Page 1 of His to Honor

PROLOGUE

Giulia

Being the punchline in such a cruel joke feels like punishment for some crime I committed in a past life. It certainly wasn’t because of anything I’ve done in this one. I’ve always tried to be a good person. To redress the balance for my family’s involvement in the mafia, I try to help those in need. Nice could be my middle name. You’d think that would buy me some consideration, but not in this world. As far as the people around me are concerned, compassion is a synonym for weakness. It makes me a prime target for their mockery.

Walking through the restaurant in new black shoes that pinch my toes, I politely acknowledge my guests. I can’t help feeling that most of them are reveling in my misery. It’s only been a week since the same people attended the celebration of my wedding. Today, we’re gathered for my husband’s wake.

Gossip about his sudden demise and whether I played a part in it is rife. It’s not my fault Johnny’s heart gave out. A man his ageshould have known better than to exert himself by carrying his new bride over the threshold.

Perhaps I should have stayed away from the funeral. I could have claimed to have been too overcome with grief to face people. Nobody would have believed me, though. Johnny Lombardi was considered a complete pig. Everyone probably imagined he was a brute to me. It was what I expected when I was told I had to marry him, but he wasn’t as bad as I feared. Despite his reputation, he was pretty decent to me. He was upfront about his expectations. He wasn’t what I wanted in a husband, but I think he’d have taken care of me.

When it came down to it, skipping the funeral wasn’t really an option. My absence would only have amplified the gossip. As it is, I’m under intense scrutiny. Every gesture I make, each expression that forms on my face is being torn apart as people try to work out how I feel about the unfortunate turn my life has taken.

Some of the women openly discuss my appearance. From what I’ve overheard, it seems my hairstyle doesn’t suit me. My face is too round for the wavy look. My dress doesn’t fare well with them either. Apparently it’s too drab even for a funeral. I’m dishonoring Johnny with my lack of sartorial elegance. I don’t see what’s wrong with what I’m wearing. It’s a simple black shift dress that falls to just above my knee. What do these women want me to wear? A ball gown and tiara?

While the women critique my fashion sense, the principal topic of conversation among the men is whether the marriage was consummated before Johnny collapsed. There are a lot of crude jokes being made and I think some men are even laying bets on the current state of my hymen. I’ll never tell any of these assholes I am still a virgin. Johnny keeled over seconds afterhelping me out of the monstrous wedding gown my stepmother, Valeria, insisted I wore. People can never know I’m still untouched. It would make me a worthy prize for some other mobster, and there aren’t many I’d want to be shackled to.

Just as I decide I’ve been among these awful people for long enough, I finally see a friendly face. Ava Volante, the beautiful fifty-something matriarch of the crime family my father is a part of, gets up from her chair and throws her arms around me.

“Giulia, my darling. I am so sorry this happened to you.”

I’m not sure if she means me being married off to a man more than twice my age or becoming a widow so soon.

“Thank you, Mrs. Volante.”

Holding me away from her, she shakes her head and tuts. “It’s Ava. You know me well enough by now to call me by name.”

I nod, though it’s hard for me to be informal around a woman who’s not only the widow of the feared mob boss Marco Volante, but is also the mother of my oldest friend. Her fourth son, Matteo, and I have been close since we were in elementary school. I shared my snacks with him one lunchtime and it seems it’s true about the way to a man’s heart being through his stomach because we’ve been friends ever since. His mother is a woman I’ve always had the greatest respect for. It feels weird to address her by name.

“Yes, Ava.”

She drops her hands from my shoulders and tilts her head to one side as she studies me. There’s no criticism in her gaze, only concern.

“You look pale, sweetie. Let’s go to the terrace.” She links her arm with mine. “Matteo’s out there.”

It’s like she said the magic words to lift me out of my funk. My mood instantly lightens. “I didn’t realize he was here.”

“Of course he is. We all wanted to be here for you.”

“Not Isabella.” I speak without thinking.

“No,” Ava says sadly. “Not Isabella.”

After Matteo, Isabella is my oldest friend. She married Ava’s son, Antonio, a few months ago. Something happened between them and she was sent away. I tried to get in touch with her, but it was made clear to me that contacting the boss’s wife is strictly forbidden. All I’ve been able to find out is that Isabella is living in some beach house the Volantes own on Long Island. I’ve asked Matteo for more information, but he always brushes me off.

Allowing the subject to drop, I let Ava lead me out through the French doors to the terrace overlooking Central Park. The view from up here is spectacular. Johnny left specific instructions about how he wanted his funeral and asked for a magnificent party to send him on his way. I left the organization to his sister, Cosima, and she’s done him proud.

I scan the terrace and immediately find Matteo. He’s standing with two of his four brothers, Alessandro and Leo. All three are tall and muscular, with dark hair and deep brown eyes. None of them would look out of place on the cover of a steamy romance novel.

Standing with them is a shorter man with blond hair and a woman I can’t stand, Marissa Locatelli. She’s exactly the type of woman I imagine Matteo will marry one day. A tall, slenderbrunette, she’s always up to date with the latest fashion trends. People clamor to be by her side.

Unfortunately, she has all the personality of a cardboard cutout. Matteo won’t care about that, though. A beautiful woman to warm his bed and bear his children is all he requires in a wife. He may be a good friend to me, but when it comes to the women he fucks, he’s as much of an asshole as the other Made Men.

We walk toward them, but I stop dead, ten feet away, as the man I don’t know speaks. “Poor old Johnny probably froze to death the moment he touched her.”

It doesn’t take a genius to realize he’s talking about me. Ava tries to pull me forward so we’ll be noticed before any further remarks are made, but I dig my heels in. Whatever they have to say about me, I want to hear it.

“Or strained himself trying to force her thighs open.” That came from Alessandro. A stab of pain strikes deep in my chest. Although I don’t know him as well as I do Matteo, I always considered him a friend.

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