Chapter 3: : Chapter 3

My father stares down at his messenger with disdain. Blood pools around the man’s head, and I continue to focus on my laptop screen as if nothing has gone amiss. The tension is palpable, primarily because of the thick file the messenger left at the edge of the desk.

“You know your mother doesn’t like it when you get blood on the floors,” my father scolds angrily. My scathing glare reaches his dark eyes, and we remain like that, the clock ticking ever so loudly through my parents’ office.

Crue Monti is almost sixty-two years old, but he looks good. A few strands of silver shoot through his black hair, and his dark and depthless eyes, are just as mesmerizing now as they were when he was younger. People are either too stunned to look away from him, frightened by what he might do next, or avert their gaze immediately, submissively—their survival instincts kicking in.

I don’t fear my father. I love him. Our bond is just a little different from most.

“Hawke. Ford. Come and clean up this mess,” my father barks at my men standing outside the room.

“Yes, sir,” Hawke says merrily as he all but skips in, an obvious screw loose. Ford silently follows.

“They don’t answer to you,” I grit out.

My father arches an eyebrow, and a smirk creeps onto his face. “You’re in my house, son. Everyone in this house listens to me. And until you take over the business, I own every one of the lackeys you choose to hire.”

“To be more accurate, sir, we’re more like best friends,” Hawke says.

“I apologize. My brother never knows when to hold his tongue,” Ford adds.

I sigh and look away, my irritation growing. These fucking idiots. My father tolerates them, not like my mother, who has basically adopted them, but he’s accepted that they’re like annoying flies that won’t go away.

Father takes a seat across from me. “Would you like to explain why you killed one of my men and haven’t yet opened the file I specifically asked him to hand you?”

“I’m not going to marry any of these women.” I glare at the file as if it’ll scorch my skin even to pick it up.

I fucking refuse.

“There’s nothing wrong with an arranged marriage. That’s how your mother and I met,” he says calmly, with a tone I know is anything but. It’s only because my mother is somewhere in the house that he’s on his best behavior. Lord forbid he gets in trouble because of me. Again.

He might be the most powerful man in New York, but my mother is the true figure to be feared. I love my mother, but I could never imagine a woman having that kind of hold over me. Ever.

Hawke and Ford efficiently drag the body out.

“No offense, Pops, but you’re old as fuck now. Arranged marriages aren’t a thing anymore.”

“If you want to take over the business fully, it will be something you’ll acquaint yourself with very quickly.” I hold his stare. “Or you find a wife on your own. I don’t give a fuck what you do with her besides fill her belly with a child. Do as you please, but you will not be the exception to family tradition.”

My mother’s voice cuts through the room. “He says that, but what he means is you need to find someone who can match you and be your rock. There will be no other women outside of your marriage,” she says with a warning tone as she walks through the door. I stand, and she gives me a welcoming hug. My father’s jaw clenches; he’s always jealous of anyone else who gets attention from her.

“You want me to retire, but you want our cold-hearted son to find love at the same time? You’ll be waiting a while, princess,” he says as he stands and adjusts his suit. He’s always called her that, dotingly staring and longing for her in every capacity. My mother’s gaze softens as she smiles and takes his hand.

She’s dressed in a tight maroon dress, her caramel-colored hair falling in waves down her back. “You will retire by the end of this year. We agreed on this when you turned sixty, and it’s far past that.”

“And Eli will marry before the end of the year,” he states.

My mother sighs and looks at me again. “I’m sorry, honey, but I agree with him. It’s tradition.”

Being born with mob ties on both sides of my family, I’m shackled by tradition and expectation. Sure, I can kill whoever I want with good cause, but make sure I pick a nice little delicate wife to have all their grandbabies. I snarl at the thought.

“You can go through the file later. We have a party to attend,” my mother says, trying to dissipate the tension. “And would someone like to explain to me why the Ivanov twins are dragging a body around my polished wooden floors?”

A noticeable cold shudder runs over both my father and me, and I roll my shoulders uncomfortably. I wonder if he’s about to snitch on me, so I clear my throat. “Would you believe me if I told you he slipped because of how well-polished the floors are?”

My mother shoots me a deadpan look, and I know I’m about to get an earful. I reluctantly sit down for my millionth lecture about the fucking floors.