"He is a made man!" my father roars, half-rising from his chair. "He is a ranking member of a loyal family, and he offered to take you off my hands! He offered a generous dowry, considering you are past your prime and have a mouth like a street whore!"
"He wanted a nurse with a pulse, not a wife," I snap back, my blood suddenly boiling, the ice in my veins melting into pure, unadulterated fury. "I am a Genovese. You are the Don. You are supposed to protect me, not pawn me off to the highest bidder just to get me out of your sight!"
"Protect you?" He spits the words, his face turns a dangerous shade of purple. He rounds the desk, pacing the length of the room like a caged, wounded bear. "I am trying to protect this entire family! The Vellutini boy is slaughtering our men in the streets. He hit the docks tonight. We lost six men and half a million in hardware because that psychotic little prick doesn't respect the old borders. I am fighting a war on two fronts, against the Irish, the Russians, and against our own fucking blood! And what do you do? You sit in my house, eating my food, spending my money, and chasing away the only men desperate enough to marry a bitch with a tongue sharper than a switchblade!"
"I don't want a husband," I lie, the words taste like ash.
"Good. Because you're not getting one," he sneers, stopping in front of my chair to look down at me with absolute disgust. "Look at you. Twenty-four. Hard. Cold. You look at men like you want to slit their throats. You argue. You talk back. You think you’re smart, Noemi? You think you are superior to every man who crosses your path?"
He leans in close, his breath feels hot and reeks of liquor. "No man wants to marry a man, Noemi. They want a woman. They want a wife who smiles, who spreads her legs, and who keeps her goddamn mouth shut."
The words are a physical blow, a vicious strike to the darkest, most insecure corner of my soul. But I refuse to let him see me bleed. I raise my chin, my expression turning into stone.
"Like Lucia," I say softly with venom.
"Yes. Exactly like your sister," he replies smoothly, relishing the hit. "Lucia is twenty. She is beautiful. She is obedient. She understands duty. When the time comes, I will arrange a marriage for her that will secure alliances, bring wealth, and strengthen this family. She is a prize. You?" He scoffs, waving a dismissive hand at me as he walks back to his chair. "You are a liability. You will die a maiden in this house. You will rot in that bedroom upstairs, an old maid, until I am dead and Enzo ships you off to a convent. You are nothing to me but a mistake."
The crackle of the fire is the only sound in the room after his poisonous words. I want to scream at him. I want to overturn his desk. I want to tell him that his archaic, backwards way of thinking is exactly why Cassio Vellutini is beating him at his own game. Cassio doesn't play by the rules of old men, and my father is too blind to adapt.
But saying that would only earn me a backhand across the face.
"Are we done here?" I calmly ask.
He goes back to his maps. "Get out of my sight."
I stand up, pull my robe tighter around myself, and walk out of the study. I don't slam the door. I don't give him the satisfaction of knowing he broke something inside me. I walk with my spine perfectly straight, past Enzo, past the armed guards, and up the sweeping staircase to the second floor.
Only when I am safely inside my bedroom, the heavy lock clicking securely into place, do I let the mask slip.
My breath hitches, a jagged gasp escaping my lips. I press my back against the heavy wood of the door and slide down to the floor, pulling my knees to my chest. The tears are hot and angry, blurring my vision as they spill over my cheeks. I swipe them away furiously with the back of my hand, hating myself for crying. Hating him for being right.
No man wants to marry a man.
I look around my gilded cage. It’s a beautiful room. Silk sheets, antique vanity, walls painted a soft, muted cream. But it’s a prison. And the worst part is, the warden is my own father.
I push myself off the floor and walk over to the vanity, staring at my reflection in the light of a single lamp. Dark hair, dark eyes, pale skin. I am not ugly. I know I’m not. But I lack the softness that men crave. I lack the delicate, fragile submission that makes my sister, Lucia, the golden child. I have too many edges. I have too much fire.
My gaze drifts to the small, silver-framed photograph tucked into the corner of the mirror. It’s a picture from the last summer gala. I am standing with Dario Lombardi, the only man I can call a friend. We are bathed in the soft glow of the patio lights.
Just thinking of him makes a pathetic, desperate warmth flutter in my chest. He is the son of the Don of the Lombardi family, the fourth and weakest of the Italian syndicates. But Dario doesn't look like a monster. He has sandy blond hair, a devastatingly charming smile, and eyes that actually seem to see people, not just targets.
He smiled at me for the first time two years ago, at a Christmas dinner. I had been hiding in the library, trying to escape the stifling cigar smoke and the suffocating pressure of being paraded in front of old men. He had walked in, caught me reading, and instead of mocking me, he had asked what the book was about. We spoke for exactly seven minutes before my father found us and dragged me away.
That seven-minute conversation sparked a deep friendship that I have come to cherish, and I hope it will develop into something more. The truth is, he has tried to make it more, but I want a clearer commitment than just a casual fling.
I reach out and trace the edge of the frame with a trembling finger. I used to let myself imagine a life where Dario would ask my father for my hand. But I’m not an idiot, and I’m not blind.
Lately, when the Lombardi family visits, Dario doesn't seek me out in the library anymore. He looks for Lucia.
He looks at my sister with the same interest and calculating appreciation that every other man in our world has. He seeks her out in crowded rooms, bringing her glasses of champagne and leaning in close to whisper in her ear. And Lucia, with her perfect, obedient smile, blushes and bats her eyelashes, playing the game exactly as we were taught.
It makes me sick to my stomach. Not just the jealousy, though God knows that burns like battery acid, but the realization that Dario isn't different. He isn't my savior. He only wanted to use me and discard me. He’s just another mafia prince looking for a beautiful, quiet doll to put on a shelf. He wants the prize, not the problem.
You will die a maiden in this house.
I turn away from the mirror, unable to look at my own pathetic, lovelorn reflection anymore. I walk over to the massive baywindows, pulling the heavy velvet drapes aside to look out into the night.
The rain is coming down in sheets, washing the manicured grounds of the estate in darkness. Beyond the high stone walls and the wrought-iron gates, the city of San Marco stretches out, a glittering grid of neon and shadows.