Page 8 of Unholy Union
Time for a dose of reality.
So what if the girl’s gorgeous? So what if she looks even better than I remember? None of it matters.
This isn’t a love match. This is business. Abloodpact made between her family and mine.
She’s my bride, which means I’ll get to have her soon. I’ll strip that silky fabric from her slender little body and fuck her good and hard ’til she’s out of my system.
Our marriage will be like Papà and Mama’s.
A united front in public with separate bedrooms in private and a mistress on the side.
Papà married my mother when she was eighteen. She was a model, dubbed the most beautiful woman in Italy. He was several years older, having risen up the ranks from humble beginnings in Brooklyn.
Sabrina will be no different—a beautiful woman who belongs to me and bears my children, but nothing more.
I drain another glass of champagne before everyone is summoned to their seats and the dinner officially begins.
We’re seated at a long table that stretches down the center of the Mirador Room. Gold-rimmed plates, blood-red florals, and tall, tapered candles make it resemble an altar.
It feels less like a celebration and more like the mafia version of the Last Supper—except there’s no Jesus and both sides are Judases.
I take my seat at the center, the groom in this fucked up production. My chair is even slightly elevated as if it’s some kind of throne.
On my left is Sabrina. She hasn’t looked at me since she arrived. Her gaze has magically managed to avoid me at all costs, like I’ll disappear if she ignores me hard enough.
Papà’s on my right, rigid and cold as ever. His hands are folded and his face carved of stone. Next to him is Sergio De Rossi, who happens to be much chattier after a few drinks.
Don Corsini sits across from me, also in decent spirits. He’s always presented himself differently than Papà. Probably why the public tends to like him a lot more. Rinaldo Corsini a murderous mafia boss? Never! Most New Yorkers know him for his philanthropy and booming construction business, giving the city modern buildings and thousands of jobs.
Further down, Cassian’s slouched and bored, spinning the stem of his wine glass between his fingers. He must’ve grown tired of the leggy blonde already, because a different woman giggles at his side as if she’s struck the lottery.
And then there’s Giada, who’s simmering in her chair. She glares pointedly in my and Sabrina’s direction, only to be ignored by us both. Admittedly, for different reasons. But in her opinion, she belongs by my side,notthe little brunette in the silky pink dress determined to pretend I don’t exist.
Waiters pour wine. Knives glint under candlelight. No one dares eat.
We didn’t come out tonight for the food. We came to see who blinks first.
But both sides are resolute in the deal that was struck.
This marriage is happening. In less than seven days, Sabrina Corsini and I will be husband and wife.
Rinaldo Corsini calls for everyone’s attention, rising to his feet with his glass of wine. He peers around the long table, drawing out the moment, before he begins his toast.
“Family,” he says. “It’s the only thing that matters.”
Several guests around the table give nods in agreement and trade low murmurs.
“Tonight, we celebrate a union—not just of names or territories. But of a new legacy that will be born. My daughter—myprincipessa—was raised to honor her name. To uphold what is ours. And I trust she’ll do so in her new home… just as fiercely as she’s done in mine.” He pauses long enough to smile at Sabrina, then his gaze slides over to me, all warmth lost. “To Cato Valente. May you protect the gift you’ve been given. And may you never forget the blood it cost.”
He raises his glass higher, and others around the table follow his lead, toasting to one another in soft clinks.
I don’t touch mine, not even for a sip.
The main course is served by the waitstaff, and the focus shifts to casual chatter and the food on our plates.
I remain silent and watchful, studying every moment at the table like a tactician. Don Corsini’s toast might’ve sounded celebratory to an outsider, but I know better than to miss the thinly veiled threats between his words.
This union between me and his daughter couldn’t be more precarious. The slightest wrong turn could result in another war between our families. If that’s what the Corsinis have an appetite for, the Valentes have never shied away from teaching a hard, blood-soaked lesson…
