word.

Before I can decide whether that was deliberate, the priest clears his throat.

Dad kisses my cheek.

“Be happy.”

“I’ll give it a go.”

Then he steps away.

Matteo keeps hold of my hand.

I glance at our joined fingers.

At seventeen years, eleven months and twenty-nine days old, I apparently belong at an altar beside one of the most feared men in New York.

And weirdly? I don’t hate it.

I hear perhaps forty per cent of the ceremony.

Possibly less.

There are prayers. Promises. Something about honour. Something about family.

My mother cries quietly in the front row.

Again.

At this rate someone needs to hydrate her.

Matteo remains completely still beside me. Of course he does. The man could probably stand through an execution without creasing his trousers.

I, meanwhile, become increasingly aware of every single thing that can possibly go wrong.

I could forget my vows.

Drop the ring.

Fall over.

Accidentally call him Matto.

That last one might actually get me murdered.

“Antonella.”

I blink.

Matteo is looking at me.

So is the priest. So is everyone else.

Oh. Fuck. Apparently we’ve reached my part.

A few people laugh softly.

Heat floods my face.

“Sorry.”

The priest smiles.

Matteo doesn’t laugh.

His thumb strokes over the side of my hand.

“Take your time, princess.”

There it is again.

Princess.

Coming from him, it sounds absurdly intimate.

Especially because I’ve heard Matteo address grown men twice his size with enough cold contempt to make them visibly shrink.

Yet he’s looking at me like my temporary inability to remember basic English is somehow acceptable.

Maybe he isn’t as bad as everyone says.

Or maybe I’m about to discover criminals contain multitudes.

I take a breath. Then say the words. All of them. Without falling over.

Frankly, I deserve applause.

When Matteo slides the ring onto my finger, his gaze stays on my face.

Then it’s my turn.

His hand is much larger than mine. I get the ring halfway over his knuckle and it sticks.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

I push.

Nothing.

Matteo looks down.

“So far, marriage is going well.”

I glare at him.

“Your finger is defective.”

“Obviously.”

A few people laugh.

I twist the ring. It finally slides into place.

“There.”

“Congratulations.”

“I fixed you.”

“That confidence is going to cause problems.”

“You’ve known me for forty minutes.”

“I’ve known of your family for years.”

“That’s different.”

His eyes hold mine.

“I suppose I’ll find out.”

Something about that lands lower than it should.

Thankfully the priest saves me from having to answer.

He says something important. Everyone goes quiet.

Then—

“You may kiss your bride.”

Ah.

Right.

That.

Matteo turns towards me.

My heart promptly attempts to escape through my ribs.

We’ve kissed before.

Once.

Briefly.

Supervised.

Because apparently our families thought this was the nineteenth century.

This is different.

There are three hundred people I mostly don't know watching.

Including my father.

Fantastic.

Matteo reaches up and touches two fingers beneath my chin.

Gentle.

His eyes search mine. Not asking exactly. But checking.

I don’t move away.

His mouth brushes mine.

Once. Controlled. Warm. Nothing remotely scandalous.

Then he pulls back just enough for me to breathe.

The room applauds.

Matteo’s eyes stay on mine.

“Still nervous?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“You’re very strange.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Then he kisses my forehead. And somehow that is worse.

My stomach completely betrays me.

☆☆☆

Being married is exhausting.

Nobody tells you that.

They tell you about commitment and family and sacred bonds.

Nobody says anything about smiling through approximately seventeen thousand photographs while your shoes slowly attempt to sever circulation to your toes.

“Another one, Mrs Moretti.”

I stare at the photographer.

He smiles nervously.

Poor bastard.

“One more by the staircase.”

I’ve heard one more nineteen times. I am beginning to consider violence.

Which means apparently I’m fitting into the family beautifully.

Matteo’s hand settles against the bare skin at the bottom of my back.

“You’ve been limping.”

“I have not.”

“Antonella.”

“That sounded suspiciously like an accusation.”

“It was.”

I glance down.

My heels are beautiful.

My heels are also on a personal vendetta to end me.

“They hate me.”

“Take them off.”

I look up.

“At our wedding?”

“Yes.”

“My mother will have an aneurysm.”

“I’ll buy her a new artery.”

I stare at him. Then laugh. Actually laugh. Matteo looks faintly pleased with himself.

“You made a joke.”

“I make jokes.”

“No, you don’t.”

His eyebrows rise.

“You've conducted research?”

“I've been alive in New York for nearly eighteen years. People talk about you.”

“Do they?”

Oh.

His tone changes.

Barely.

But I feel it.

The amusement doesn’t vanish completely. It just steps aside and lets something harder stand behind it.

I suddenly understand why people choose their words carefully around him.

I probably should too.

Unfortunately, I was apparently born without that particular survival instinct.

“Mostly lovely things.”

“Liar.”

“Fine. Murder. Extortion. General terrifying behaviour.”

The photographer abruptly becomes extremely interested in his camera.

Matteo notices. His gaze shifts to him. The man goes still.

“Give us a minute.”

“Yes, Mr Moretti.”

No complaint. No but the light is perfect. Just immediate obedience.

He disappears.

I watch him go.

“You frightened him.”

“He works for me.”

“And?”

“And I told him we were finished.”

“You didn’t say finished. You said a minute.”

Matteo looks at me.

“Do you want more photographs?”

“God, no.”

“Then we’re finished.”

Apparently language is flexible when you’re Matteo Moretti.

His attention drops to my shoes again.

“Take them off.”

I hesitate purely because I am apparently determined to test my new husband’s patience on day one.

“Is that an order?”

His eyes come back to mine.

There it is.

The slightest sharpening.

Then his thumb moves slowly across my lower back.

“Yes.”

Oh.

My pulse gives a weird little jump.

Not fear. Not exactly.

I kick off the shoes under the nearest table. The relief is immediate.

I lose almost four inches.

Matteo looks down.

Then further down.

“Jesus.”

“What?”

“You’re tiny.”

“I am five foot five.”

“Were you standing on something when they measured you?”

“I am five foot five barefoot.”

“Are you sure?”

I narrow my eyes.

He smiles.

Actually smiles.

The full thing.

And Christ.

That should be illegal too.

It changes his whole face. Makes him look younger.

Less like a man who could order someone's death between courses and more like—

Well.

My husband.

For one ridiculous second I forget everyone else exists.

A waiter approaches carrying champagne.

He’s young. Nervous. Probably because the Moretti wedding is not the place to drop anything unless you’re particularly attached to unemployment.

He sets the tray down. One glass slips. Not far. Just enough to tip champagne across the white linen.

His face drains.

“Mr Moretti, I apologise.”

Matteo looks at the spill.

Then at him.

Silence.

The boy visibly swallows.

Oh. So this is what everyone means.

Matteo doesn't shout. Doesn’t insult him. Doesn’t even frown.

He simply looks.

“Replace it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And have this cloth changed.”

“Immediately.”

The waiter practically evaporates.

I stare after him.

Then at Matteo.

“What?”

“You looked at him.”

“I often look at people when speaking to them.”

“Not like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you were mentally selecting where to bury him.”

Matteo’s expression remains perfectly serious.

“I already have places for that.”

I freeze.

He holds my gaze.

Then one corner of his mouth lifts.

“You’re joking.”

“Am I?”

“You are.”

He reaches for a fresh glass of champagne from another passing tray and gives it to me.

“Drink.”

“That sounded like another order.”

“It was hydration.”

“It’s champagne.”

“Details.”

I take it.

Mostly because I want it.

Slightly because the strange little part of my brain currently cataloguing Matteo tells everyone what to do but seems to be using it to make my life easier is thoroughly entertained.

Maybe that's how it starts.

Maybe one day I wake up in matching tracksuits drinking herbal tea because my husband has issued a hydration schedule.

Terrifying.

“Well,” a male voice says from beside us, “this is fucking nauseating.”

Matteo’s expression changes instantly. The smile disappears.

I turn.

Lorenzo Mancini is leaning against the edge of the table with a drink in one hand.

Matteo’s cousin.

Enzo.

Twenty-four. Dangerous in an entirely different way.

Where Matteo looks like rules were invented specifically so he could enforce them, Enzo looks like he skimmed them once, laughed and set them on fire.

His tuxedo is expensive. His tie is already loosened. His dark hair is slightly less controlled.

And he has the sort of face that probably gets forgiven for things it absolutely shouldn’t.

“Mancini,” Matteo says.

“Moretti."

"I see you somehow made it throughout the day.”

“And yet somehow I’ve survived.”

“Disappointing.”

Enzo puts a hand against his chest.

“On your wedding day?”

“I can arrange something tomorrow.”

I look between them.

“Are you always like this?”

“Yes,” Enzo says.

“No,” Matteo says at exactly the same time.

Enzo grins.

I like him immediately.

Which probably means he is terrible news.

His eyes move to me.⁹⁹

“Congratulations, Ella.”

I smile.

“Thank you.”

Matteo looks at him.

Then at me.

“Ella?”

“My friends call me Ella.”

His attention settles fully on me.

Not angry.

If anything, amused.

“Your friends?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not your friend.”

Something stupid happens i988i⁸

“No?”

“No.”

His hand closes around my waist.

Not painful.

Not rough.

Just unmistakably there.

“I’m your husband.”

Heat crawls up my neck.

Brilliant.

Apparently my body intends to embarrass me continuously for the foreseeable future.

Matteo’s gaze stays on mine.

“And your name is Antonella Moretti.”

A pause.

His thumb brushes once against my side.

“Is that okay, Mrs Moretti?”

God.

It really, really is.

I try for composure.

Fail miserably.

“Yes.”

His expression warms.

“Good.”

Beside us, Enzo makes a choking sound into his champagne.

I glare at him.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“It doesn’t sound like nothing.”

He looks at Matteo.

Then me.

Then back again.

“I was just wondering whether they included the personality transplant in the marriage contract or if Moretti charges extra.”

Matteo’s eyes narrow.

“There are several hundred other people here you could irritate.”

“None of them are as entertaining.”

“You’re irritating my wife.”

Enzo looks at me.

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“See?” He gestures towards me. “She can speak for herself. Remarkable.”

Matteo’s fingers tighten slightly at my waist.

The air changes.

Only for a second.

Enzo notices.

So do I.

Then Matteo reaches for my champagne, takes it from me, and replaces it with a glass of water from the table.

I stare at him.

“What happened to hydration by champagne?”

“You've had enough.”

My eyebrows shoot up.

“I've had one.”

“And you're seventeen.”

“For another few hours.”

“Exactly.”

Enzo laughs.

I point at him.

“Don’t encourage him.”

Matteo looks down at me.

“I was about to say the same thing.”

“See?” Enzo lifts his glass. “Marriage. Already bringing people together.”

I take the water because apparently this is my life now.

“I’m beginning to understand why Matteo doesn’t like you.”

“He loves me.”

“I tolerate you.”

“See? Affection everywhere tonight.”

Enzo lifts his glass towards me.

His eyes meet mine.

Something sharp lives behind all the amusement.

“Happy birthday for later, Ella.”

“Thank you.”

He glances at Matteo.

“And congratulations on acquiring a personality.”

“Leave.”

Enzo laughs and walks away.

I watch him disappear back into the crowd.

“He’s strange.”

“That’s one word for him.”

“You really don't like him?”

“He’s family.”

“That wasn't what I asked.”

Matteo looks down at me.

Then there’s that almost-smile again.

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“Mom says curiosity is a good quality.”

“Your mother lied.”

I gasp.

He takes my water before I can throw it at him.

“Come on.”

“Where?”

“You need five minutes away from these people.”

“I do?”

“Yes.”

Apparently I do.

And apparently being Mrs Moretti comes with a lot of instructions.

Oddly, I’m not finding that nearly as irritating as I probably should.