Page 13 of Finn

“Who do you think the men will take orders from? You or an Italian they’ve known their entire life?” I ask with a bite to my tone.

Finn lifts his chin, meeting my challenge. “That’s all well and good for you, sweetheart, but where are you going to get the manpower to take over in the first place? They might be more inclined to listen to your father,” he emphasizes his last two words, driving home the point that it’s my father calling the shots, not me. “But it won’t do much good if your men are cut down for trying.”

The asshole has a point.

“The way I see it is we both need this deal. It’s no secret it’s expensive to have my shipments coming into ports so far from Boston. There’re a lot of palms to grease from those ports to Boston. And it’s also no secret that Cataldi has been bleeding the other families dry with his ever-increasing ‘taxes’ on shipments that aren’t his. You could use other ports like I do, but it isn’t going to solve any of our problems long term. We both need those ports, and I’d rather we create a united front for both of our families than fight Cataldi for power when he returns. If we’re going to do this, now’s the time. If not, then thank you for the meal and the fine Cuban.” Finn snuffs out the cigar on the crystal ashtray to the side of him and leans forward, looking me in the eye, daring me to…actually, I can’t quite tell. It’s either wish him good night and good luck or marry him and unite our two families, becoming one of the most powerful organizations on the East Coast.

I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge.

“Look over the contract, Mr. Monaghan. If it meets your standard, we’ll sign.” I meet his challenging gaze with one of my own. A small smile ticks up the corner of his mouth, and he nods.

When my father hands him the contract, he reviews it quickly and hands it to Cillian, who does the same. The room is quiet as they go over the short document.

I catch my father’s eyes, and he smiles, tipping his head down slightly in a nod of appreciation.

Cillian hands the contract back to Finn, who asks my father for a pen. He signs the paper with a flourish and smiles widely at me.

“Welcome to the family, Mrs. Monaghan.”

My mother is a master at getting shopkeepers to bend over backward for her. It’s been two days since having dinner with Finn, and I’m already wrapped in lace and silk, standing on a small platform in front of a huge mirror while a seamstress shoves pins into the expensive fabric, the needles poking dangerously close to my skin.

Gemma and my mother sit on a dark purple velvet couch, and from the reflection in the mirror, I see the tears in my mother’s eyes.

“You look so beautiful,” she says for the hundredth time, and I fight not to roll my eyes.

I love my mother and want her to have her moment seeing me in my wedding dress, but it’s not as though this is some happy love connection that turned into a marriage proposal. This is a business transaction that’s resulting in a marriage and a territory takeover. The only reason there’s going to be an actual wedding in a church is because my mother wouldn’t have it any other way, and from the sound of it, neither would Finn’s.

In ten days’ time, we’re to be married at St. Michael’s in front of three hundred of our closest friends and family. Though we agreed it would be best to show the world and the other families that Finn and I are committed to this marriage, hence the lavish wedding in a church, I’m not looking forward to having to carry on this farce in front of so many people. I’m good at keeping a straight face in the company of my father’s men, but to play a blushing bride is miles out of my comfort zone.

Gemma hands my mother another tissue from her bag and catches my eye in the mirror, trying not to laugh at the uncomfortable look on my face.

Since Gemma is aware of the fact this is business and not a love match, she didn’t bother squealing with glee when I called and asked her to be my maid of honor. Instead, she told me she would stand with me, of course, and if I needed a quick escape, she could have a car running and waiting for me to jump in Thelma and Louise style. God, I love my best friend.

My mother wanted me to call five of my cousins to have them as bridesmaids, but I convinced her it would be a huge inconvenience to them, given the short notice. Of course, she argued, saying she could make it work, as made evident by the dress fitting in a wedding salon that had a six-month waiting list, but she finally relented. Barely.

“Mama, please don’t cry. It’s just a dress,” I tell the teary woman dabbing the corners of her eyes with a tissue.

“I can’t help it. You’ll understand when you have a daughter of your own.”

Much to my relief, Finn didn’t bat an eye at there not being an heirs clause in the contract. The thought of being pregnant still terrifies me—even though it’s been years since the night my brother found me bloodied and bruised at the hands of my ex after I’d told him I was pregnant. He didn’t believe it was his for no other reason than he was a jealous asshole that swore the condoms he usually wore would have prevented the pregnancy. He accused me of trying to trap him into marriage. I miscarried that night in my brother’s bed, too ashamed to tell my parents. Though my father eventually got the truth from me, I never told my mother what happened. Gemma knows, and the look of sympathy she gives me when she sees my mind play through the memory is too much for me to deal with. I turn my gaze to the woman who’s just finishing with the pins.

“All right, Ms. Amatto, we’re set here. I’ll start on this today, and it shouldn’t take more than three days to finish.”

That’s a fucking miracle if I’ve ever heard of one. A small part of me may have been hoping there was no way my dress would be sorted on such short notice, then I could postpone the wedding. There’s no way to back out of the contract, not that I would do that to my father, but it would’ve been nice to have a few more days to let the idea that I was going to officially be a Monaghan sink in. Doesn’t really matter, though. It’s happening whether I’m used to the idea or not.

“I don’t have to be back to work for the rest of the day. How about the three of us have a nice lunch? Maybe you and I can try to get Alessia over there a little excited about her wedding. Does that sound good to you, Mrs. Amatto?”

The seamstress scrunches her brow at Gemma’s suggestion, obviously confused as to why I wouldn’t be excited about the “big day.” She probably assumed I was knocked up, and that’s why there was a rush to have this done so quickly.

I widen my eyes at Gemma, flick my gaze from my best friend to the seamstress, then back to Gemma. I see the moment it dawns on her that anyone dress shopping would be excited about their wedding and to not make it sound like I’m not. She shoots me an apologetic smile.

The shopkeeper may not know exactly who my father is, but it’s common knowledge in Boston that he’s a rich and powerful real estate developer. The last thing I want are rumors flying and the wrong person hearing them.

After one of the shop girls helps me out of the dress, the three of us head to my mother’s favorite five-star restaurant. I figured it was the least I could do since my lack of cheer was dampening this entire event for her. She says the mushroom risotto is the best she’s had in the States, and coming from a woman who grew up in Italy with a mother who could probably open her own five-star restaurant, that’s high praise. I’m no stranger to dining at some of the most high-end restaurants in the city, but every time I walk in here and am hit in the face with beige everything, I’m grateful I never married some fancy uptight heir to his father’s fortune. Not as though that was ever really an option. It’s just all so bland. The walls, the tables, the people. I have a little laugh to myself when I think about coming here after picking out the wedding dress I’m going to wear to marry the head of the Irish mob. I’m sure if any of the ladies drinking their chardonnay at the tables surrounding us knew who we really were, they’d have an absolute conniption over their niçoise salad.

The waiter brings us our menus and a wine list. Instead of ordering a glass, we decide to share a bottle of prosecco. I also let the waiter know that as soon as this one is finished, we’ll be ordering a second. It doesn’t hurt to be prepared.

“I understand this isn’t the most traditional way to start a marriage, sweetheart—”

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