Page 131 of Hate Mates

The Capo’s Yuletide Bride by Brooke Summers

A BOSTON ELITE SYNDICATE PREQUEL

ONE

Vittoria

“Remember what I said,” my father says in a low voice as he helps me out of the car. His hand tightens slightly around mine—enough to warn, but not enough to hurt. “Do not mess this up, Vittoria.”

I swallow hard, plastering a small, albeit fake, smile on my face. “Of course,” I say, though my tone is a little harder than I had intended.

My father's eyes narrow slightly, but he says nothing more as we approach the grand entrance of the Mariano estate. It’s cold out; there’s snow on the ground, and flutters continue to fall. It’s beautiful and if I had the time, I’d admire it. But right now, I don’t—I have other matters on my mind. The gravel crunches beneath our feet, and the snow wets our shoes as each step brings us closer to the lion's den.

I smooth down my emerald green dress, feeling the weight of expectations pressing down on my shoulders. This dinner party isn't just a social gathering; it's a show. I’m set to marry the head of the Mariano family here in Boston. The union is to secure a powerful alliance between the two families that spans across the Atlantic Ocean. And I'm the pawn being moved across the board.

A part of me is glad that I’m moving halfway across the world, my father isn’t the nicest of men. He gets a little rough when things don’t go his way and I’m his favorite target. My brothers are older than I am, and they’re both broader and taller than our father. I get that he can be stressed sometimes, but I shouldn’t have to be the one who takes the brunt of his aggression.

I’m going to miss my best friend the most—Alastríona. She’s been my best friend since we were little girls. God, being in a different time zone than hers is going to be hard, not being able to see her every day is going to be even harder.

As we reach the ornate double doors, I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what's to come. The butler greets us with a polite nod, ushering us into a foyer that screams money and doesn’t look homey at all—in fact, it looks like something out of a museum.

"Domenico!" I hear someone call out in a cold and detached voice. I turn toward the sound and come face to face with my soon-to-be husband, Cesare Mariano, the head of the Mariano family. "Vittoria," he greets with a slight nod of his head.

"Mr. Mariano," I say, my voice steady despite the nerves fluttering in my stomach. I’ve been taught to respect my elders and to obey what a man says. I know our world and the ways in which women are supposed to behave.

His eyes appraise me, and I feel like a prized mare being evaluated at auction. He runs his gaze down my body, and it takes everything in me not to recoil. He turns to my father and greets him, the two begin to talk quietly and I tune them out.

Cesare is forty-two, he lost his wife last year to a crazed asshole who was taking out powerful families around the world. Beatrice Mariano had been married to Cesare for twenty-one years; they have six children. The eldest, Lorenzo, is twenty, next are the twins, Ciro and Elisabetta who are almost nineteen, thenGiovanni who is eighteen, and the two youngest are Sofia and Valentina, who are sixteen.

I’m set to marry Cesare, after the last year’s craziness—when one of his own that went on a killing spree—he and the rest of the Boston Elite Syndicate needed to strengthen their ties with the criminal underworld. For some reason, I was the unlucky girl who drew the short straw to marry the man who is almost twenty-five years my senior.

Cesare's hand finds the small of my back, guiding me further into the huge mansion. I resist the urge to shrug it off, knowing my father's watchful eyes are upon us.

"Come, let me introduce you to the children," Cesare’s voice still cold as ice.

We enter a lavish sitting room where five of his children are seated. Their conversations halt abruptly as we enter, all eyes turning to me. I recognize them immediately from the dossiers I've studied: Lorenzo, the twins Ciro and Elisabetta, Giovanni, and Sofia. Valentina, the youngest, is absent.

"Children," Cesare announces, "this is Vittoria, my future wife."

The word hangs in the air like a bad smell. I force my smile wider, ignoring the looks of disdain and curiosity directed my way. Lorenzo, the eldest, steps forward first. He's handsome, with his father's strong jaw and dark eyes. Those eyes now regard me with thinly veiled contempt.

"Welcome to our home," he says, his tone clipped. "I hope you'll find it... comfortable."

I nod, knowing full well the double meaning behind his words. This isn't just their home—it's about to become my gilded cage.

The twins approach next, mirror images of blonde hair and icy blue eyes. Ciro's handshake is firm, almost challenging, while Elisabetta's is limp and dismissive.

Giovanni hangs back, his gaze analytical as if trying to solve a particularly tricky puzzle. Sofia, the youngest present, doesn't even try to hide her disgust.

As Cesare leads me around the room, making stilted introductions, I can't help but wonder where Valentina is. Is she hiding, revolted by the idea of meeting her father's child bride? Or has she found a way to escape this suffocating dinner that we’re about to have?

I envy her, wherever she is. As Cesare's hand tightens possessively on my waist, I realize that my own chance at escape has long since passed. I'm in the lion's den now, and there's no going back.

The tension in the room is palpable as we move towards the dining area. I can feel his children's eyes boring into my back. Their snide remarks—calling me a whore and a gold digger are made in Italian. I get it; they assume I don’t speak the language. But fuck them, I do. My father ensured that we knew the languages of our parents. I’m fluent in Italian and Irish—not to mention German, Spanish, and Mandarin. My mam wanted me to be able to hold my own, to be adept in multiple languages so that I could have an advantage. She had hoped for a different life for me, but it was never on the cards. My father always planned on using me as a pawn in his world. Cesare's hand remains firmly on my waist, a constant reminder of my new reality.

As we enter the dining room, I'm struck by the sheer grandeur of it. A massive crystal chandelier hangs above a table that could easily seat twenty. The china gleams, and the silverware sparkles under the warm light. It's beautiful, but cold—much like everything else in this house.

"Please, sit." Cesare gestures to the chair at his right. I obey, carefully arranging my dress as I take my seat. My father sits across from me, his eyes still sharp and watchful.

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