The Arrangement

JAMESON

The whiskey burned going down, which was the only goddamn thing going right today.

I sat across from my grandfather in his study—my study, or at least it should've been by now—watching him swirl his own glass like he had all the time in the world. Brendan Connelly had always been a patient man. Strategic. The kind of bastard who'd wait three years to settle a score if it meant the revenge would be sweeter.

Right now, I wanted to throw my drink at his smug face.

"You're telling me," I said slowly, keeping my voice level even though my jaw was tight enough to crack teeth, "that I can't take over this family—my family—unless I get married."

"That's exactly what I'm telling you, boyo." Brendan's Irish brogue was thicker when he was being particularly stubborn. Which meant it was thick as mud right now.

I leaned back in the leather chair, the same one I'd sat in as a kid while he taught me how to read people, how to negotiate, how to know when someone was lying and when they were just scared. Thirty years of grooming me for this role, and now he was pulling this shit.

"And you don't see how that's completely fucking insane?"

"Watch your mouth."

"I'm thirty-eight years old, Granda. I'll say 'fuck' if I want to."

He didn't even blink. Just took another sip of his Jameson—yeah, I was named after the whiskey, real original—and set the glass down with deliberate care. "You're thirty-eight and unmarried. The families are already whispering that you're not stable. That you're too volatile to lead."

"Volatile." I laughed, sharp and humorless. "I've been running half this operation for five years. I've expanded our territory, cleaned up the mess with the Southside crew, and I haven't started a single war we couldn't win. But sure, I'm volatile."

"You're alone."

The word hung in the air between us like a challenge.

"I'm focused," I corrected. "There's a difference."

"A leader needs a partner. Someone who steadies him. Someone who shows the other families that he's thinking long-term, building something that'll last." Brendan's pale blue eyes—the same ones I saw in the mirror every morning—pinned me in place. "You need a wife, Jameson. And I've found you one."

Of course, he had.

I should've seen this coming. Should've known that the old man wouldn't just hand over the keys to the kingdom without one last power play. This was about control. It was always about control with him.

"Let me guess," I said, reaching for the whiskey bottle to pour myself another three fingers. "Some nice Irish girl from Boston? Maybe one of the Flannery daughters? They've been circling like vultures at every charity gala for the past two years."

"Catarina Vitale."

I stopped mid-pour.

"You're joking."

"I don't joke about business."

"The Vitales are Italian." I said it like he might've forgotten. Like maybe he'd gone senile and needed reminding that we'd spent the better part of a century keeping the Irish and Italian families in their respective corners of Chicago.

"Aye. And Carmine Vitale controls half the city. This marriage would unite our territories, strengthen both families, and send a message to every other crew in Chicago that we're not to be fucked with." He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "It's a smart move, and you know it."

I did know it. That was the worst part.

Strategically, it was brilliant. The Vitales had power, reach, and enough political connections to make things very easy or very difficult, depending on which side of them you landed on. An alliance through marriage would shift the entire balance of the Chicago underworld.

But Christ, I didn't want to get married.

I'd seen what marriage did to men in this life. Watched them go soft, distracted, vulnerable. Watched them make stupid decisions because they were thinking with their hearts instead of their heads. I didn't have time for that shit. Didn't have the patience for managing someone else's feelings or expectations.

And Catarina Vitale?

I'd seen her at a handful of events over the years. Always draped in designer dresses that probably cost more than most people's cars, always smiling that perfect, practiced smile that didn't reach her eyes. She was beautiful in that untouchable way that society princesses always were—dark hair, darker eyes, curves that would make a saint reconsider his vows.

But she was also exactly the kind of woman I couldn't stand. Spoiled. Sheltered. Probably spent her days shopping and her nights posting filtered photos on I*******m or whatever the hell rich girls did with their time.

The idea of being shackled to someone like that made my skin crawl.

"She's a child," I said finally.

"She's twenty-eight."

"She acts like a child. I've seen her, Granda. She's all airs and graces, playing dress-up in daddy's world. What the hell am I supposed to do with someone like that?"

Brendan's expression didn't change. "You're supposed to marry her. The wedding's in two weeks."

"Two—" I bit off the curse before it could fully form. "You've already agreed to this. Without asking me."

"I'm asking now."

"No, you're telling me. There's a difference."

"Aye, there is." He stood, moving to the window that overlooked the grounds of our estate. Snow was starting to fall, dusting the bare trees in white. "You want to lead this family, Jameson? Then you'll do what's necessary. That's what leadership is. Sacrifice. Compromise. Putting the family first."

"This isn't a compromise. This is extortion."

"Call it what you want." He turned back to face me, and for the first time I saw something that might've been sympathy in his eyes. Or maybe just pity. "But it's happening. Carmine and I have already drawn up the agreement. You'll meet with Catarina in two days to discuss the arrangements. The wedding will be at Holy Name Cathedral. Small, by our standards. Just family and close associates."

I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him to shove his arrangement up his ass and find someone else to run the family.

But we both knew I wouldn't.

I'd spent my entire life working toward this. Every decision, every sacrifice, every bloody night and brutal negotiation had been building to the moment when I'd finally take my place as head of the Connelly family. I wasn't going to throw that away over something as trivial as marriage.

It would be a business arrangement. Nothing more.

I'd marry the Vitale princess, play the dutiful husband at public events, and keep her at arm's length the rest of the time. She'd get her fancy title and unlimited credit cards, I'd get my family, and we'd both go on living our separate lives under the same roof.

Simple.

"Fine," I said, the word tasting like ash. "I'll marry her. But don't expect me to pretend this is anything other than what it is—a transaction."

Brendan smiled, and it was the smile of a man who'd just won. "I wouldn't dream of it, boyo."

I left his study—still not my study, not yet—and headed for the gym in the east wing. I needed to hit something. Needed to work off the rage that was coiling in my chest like a living thing.

Two weeks until I married a woman I didn't know and didn't want.

Two weeks until I shackled myself to Catarina Vitale and whatever drama came with her.

I wrapped my hands and started in on the heavy bag, each punch landing with satisfying force.

This was fine. I could handle this.

It was just marriage. Just a contract.

How complicated could it possibly be?

---

CATARINA

I knew I was in trouble the moment I walked into my father's office and saw Uncle Sal standing in the corner.

Sal Benedetti only showed up for two reasons: someone was about to die, or someone was about to wish they were dead. Given that I was the one being summoned, I was betting on option two.

"Sit down, Catarina."

My father didn't look up from the papers on his desk. Carmine Vitale was a man of few words and fewer expressions, which made him excellent at poker and terrible at father-daughter bonding. Not that we'd ever really tried.

I sat, crossing my legs and folding my hands in my lap like the perfect principessa I'd been trained to be. Smile. Posture. Grace. All the things that made me look like I belonged in a museum instead of the blood-soaked world I actually lived in.

"You're getting married."

No preamble. No buildup. Just straight to the point, like he was telling me we were having chicken for dinner.

I blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"

"You're getting married," he repeated, finally looking up. His dark eyes—the same ones I'd inherited—were flat and businesslike. "To Jameson Connelly. The wedding is in two weeks."

For a moment, I just stared at him. Waiting for the punchline. Waiting for him to crack a smile and tell me this was some kind of test.

He didn't.

"You're joking."

"I don't joke, Catarina. You know this."

I did know this. Carmine Vitale had exactly two modes: business and sleep. There was no in-between. No casual conversations over breakfast, no asking about my day, no interest in anything that didn't directly relate to family operations.

Which, apparently, now included selling me off like a prize heifer.

"Let me make sure I understand," I said slowly, keeping my voice level even though I wanted to scream. "You've arranged for me to marry Jameson Connelly—the Irish thug who's been trying to expand into our territory for the past five years—and you're just now telling me about it. Two weeks before the wedding."

"The arrangement benefits both families. The Connellys get legitimacy through the alliance, we get access to their political connections and territory. It's a smart move."

"It's insane."

"It's strategic."

I laughed, sharp and bitter. "Of course it is. Everything's strategic with you, isn't it? Even your own daughter."

Something flickered in his expression—annoyance, maybe, or disappointment that I wasn't playing along like a good little girl. "You've always known you'd marry for the family. This shouldn't come as a surprise."

He was right, which made it worse.

I'd grown up watching my cousins get married off to consolidate power, strengthen alliances, smooth over conflicts. Marriage in our world was never about love. It was about leverage.

But I'd always assumed I'd be exempt.

I wasn't like my cousins—the pretty, polished girls who'd been groomed for trophy wife status since birth. I was the family's secret weapon. The one they called when negotiations failed and violence became necessary. I'd spent twenty years training, honing my skills, becoming the best at what I did.

And what I did was keep my family alive.

"I'm more useful to you here," I said, trying a different angle. "You know that. Who's going to handle security? Who's going to—"

"You'll handle security for the Connellys now. That's part of the arrangement."

I froze. "Excuse me?"

Sal shifted in the corner, and I caught the ghost of a smile on his weathered face. The bastard was enjoying this.

"Brendan Connelly is stepping down," my father continued. "Jameson will take over as head of the family. The transition will make him a target. He'll need protection."

"So you're sending me to babysit some Irish asshole who probably doesn't even know which end of a gun to hold?"

"I'm sending you to protect our investment. If Jameson dies, the alliance falls apart. If the alliance falls apart, we lose everything we've gained." He leaned back in his chair, studying me like I was a chess piece he was considering moving. "You're the best we have, Catarina. Jameson Connelly doesn't know that yet, but he will."

Oh, this just kept getting better.

Not only was I being forced into a marriage I didn't want, but I was also being sent in undercover. The Connellys thought they were getting a decorative wife, a pretty face to parade around at events. They had no idea they were getting a trained killer who'd been taking down threats since she was sixteen.

"Does he know?" I asked. "Does Jameson know what I do?"

"No. And you won't tell him unless it becomes necessary. As far as the Connellys are concerned, you're exactly what you appear to be—a well-bred daughter making a strategic marriage."

"So I'm supposed to play housewife while secretly keeping him alive. That's the plan."

"That's the plan."

I wanted to flip the desk. Wanted to tell my father exactly where he could shove his strategic marriage and his protection detail. Wanted to walk out and never look back.

But I wouldn't.

Because despite everything—despite the years of being used as a weapon, despite being hidden away and lied about, despite never being allowed to just be myself—I loved my family. And I'd do whatever it took to keep them safe.

Even if it meant marrying Jameson fucking Connelly.

I'd seen him at events over the years. Tall, broad-shouldered, with that rugged Irish look that probably had women dropping their panties left and right. He always had a trail of hopefuls following him around, giggling at his jokes and touching his arm like they'd won some kind of prize.

He was exactly the type of man I couldn't stand. Arrogant. Entitled. Probably thought he was God's gift to women.

And now I was going to be shackled to him for the rest of my life.

"When do I meet him?" I asked, resigned.

"Two days. You'll discuss the arrangements." My father stood, signaling the conversation was over. "Wear something appropriate. First impressions matter."

Of course they did.

I left his office, my heels clicking against the marble floors of our family compound. The place had always felt more like a fortress than a home, all stone and security and secrets. I'd grown up in these halls, trained in the basement levels, learned to kill in the shadows.

And now I was leaving it all behind for some grumpy Irish bastard who probably thought I was nothing more than a pretty face and a useful alliance.

Fine.

Let him think that.

Let him believe I was just another spoiled mafia princess playing dress-up. It would make my job easier if he underestimated me. And when the threats came—because they would come, they always did—I'd be ready.

I'd keep him alive whether he liked it or not.

And maybe, if I were lucky, he'd be just tolerable enough that I wouldn't fantasize about stabbing him in his sleep.

Two weeks.

Two weeks until I become Mrs. Jameson Connelly.

I headed for the training room, needing to work off the rage that was burning through my veins. My knives were waiting, perfectly balanced and sharp enough to split hairs.

I started running through drills, each throw finding its target with satisfying precision.

This was fine. I could handle this.

It was just a marriage. Just another job.

How complicated could it possibly be?