Unspoken Promises

Damian

“Fuck this.” I roar, hurling my crystal scotch glass at the wall. It shatters like every other plan in my life. “Great. Now I’ll have to get one of the whores down here to clean it up.”

I slump into my chair and let the rage simmer inside me.

Maybe I should’ve shown a little remorse; pretended to care that my fiancée ran out in tears after catching me balls-deep in another woman. But I don’t. I can’t even pretend that I do. I just never expected her to walk in. But maybe it’s for the best. Let her cry to her daddy. Maybe her tears will prepare her for what life with me will actually be like. I’d love to hear what that pedo fuck has to say.

I can’t stand her father, Riccardo Morelli. Never could. I’ve got no respect for any man who touches or sells kids. We’ve been trying to catch him for years, but the bastard’s slippery. Last time we had something solid, his father swept it under the rug. We couldn’t touch him. Still can’t.

I need to focus, but my brain’s all over the place; thoughts bouncing around like bullets with no target. I need to clear my head, figure out a way out of this mess. But no matter what I come up with, one thing doesn’t change. In five days, I’m still being forced to marry Sofia Morelli.

Sofia. One of the infamous Morelli twins. Granddaughter of Gino Morelli; Connecticut’s Underboss. Her father Riccardo, he’s a pathetic excuse for a captain. He only wears the title because he’s Gino’s son. But he’s still totally useless.

Still, in our world, blood matters. And the Morellis hold weight. Gino isn’t just another old-school relic; he helped raise both Luca and Mario. Our Capo and our Consigliere. Gino was there after their father died. He’s been their shadow, their mentor, their iron fist and most loyal friend. Even my father respects the old man and that says something.

Sofia’s always front and center at every event. Always the one in the spotlight, leaving everyone around her miserable. But her twin? I’ve never even seen her. Not even once. Where the hell has, she been hiding? I remember hearing whispers from some of the old ladies. The twin was some kind of prodigy. A female Sheldon Cooper or some shit. Graduated high school at twelve, shipped off to California to study biochemical engineering. Nerd.

But that was years ago. Nobody talks about her anymore. I guess the family was embarrassed. Can’t parade around a socially awkward genius in a world that only values beauty, obedience, purity and marriageability. Especially not in the Traditionalist sector of The Familia. And Gino Morelli? He’s the king of that tribe. Stuck in the past like it’s still 1925.

I remember something he once told my father: ‘She’ll spend her days raising your children and keeping your house clean and inviting. Keep them at home, barefoot and pregnant. That’s all they need.’

Yeah. Real modern parenting. No wonder the second Morelli girl disappeared.

I lean back; eyes locked on the ceiling as my thoughts spiral, once again.

Has anyone in an arranged marriage ever actually been happy? Not a single person I knew. I spent my childhood listening to my mother cry through the walls. She thought I didn’t hear, but I did, every stifled sob, every whimper of pain.

Dad was a great father to me: his heir, his legacy. I was the golden child. But I knew the truth. He was a monster to her. When he wasn’t home beating my mother, he was out screwing his stable of whores. He thrived on her insecurity, enjoyed her silence. He controlled her completely. I don’t know which was worse, the bruises or the mind games.

I always wondered why my grandfather married his only daughter off to a man like that. My dad ran the brothels and sex clubs for The Familia. You really think he wasn’t sampling some of the merchandise?

If you have a daughter, wouldn’t you want love and happiness for her? What kind of sick bastard chooses that life for his little girl? So now I’m supposed to do the same thing to someone else? Become the same kind of husband? Why would Riccardo Morelli want to hand over his pampered little princess to me?

Dad raised me to take over. Told me from birth, that I would be the next ‘Romancer’: the man who handles the whores, grooms the girls, and keeps the elite clients satisfied.

At twenty-five, I’ve already secured over thirty high-end women for our top clients, and the list keeps growing. I’m fucking great at my job. And I love it.

We are The Familia. One of the most ruthless crime families in the U.S. and Italy, bound by blood and legacy. We rule through loyalty and fear. We pride ourselves on tradition. But the truth? We’re still just spoiled brats doing what Mommy and Daddy tell us to. They say tradition keeps our culture alive. The good, the bad, and especially the ugly.

Apparently, the feud between the Morelli’s and the Bernardi’s started when my great-great-grandfather stole olive oil from hers. No joke. That’s the legacy we’re fixing with this marriage. That’s what started all this. Sounds like a damn fairy tale. Or a shitty mob sitcom.

A year ago, our grandfathers decided it was time to act on their truce. The result? My engagement to Sofia. No one asked if I was ready. Or if I even liked her. Or if I gave a single fuck. They’ve even tried arranging meetings between us over the past year. I always made sure business got in the way. I haven’t touched her. Haven’t kissed her. Haven’t even been alone with her. The truth is, I don’t want to be.

Don’t get me wrong, Sofia’s beautiful. But she’s just not my type. And if I wanted her, I wouldn’t need a damn arranged marriage to make it happen.

A loud knock pulls me out of my spiral.

“Damian, you in there?” Matt’s voice slurs through the door. “Can’t hide, buddy. It’s stag night! Let’s go find some girls and drinks to celebrate your last few days of freedom!”

Matthew Puliatti. My best friend. The only one I trust. And definitely already a few drinks in.

“Come on, brother. Let’s get this party started. Five more days before you’re stuck with the same pussy for the rest of your life,” he laughs.

I roll my eyes. Like this arranged marriage is going to bind me to one pussy. I am the man, I can get as much pussy as I want, it’s our women who are bound to only their husbands.

“The door’s open, asshole.”

The door swings wide and in stumbles Matt, all grins and swagger.

“Go on without me,” I mutter. “I’ve got nothing to celebrate. Sofia walked in on me fucking Alyssa. She’s probably crying to her pedo-daddy as we speak.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but both our phones buzz at the same time. A text. Unknown name. Unknown number. We open them. Silence. My sweet, innocent fiancée has been a very bad girl.

Matt whistles low. “Oh man, that’s Sofia? Is she riding her bodyguard? That’s the dumb one, right? What’s his name again?”

I don’t answer. Because this; this right here is my way out. In my hands, I now have exactly what I’ve been praying for. Video. Photos. Proof. Enough to destroy this engagement and walk away clean. My golden fucking ticket.