Married to the Mafia King

The rain in Chicago had a way of washing away everything except the smell of gunpowder and old blood.

Francesca Moretti stood in the grand library of the Moretti estate in Gold Coast, her fingers digging so violently into the dark velvet upholstery of an antique armchair that her knuckles turned white. Outside, the storm whipped against the tall arched windows, lightning fracturing the night sky in jagged bursts of electric violet.

Across the room, behind a massive carved mahogany desk, sat her uncle Alberto.

Alberto looked like a man who was already dead and merely waiting for someone to measure his coffin. His silk tie was undone, his expensive tailored suit wrinkled, and a half-empty decanter of vintage bourbon sat between his shaking hands. Two armed bodyguards stood by the double doors, their faces ashen, assault rifles slung low across their tactical vests.

"You're being unreasonable, Francesca," Alberto said, his voice raspy, reeking of alcohol and desperation. He took a heavy swallow of amber liquor. "This is business. In our world, blood settles debts. You should be honored that your name carries enough weight to stop a war."

"Honored?!" Francesca’s voice was a whip-crack in the silent library. She took two sharp strides toward the desk, her hazel eyes blazing with emerald fury. "You sold my father's shipping routes. You gambled away his casino holdings in Atlantic City. And now that Nikolai Rossi has backed you into a corner, you want to hand me over like a prize heifer to save your miserable skin!"