Page 25 of Forced Arrangement

“I couldn’t treat you like a toy or piece of property even if I wanted to. You’re the heir to one of the largest syndicates in this country. You will have men bowing to you, falling to their knees to fulfill your every demand. God knows I might be one of them. You’re the power, Sophia. I’m just here to help you see that. And yes, whatever happens we will face it as partners, equal partners. Together.”

“Yeah,” she says quietly. “Together.”

“Sophia,” I say. “The betrothal, it’s not what you think it is. It’s not really optional. If we don’t get married, you will essentially forfeit your rights to the family name. I know it’s antiquated and chauvinistic, but your father set things up this way to try and protect you.”

“To protect me?” she says, her expression filled with distaste. “You keep saying that. I don’t believe it.”

“Listen to me, Sophia,” I say to her, coming to sit beside her. I take her hand, willing her to understand. “The ways of Cosa Nostra are practically set in stone. No female dons, no women in charge. Women who are cast off from powerful families or daughters without fathers are up for grabs. Your father wanted to be sure that you were protected from that, that you were allowed to take power without years of bloodshed.”

“I don’t want to marry you,” she whispers, and I try to ignore the pain that her words cause me. I don’t know why they should hurt. We only just met. It’s reasonable that she wouldn’t want to get married.

I lean forward and kiss her forehead. “I know,Tesoro mio,”I say back quietly. “We will pretend for now, but we need to be convincing. I will try to make sure that you don’t have to do anything that you don’t want to do. I promise you.”

“I’m angry at you for keeping this from me,” she says, her voice louder. She leans back to look at me, tears standing in her hazel eyes. They glimmer in the evening light, and I hate the small tremor in her lower lip.

“You should be,” I tell her, my voice breaking a little on the words. I feel terrible, and I have to admit that Franco was right. I should have told her right away.

“I forgive you,” she says, the tears slipping down her cheeks.

“You don’t have to,” I tell her.

“I have no choice,” she argues, blinking and swiping at her tears. “None of you have left me any choice.”

I can see the doubt in her eyes, the fear that maybe, just maybe, we won’t make it through this. And for the first time, I’m not sure if I have the answers she needs.

But I will find them. For her, I will find them.

Even if it means risking my own safety in the process.

Chapter Nine

Sophia

The elevator doors slid open with a quiet chime, revealing the dimly lit, industrial-chic space that makes up Angelo’s office. The decor is sparse but stylish—exposed brick walls, sleek furniture, and a large desk that dominates the room. Despite its minimalism, everything in here screams power.

I step inside, my heart pounding in my chest. This isn’t just some run-of-the-mill introduction. This is part of rejoining the mafia world, my father’s world, and now—whether I like it or not—it’s mine. Angelo was right about one thing: I had to confront this head-on.

Angelo is already standing by the window, hands in his pockets, looking as composed as ever. His calm, collected demeanor is still irritating to me, especially when I feel like my nerves are about to snap. But my attention shifts when I see the man standing beside him.

He’s tall, almost too lean, with a dark, brooding energy that makes the air feel a little heavier. His hair is slicked back and ashadow of stubble lines his jaw. He’s dressed in black, from his tailored suit to the steel-toed boots that peek out from under his pant cuffs.

This is an old-school mafia man in new clothes. I remember men like him meeting with my father at all hours of the day and night. A true Sicilian mobster never fails to make my blood run cold.

“Franco,” Angelo says smoothly, gesturing toward me, “this is Sophia Agostini.”

Franco’s eyes meet mine, and I feel the weight of his gaze—cold, assessing, like he’s trying to read me with a single glance. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t even bother pretending to be polite.

He just stands there, arms crossed, like he isn’t sure if he should shake my hand or toss me out the window. Honestly, I expect either thing in equal measure. I can’t tell anything about his intentions when I look into his dark eyes.

For a stretch, he says nothing. His silence is almost unbearable.

I square my shoulders, refusing to be intimidated. “Nice to meet you, Franco,” I say, my tone sharp.

“Is it?” he replies, his voice low and rough. He seems like he doesn’t believe me for a second.

I raise an eyebrow. So, this is how it was going to be.

Angelo clears his throat, stepping forward to ease the tension. “Franco’s my second-in-command. He’ll be working with us while you’re here, ensuring your safety.”

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