CHAPTER 3

NIKOLAI

I pull up in the driveway behind my parents' car and feel myself become angry for the nth time today. I cannot fucking believe I have to marry a stranger. Thinking of the expectations makes me physically sick.

I get out of the car, trying not to roll my eyes at the blonde woman standing next to the Romano, smiling so wide it looks like a desperate attempt at looking sincere.

I can smell bullshit from a mile away. Faked sincerity smells like a dead fish on a humid day, and I, for one, do not tolerate it. In my business, you learn to recognize a person in a mere minute, and I can say right now, if that's the mother, I do not wish to even see the fake bimbo her daughter undoubtedly is.

"Godfather, welcome," Romano says, bowing his head to my father. He nods.

"We are so, very thankful that you would give our daughter this honor," the wife says, her voice high-pitched. My mother's face falls a little, making me smirk. Mama and I always think alike.

They both look to me, and the wife's eyes give a greedy glint. Motherfuck, she's horrific. Why is her face like that?

"This is our son, the heir, Nikolai Moretti," my father says, motioning to me. No one calls me my first name, Kendric. Though that is my first name, I do not allow anyone to call me it. I nod at them, and they both immediately look intimidated. Good.

They lead us inside to a sitting area. The space is decorated with cheap-looking gold tapestry and is overall sickening.

"Let me go get Celeste so the couple can talk a little before dinner," the woman, whose name I have learned is Victoria, says, standing up to leave.

I feel my phone buzz in my pocket and check to see that it is the details I asked Griffin for on this family.

It is crude to be on your phone, so I excuse myself and step out. I start walking toward a hallway and pull out my phone, going through the details.

This is his second wife. He also has a daughter from the first. I thought he only had one child?

As I keep walking, I soon find myself at a door. I am about to turn back when I hear soft sniffles coming from the other side.

My eyebrows furrow as I walk to the door, twisting open the handle.

"Please, please go away," comes a soft female voice. It sounds terrified beyond belief. "I—I am sorry," she hiccups, and my fists clench out of anger.

Who the fuck is she talking to?

I walk further in to see a small figure curled up on the floor next to a couch.

"What is wrong?" I ask, surprising myself and startling the small girl.

She immediately stands up, looking at me with wide, doe-like eyes that remind me of a child's. Her nose is small and red, like Mama's gets when it is cold. She looks young, but her body is womanly, so she is definitely not a child. Her dress is floral, and the material looks soft, so I doubt she is a servant girl.

"Who—who are you?" she croaks, making me raise an eyebrow.

"Who are you?" I grunt back.

She wipes under her eyes with a small fist as she peers up at me a second longer before her face pales and her hands start to shake.

"N-no, you can't b-be here; you h-have to go!" she stutters, taking quick steps forward toward the door.

I can smell innocence and loyalty just like I can bullshit. And this girl is the exact opposite of the woman I just met.

"Please, please, sir. Are you with the Don? You are, aren't you? Please, you have to go. I don't want them to think I was being bad." Her urgency and the expression on her face read genuine terror, her hands still shaking.

What is she so afraid of?

"I'll leave," I speak, making her freeze and look at me. "After you tell me your name," I drawl.

If she is a servant girl, then I would understand her being like this, but the daughter of a Romano should not be found crying on the floor.

"Y-you pinky promise?" she asks. I almost snort at her question, but then I realize she's serious. So I nod. "Francesca," she tells me, tucking her hair behind her ear and opening the door.

Her doe-like brown eyes peer up at me hesitantly. "I am sorry if I were rude, mister. Please don't tell anyone you saw me like this, especially not Celeste's new husband," she whispers, her eyebrows drawn in a desperate look.

When I make no move or offer a response, she swallows, looking at me one last time with those large eyes before running off in the opposite direction of where I came from.

I look down at the details of this family again and feel my anger simmering when I read the name of his firstborn daughter:

Francesca.