Page 1 of Vicious Temptation
1
BELLA
The worst day of my life was a perfectly beautiful, sunny day. The kind of day any woman would want to get married on. A quintessential late spring afternoon in New York, with clear skies and a warm breeze. I can easily recall the feeling of the warmth on my skin before I walked into the cathedral, the smell of the sprays of pink and white roses that filled the space, overwhelming the usual wood-and-incense scent, seeing the glow of that same spring sunshine filtering through the windows and lighting up the interior on what is supposed to be the happiest day of any woman’s life.
Three months later, waking up to sunshine still makes my stomach twist and my palms sweat. And this morning, when I’m supposed to meet my father in his office after breakfast to talk, is no different.
I roll out of bed, leaving my hair loose around my face as I slip into a pair of wide-cut jeans and a long-sleeved, light-weight hoodie, shoving my feet into a pair of Vans. Downstairs, I can hear the sound of the few household staff who work for my father moving around. The sound sets my teeth on edge, making me feel anxious and jittery. I quickly scrape my hair up into a messy bun atop my head, wrapping my arms around myself as I head down the hall to the stairs that lead to the first floor of our New York countryside home.
It’s not a grand mansion. My father has the D’Amelio name, but only a fraction of their wealth. Lately, things have gotten a bit shinier around here, largely because of what Salvatore D’Amelio, one of the high-ranking mafia bosses in the Northeast, paid my father to get him to sign a marriage contract between me and Pyotr Lasilov, the Bratva pakhan’s heir.
Just the thought of his name makes my stomach twist again, a queasy, panicked feeling spreading through me until I’m not sure I’ll be able to eat breakfast.
But breakfast is waiting for me in the sunny informal dining room, at a single place setting near the head of the table. My father and I used to have breakfast together, even though he’s not the most pleasant man to spend time with, and we don’t ever have much to talk about. But with just the two of us living here, it felt necessary. To feel like we’re some semblance of a family.
Now, I wake up much later than he does, and he’s given up trying to get me to do otherwise. So if I see him at all, it’s at dinnertime, when he insists on meals served by our singular household staff member who stays at night.
I sink down into the chair, pulling my feet up onto the seat and tucking them under me. I couldn’t do this if my father was here; he’d insist on proper posture and ladylike behavior, but when I’m by myself, I can do what I want. And I feel better like this. Safer, with my knees tucked up against my chest and one arm wrapped around them as I tug the hoodie closer around my neck and reach for the smoothie sitting to one side of the china bowl in front of me.
It tastes like peach, honey, and vanilla—my favorite. There’s probably some spinach and avocado mixed in, too, but I don’t taste it. Gladys, our cook, has been on a mission to figure out how to make sure I get enough vitamins, and smoothies in the morning have seemed to work so far.
For an entire month, I could barely eat at all. I’m just now starting to gain some of the weight back, so I don’t look like a scarecrow instead of a person.
There’s a bowl of hot steel-cut oatmeal in front of me, too, with a spoonful of brown sugar on top of it, studded with dried fruits and drizzled with real cream. Gladys is really trying to tempt me to eat more in the mornings, but this one especially, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to manage it.
Whatever it is that my father wants to talk to me about this morning, the idea of it has a lump of dread lodged in my stomach, making it difficult for me to even choke the smoothie down.
I manage most of it, and a few bites of the oatmeal. I glance at the clock as I swallow a third sticky bite down, seeing it’s just after eleven. If I don’t go now, I’ll miss him before he leaves—for some business lunch, probably—and while it will mean putting off whatever news he has for me, he’ll also be pissed at me for stalling.
The thought of dealing with that makes me shiver; wrapping my arms around myself despite the warmth of the sunny room, and I push my chair away from the table, resolutely heading for my father’s office.
I knock once, and walk in.
His office has looked the same for as long as I can remember. It’s all dark wood—from the floor-to-ceiling paneling, the hardwood floor, the bookshelves, and the desk with the two leather-backed chairs sitting in front of it. There’s a bay window behind him, looking out at the small countryside property that our house is located on. The windows are tightly shut, and the air in here is frigid. My father likes to keep visitors to his office a little uncomfortable. It makes him feel powerful, and that’s something he has very little of.
Which is why it didn’t surprise me that he was willing to sell me off in marriage to the Bratva. It earned him money and the favor of the don, and would have made him father-in-law to the Bratva heir. A huge jump up in status for a man whose family normally, just barely, can consider themselves a part of mafia society.
“Dad.” I greet him as I walk in, feeling a small shiver of nerves in the pit of my stomach. My father isn’t a cruel man, but he’s not a warm and loving one, either. Whatever he has to tell me today, it won’t matter much how I feel about it, if he’s already made a decision.
He looks up from behind his desk—a tall, thin man in his fifties with hair that’s gone entirely grey, and a trimmed mustache and beard. He’s wearing a button-down shirt with the collar open, the sleeves neatly closed at the wrists, and there’s a file open on the desk in front of him. I see a glimpse of a man’s picture inside of it, a middle-aged man, and I feel that queasy ripple again.
Some gut instinct, my own intuition maybe, is telling me that I’m not going to like what this meeting is about.
“Bella.” He gestures for me to sit down, and I do, sinking into one of the stiff leather chairs. I keep my hands in my lap and my feet on the floor, but my father still gives me a disapproving look as he takes in my choice of clothing. Jeans and a hoodie aren’t my father’s idea of appropriate clothing, but I’m not about to spend my day in business casual while I while away the hours at home.
“You look like a street urchin. It’s summer.”
“It’s definitely barely above fifty degrees in your office, so I think I made the right choice.” I purse my lips, feeling my heartbeat ratchet up a notch. “What’s going on?”
My father makes a small, disgruntled noise in the back of his throat. “What’s going on, Bella, is that I think I’ve finally managed to arrange a new match for you. Tommas Ferrero. Not one of the most distinguished mafia names, but after what happened with your last engagement—” he breaks off, and I feel my entire body go rigid. That shiver of nerves turns into a twisting feeling in my gut, just the mention of my last engagement triggering a response that makes me want to flee back up to my room and curl beneath the covers like a child. As if hiding in my bed could make it all go away, undo everything that’s happened.
And now, my father is mentioning the name of another man.
This. This is exactly what I was afraid of when my father said he wanted to meet.
“Finally?” The word comes out as a hoarse croak past the tightness in my throat. “It’s been three months. Not—years. You make it sound like I’m some kind of—Victorian spinster or something?—”
“The sooner the better.” My father pushes the papers towards me, the man’s photo on top of it. “It’s hard enough to find anyone interested, Bella. Our family name has some weight, but you know as well as I do how far down in the ranks I am. And after the incident with Pyotr—well, Tommas is the first who’s shown any interest in you at all.”