Page 1 of Unholy Union
Chapter 1
Cato
Bury a Friend - Billie Eilish (Violin Instrumental)
It rains on the night a girl is promised to her father’s worst enemy.
Droplets the size of bullets splash down as a chill surfs the air and the once-busy city streets run empty.
Exceptfor the line of sleek sedans that pulls up outside La Rocca Trattoria.
The windows of the Italian restaurant are pitch-black, the lights inside off. But that’s to be expected on a night like this. The restaurant is one of the few neutral turfs in the city where the Valentes and Corsinis can meet under the cloak of darkness.
Car doors swing open and umbrellas pop up like canopied shields. Numerous men in tailored suits step out. I’m among them as I flank my father, Don of the Valente Family. Puddles splash beneath our feet as we approach the front door of La Rocca. One of his soldiers holds it open for us to pass through.
The Corsinis are pulling up as we disappear inside and navigate the dark space like it’s our own. Each of the Five Families view the establishment with the same familiarity.
La Rocca has served as more than a place where you can get an authentic Italian meal in Manhattan. Established in 1951, countless deals and negotiations have taken place in the dim lighting of the wine cellar below.
At La Rocca, there are a few simple rules: no violence on the premises, only three soldiers per family, and vows made here are binding. No one has ever broken these rules.
Tonight will be no different. Tonight’s blood oath will be for good.
Even from inside the restaurant, thepitter-patterof the rain echoes; the only sound present until business discussions begin.
We start down the steep, rickety wooden staircase that leads into the wine cellar below. Among the cobwebs and brick walls are rows upon rows of wine racks. Some of the finest Italian wine you could wish to drink, some centuries old.
In the middle of the room is a long, scarred oak table where candles flicker from old brass holders.
Papà takes his seat in one of two high-backed chairs. The second is reserved for our enemy, Don Rinaldo Corsini. I claim the only chair on Papà’s left while the two soldiers we’ve brought with us stand.
The staircase creaks under the weight of Don Corsini and his men. They offer no greeting or pleasantries as they take their places on their side of the table. Don Corsini sits across from Papà, the expression on his round face unreadable.
Unlike Papà who has sharp, angular features, Rinaldo Corsini is plump and soft. He sports a smoke-gray beard with no other hair on top of his head, and a natural olive complexion common for those from the Mediterranean.
Finally, the two men meet each other’s gaze. The tension immediately cinches the air, the animosity no secret.
Blood has been spilled. Lives have been lost. A rivalry has been forged that has lasted for generations.
But tonight is supposed to be the defining point—the part in the storybook where we turn the page and begin a new chapter of peace and prosperity.
Instead, as I look at the ice chilled in Don Corsini’s cold, dark gaze, it seems tonight could be a first. One of the rules at La Rocca could be broken. Things could devolve into violence, or the oath we’re here to make won’t last.
The bad blood between the two families could be too tainted.
Papà speaks first.
“It’s good we’ve decided to meet tonight,” he says in his firm baritone. His hands are folded on the table, like we’re in a boardroom and not a dusty wine cellar. “Enough blood’s been shed for ten wars. It’s time we put an end to it.”
“A man should never have to bury his son,” Don Corsini answers somberly. He glances at me for the first time. “You should consider yourself fortunate you have never had the experience.”
“No, I haven’t, thank Christ. But Ihavehad to bury a brother. Which is devastating in its own right. You and I—we have lived decades with this feud. We’ve held these grudges most of our lives. Let our children, and their children, be born into something better.”
“My daughter is a prize,” says Corsini plainly. “She is beautiful, obedient, educated, and graceful. All things a man of our kind would want in a wife. She knows her duty and won’t bring shame to the name she takes. But she must be treated wellandwith respect. If she is harmed in any way, this deal is void, and you can expect my wrath.”
Papà gives a conceding nod. “Rest assured, my son won’t ever raise a hand to her in anger. He’ll provide her the kind of lavish lifestyle that’s understood in our circles. But this is an investment—and she will bear his children. The first within the first year of marriage.”
Rinaldo’s cold eyes flicker to me a second time as if appraising the stallion selected for his broodmare.
