Born in Blood Collection Volume 1 - Cora Reilly Page 0,1

said simply.

My stomach was in knots when I arrived in front of Father’s office. After a moment to stifle my nerves, I knocked.

“Come in.”

I entered, forcing my face to remain carefully guarded. Father sat behind his mahogany desk in a wide black leather armchair; behind him rose the mahogany shelves filled with books that Father had never read, but they hid a secret entrance to the basement and a corridor leading off the premises.

He looked up from a pile of sheets, gray hair slicked back. “Sit.”

I sank down on one of the chairs across from his desk and folded my hands in my lap, trying not to gnaw on my lower lip. Father hated that. I waited for him to start talking. He had a strange expression on his face as he scrutinized me. “The Bratva and the Triad are trying to claim our territories. They are getting bolder by the day. We’re luckier than the Las Vegas Famiglia who also has to deal with the Mexicans, but we can’t ignore the threat the Russians and the Taiwanese pose any longer.”

Confusion filled me. Father never talked about practicalities to us. Girls didn’t need to know about the finer details of the mob business. I knew better than to interrupt him.

“We have to lay our feud with the New York Famiglia to rest and combine forces if we want to fight the Bratva.” Peace with the Famiglia? Father and every other member of the Chicago Outfit hated the Famiglia. They had been killing each other for decades and only recently decided to ignore each other in favor of killing off the members of other crime organizations, like the Bratva and the Triad. “There is no stronger bond than blood. At least the Famiglia got that right.”

I frowned.

“Born in blood. Sworn in blood. That’s their motto.”

I nodded, but my confusion only grew.

“I met with Salvatore Vitiello yesterday.” Father met with the Capo dei Capi, the head of the New York mob? A meeting between New York and Chicago hadn’t taken place in a decade, and the last time hadn’t ended well. It was still referred to as Bloody Thursday. And Father wasn’t even the Boss. He was only the Consigliere, the adviser to Fiore Cavallaro, who ruled over the Outfit and with it, organized crime in the Midwest.

“We agreed that for peace to be an option, we had to become family.” Father’s eyes bored into me, and suddenly I didn’t want to hear what else he had to say. “Cavallaro and I determined that you would marry his oldest son Luca, the future Capo dei Capi of the Famiglia.”

I felt like I was falling. “Why me?”

“Vitiello and Fiore have talked on the phone several times in the last few weeks, and Vitiello wanted the most beautiful girl for his son. Of course, we couldn’t give him the daughter of one of our soldiers. Fiore doesn’t have unmarried daughters, so he said you were the most beautiful girl available.” Gianna was just as beautiful, but she was younger. That probably saved her.

“There are so many beautiful girls,” I choked out. I couldn’t breathe. Father looked at me as if I were his most prized possession.

“There aren’t many Italian girls with hair like yours. Fiore described it as golden.” Father guffawed. “You are our door into the New York Famiglia.”

“But, Father, I’m fifteen. I can’t marry.”

Father made a dismissive gesture. “If I were to agree, you could. What do we care for laws?”

I gripped the armrests so tightly, my knuckles were turning white, but I didn’t feel pain. Instead, numbness was working its way through my body.

“But I told Salvatore that the wedding would have to wait until you turn eighteen. Your mother was adamant you be of age and finish school. Fiore let her begging get to him.”

So the Boss had told my father the wedding had to wait. My own father would have thrown me into the arms of my future husband at this very moment. My husband. A wave of sickness crashed over me. I knew only two things about Luca Vitiello: he would become the head of the New York mob once his father retired or died, and he got his nickname “The Vice” for crushing a man’s throat with his bare hands. I didn’t know how old he was. My cousin Bibiana had to marry a man thirty years her senior. Luca couldn’t be that old, if his father hadn’t retired yet. At least, that’s what I hoped. Was