Page 1 of Cruel Heir

1

LUCIA

I’ve seen the grand ballroom in my family’s home many times before, but never like this. I’ve seen it full of tables for galas, string music filtering upstairs where I’ve always had to stay after catching a glimpse, isolated away from the adults and their parties. I’ve seen it draped in black for wakes and funeral receptions—once again, only a glimpse before I’ve been shuffled upstairs, never a part of things for very long. I’ve been kept carefully sheltered and tucked away here in my father’s grand estate in the Sicilian countryside. But tonight, all of that changes.

I hover at the top of the staircase, looking down. The room is already full of guests, that familiar string music drifting up to where I’m standing, waiting for my father to announce me, waiting to make my entrance. Two days ago, I turned eighteen—and tonight, I’m being presented to the Sicilian mafia elite and their guests, friends, and trusted acquaintances. I am my father’s most prized jewel, and tonight, I’m being allowed to glitter in public for the first time.

Nervously, I smooth my hands over my full skirt, feeling the carefully embroidered lace flowers scattered across it under my fingertips. I’ve had beautiful clothes and fine things all my life, but never anything this grand. The dress was handmade over the course of thepast year by the finest seamstresses my father could commission—a light blue ball gown that matches my eyes exactly, almost Cinderella-like in its construction. The bodice is reinforced satin, the neckline high enough to preserve my modesty, but shaped in a bustier-style to show off my slender curves. The sleeves are puffed tulle, draped just below my shoulders, showing off the delicate line of my throat and collarbones. Enticing, but not too seductive. Every man in that room below will be looking at me, some of them intending to make my father an offer.

I could be married to one of tonight’s guests in a matter of months.

My father’s voice booms out from below, encouraging his ‘esteemed guests’ to gather around. I feel my pulse flutter anxiously in my throat as I stand poised to descend into the crowd; this night that I’ve anticipated for so long is finally here. I see my father standing at the foot of the staircase with a glass of champagne in his hand, his iron-gray hair smoothed back, dressed impeccably in a bespoke tailored suit. Everything about tonight, from the masses of fresh flowers decorating the ballroom to the hand-sewn embroidery on my gown, the elite string quartet, and the fine china and crystal used to serve canapes and alcohol—all of it is meant to display my father’s power and wealth. He is the head of the Family, the most powerful man in the Italian mafia, and I am his daughter. All of this—and the man lucky enough to claim my hand in marriage, is my birthright.

“Allow me to introduce my daughter—Lucia Elysia Fontana!” His voice carries out over the room, deep and booming, and I feel the excitement spread through me. My feet carry me forward down the stairs one slow step at a time, my hand gliding down the banister rail like a princess in a movie. All of this feels like a dream—the pinnacle of what I’ve been waiting for, a day even more exciting than my wedding. My wedding day will be about the merging of two families, celebrating the rise in stature for whomever my father chooses and a close new ally for him, but tonight is aboutme.

This is my moment, and I’ll never truly have another like it.

I feel all of the eyes in the room on me as I nearly float down the stairs, feeling a flush of happiness and anticipation. I’ve imagined this moment over and over, and it’s finally here.

When I step down next to my father, he takes my hand, turning me to present me to the gathered guests. “My daughter,” he repeats, smiling broadly, clearly pleased with my performance—with the way all of the guests’ attention was riveted on me. My success tonight is my father’s success, proof that even without a mother to help raise me, I’ve become the perfect example of a mafia princess.

“May I?” An unfamiliar man steps forward, tall and dark-haired, likely in his mid-thirties. I see faint lines at the corners of his hazel eyes and the slightest hints of silver in his hair, but he’s handsome enough, and I take his hand as he offers it. “It would be my delight to claim your first dance, Miss Fontana.”

I have no doubt that my father orchestrated this, that this man is someone who he sees as a possible match for me. I also know that I’m expected to accept.

“Of course.” I smile graciously, resting my hand in his palm. “Signore—?”

“You may call me Mattias.” He smiles, drawing me through the crowd towards the dance floor, where other couples are swaying to the music. “I must admit, I’ve already spoken with your father. I was very eager to be able to claim the honor of the first dance tonight.”

His hand rests on the small of my back, a respectful space between us as his other hand wraps around mine. The steps to the music are slow and practiced, leaving plenty of opportunity for us to speak to each other.

“I’m flattered that you were so eager.” Everything I say is as practiced as the dance taught to me over long hours, learning etiquette and conversation from the private tutors my father employed for me. Mattias, I expect, is choosing his words with as much care.

I’m aware that arranging my marriage is a delicate matter. The man my father chooses must be from a family close enough to the highest ranks of Sicilian dons that he’s worthy of me. He has to be someone with respect for my father, lest my father risk allowing asnake into our midst. He must be respected by others, so that the marriage doesn’t diminish my father’s standing. He must be wealthy enough that he won’t be tempted by his proximity to my family to take more than his share. He has to be fearsome enough that he will add to my father’s strength, not take away from it.

Whether the man my father chooses is handsome, kind, or loving—those things aren’t taken into account. Which means I’m relieved that Mattias seems to at least be respectful—and he’s certainly handsome. As we move across the dance floor, I can imagine kissing him. There’s no surge of desire or spark of chemistry, but when I imagine his lips pressed to mine, the hand on my back moving over me with more urgency, the idea doesn’t make me uncomfortable.

Anyway, even if my husband isn’t handsome or kind, I won’t have to endure him for long. If there’s anything I’ve learned both from the women who taught me my role in this world and from the whispers of the maids around me, mafia husbands rarely spend much time in their wives’ beds. The purpose of fucking your wife is to produce an heir, not for pleasure.

As for how the wives feel about that—no one ever answered that question for me.

“Any man would be eager for the possibility to have you as his bride.” Mattias’s accent is thick, warm, and rich as it fills the air around us, as thick as my father’s. A Sicilian man to the bone, I can tell. I think that’s what my father wants, to marry me to someone from one of the old mafia bloodlines, someone close to the heart of the Family.

There was a time when I know there was talk of marrying me into one of the families in the States—someone in Chicago or Boston, perhaps. But from what little I can glean from the gossip and bits of conversation I overhear, there’s been upheaval recently there. Enough to make my father reconsider, and lean more heavily towards a marriage closer to home.

“Would I be your first wife?” I ask, smiling up at Mattias as he guides me across the dance floor. It’s a bit of a brazen question, but it’s one I’m curious to have the answer to. A widower means thepossibility of stepchildren, something that I feel terrified to handle at only eighteen. My own stepmother has stayed far away from the estate where I live, kept at a much more modern home in Rome. She had no interest in mothering me or my brother, and my father had no interest in giving her the task. She’s barely ten years older than I am, with children of her own now—my half-brother and sisters.

“Yes, you would be. I have not had the pleasure of marrying before.” Mattias looks at me curiously. “I hope that’s the answer that you were anticipating?”

A faint glow washes through me at the idea that he might care about my opinion on it. It’s not something I expected. “It is,” I tell him honestly. “At least we could both go into the marriage with equal inexperience.”

He laughs at that, a genuine sound that tells me he caught the joke I made. He’s certainly more experienced than I am in certain areas—I can’t imagine anymafiosobeing a virgin when he was wed—but in the matters of acting as husband and wife, we would at least be on equal ground.

“I have kept a woman at one of my estates,” he confesses, as the music begins to slow. “But I wasn’t there often. It wasn’t like living together.”

“Oh.” I’m not sure what to say—I didn’t expect him to tell me something so personal. His exploits, both before and after our marriage, are traditionally none of my concern. It makes me wonder how eager he is to secure my hand—and how much influence he thinks my wishes really have over my father. The latter thought makes me want to laugh.

I know that my father is a man others fear, in the vague sort of way that I also know the history of the country I was raised in and the ethos of Italian mafia culture. But I’ve never had cause to feel that fear or even witness it. I’ve spent my life being spoiled and pampered, lavished with every extravagance and the best of everything—lessons, tutors, clothes, jewelry, hobbies. My father is not a particularly warm man, but I’ve never felt less than treasured and cared for—even if it is somewhat in the way that I expect one treats a particularly precious and valuable possession.

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