Page 88 of Psychotic Faith
Epilogue - Marco
Istand in my office overlooking Chicago’s skyline, reading intelligence reports that make my jaw clench.
Valentina Bernardi is getting married.
That bratty principessa who flung wine in my face at a peace negotiation will walk down the aisle in six weeks—not to some Bernardi cousin or allied family associate, which would be acceptable, expected even, but to Liam fucking O’Brien, heir to the Irish mob’s Chicago operations.
“Clever,” I murmur, setting the report aside. Old man Bernardi has finally found a way around our Rosetti stranglehold on Chicago. An Irish-Italian alliance would control the docks, half the unions, and have enough political leverage to challenge my authority.
My phone buzzes. A photo arrives from my intelligence network—Valentina in her wedding dress at a fitting. Cream silk and lace, making her look innocent when I know she’s anything but. Twenty-three to my thirty-five, all fire and defiance wrapped in designer clothes.
The last time we spoke, she called me a “fossilized relic of outdated traditions” when I refused her family’s proposed territory restructuring. That was two years ago. I can still see the flash of her dark eyes, the way her hands gestured wildly whenever she was passionate.
A knock breaks my reverie. Luca enters without waiting—one of the few who can.
“Faith’s pregnant,” he announces, looking terrified.
I study him. Three months since he found his match in the judge’s daughter. The family is still adjusting to Luca having genuine emotions beyond murderous rage.
“Congratulations. Have you told the others?”
“Sofia knows. She’s teaching Faith to shoot while she can still move properly.” He hesitates. “There’s something else. The Irish are moving on the docks. Heard they have Bernardi backing.”
“I’m aware.” I turn back to Valentina’s photo—her chin raised even during a dress fitting, as if she’s daring the world. “The wedding is in six weeks.”
Luca leans in to see the image. “The Bernardi princess? She’s marrying Irish?”
“Attempting to.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Attempting?”
I go quiet, calculating. The alliance cannot stand. Chicago has been Rosetti territory for three generations. More than that, the thought of Valentina in another man’s bed, carrying Irish babies, building an empire with O’Brien…
“Do you remember,” I say slowly, “Great-Grandfather’s solution to the Greco problem?”
Luca’s eyes widen. In 1952, Giuseppe Rosetti prevented an unwanted alliance by kidnapping the bride from her wedding and marrying her himself—keeping her until Stockholm syndrome kicked in, until she bore him three sons, until her original family wouldn’t take her back even if she wanted to leave.
“That was seventy years ago,” Luca points out. “Different world.”
“Same solutions.” I pick up my phone and type a message to my security team. “I need the church under surveillance. Every exit mapped. The reception venue, too, in case I miss the ceremony.”
“You’re going to take her? From her wedding?”
“Would you have let Faith marry another man?” I ask, knowing his answer. Although this is different, purely business.
He’s silent, then says, “She’ll fight you. The Bernardi princess isn’t some trembling virgin from the 1950s. She knows our world.”
“Good. I prefer my enemies to understand exactly what’s happening to them.” I remember her throwing that wine, the satisfied smirk as it stained my Armani suit. “Besides, virgins are overrated. I’d rather have someone who’ll make it interesting.”
“This will mean war with the Bernardis and the Irish.”
“Then war it is.” My voice carries the calm certainty that made me Don at twenty-five. “But there will be no alliance. And Valentina Bernardi will be Valentina Rosetti before she has time to process what happened.”
Luca studies me with new interest. “I’ve never seen you want something personally before. It’s always been about the family, the business.”
My expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in my dark eyes. “The family needs to prevent this alliance.”
“That’s not why you’re doing this.”
