It's been a week since Dad dropped the marriage bomb on us. I was so furious that as soon as I got home, I headed straight to the gym to unleash my frustration on the punching bag.

Maybe I wouldn't have been so angry if I were the one offered as the husband. But no, he had to choose my brother. He knew it would piss me off even more by dragging Michael into this.

Michael, on the other hand, seemed way too calm about the whole situation.

"It was bound to happen sooner or later. We just gave him the perfect opportunity. He would have found one anyway. Like you said, it's his way of exerting power," Michael said as we ate breakfast.

Gabrielle had left early that day, saying he needed to take care of some things before college, so it was just the two of us.

Today was the day we'd be meeting with the New York Mafia to discuss the alliance. It wasn't just the marriage that infuriated me—it was the fact that we'd have to welcome a woman into our home, our sanctuary. And to make matters worse, she's the enemy.

She could be a spy, or she might be one of those conniving, ambitious women who’d do anything to climb the social ladder and gain prestige.

Everything about this situation didn't sit right with me.

Dad had asked us to meet him at "La Terraza," an exclusive hotel here in Italy, at 12:30 p.m. The drive was nearly three hours. That’s where we were supposed to meet the members of the New York Mafia.

Given that it was an alliance meeting, I assumed their leader, Dante Caravello, would be attending, probably with a few bodyguards and maybe his son. Perhaps his Enforcer and Consigliere would be there too.

Michael decided he’d drive today, considering how annoyed and distracted I was. We took our black Bugatti, which was loaded with a couple of guns and other weapons, just in case the meeting didn’t go as planned. Both of us were armed with a gun and two knives each.

We arrived at the location around 12:20 and headed upstairs to the restaurant. Dad was already seated, along with his new Consigliere, Armando, who greeted us with a sickening smirk. He was another one of those who had tormented us alongside Dad, molding us into what we are today.

At exactly 12:30, Dante Caravello walked in, his son close behind. If I wasn’t mistaken, his son’s name was Matteo. He looked to be in his early twenties, dressed in a black suit with a black turtleneck underneath. A chain with a skull locket hung around his neck, and one of his ears was pierced, adorned with a cross earring. His dark hair was slicked back with gel, and his piercing dark eyes scanned the room. To me, he seemed like the type who’d abandon everyone and bolt the minute trouble arose.

Dante was dressed in a navy blue suit with a matching tie. His hair and eyes were dark, but he was relatively short with an extremely pale complexion. At first glance, he didn’t seem like much of a threat—until you met his gaze. His eyes were the most brutal I had ever seen.

With him were his Enforcer and two other bodyguards, all clad in black suits.

After shaking hands in greeting, we all sat down. Dad took his usual spot at one end of the table, while Dante sat at the other, facing him. I sat to Dad’s right, as always, with Michael on his left, directly across from me.

The first few minutes were filled with silence as we ordered our food. Dante, apparently tired of the vague tension, finally broke the silence.

“What kind of peace treaty could you possibly offer after your son killed one of our future underbosses, John?” Though his voice was casual, there was an unmistakable edge of threat beneath it.

“Straight to the point, as always. I see you haven’t changed much since we last met,” Dad replied with a smirk, maintaining unbroken eye contact. If I didn’t know better, I’d think they were in the middle of a staring contest.

“I’m offering a marriage alliance between my second son, Michael and a woman from your side,” Dad continued, setting his fork down and resting his hands on the table. Dante seemed to mull it over.

It was a deal he couldn’t easily refuse. This peace could benefit both of our families—if it lasted. In our world, alliances are fragile and easily shattered.

"Alright. I'll offer my younger daughter, Christina Caravello, to your son. But only on one condition." Dante paused, clearly establishing his authority.

"And what’s that, Dante?" my dad asked, a hint of curiosity in his voice. I had a bad feeling about whatever was coming next. I glanced over at Michael, who was already looking at me, his expression unreadable.

“I have an older daughter. She’s a bit unruly—rebellious and bratty. I tried to break her, but she’s been difficult. Perhaps one of your sons would do me the honor of disciplining her into a good wife, obedient to her husband. She’s likely the last person a man would want to marry, but this marriage could further strengthen our alliance.”

It made me sick to hear him talk about his own daughter that way, but my attention quickly shifted to Dad. Surely, he wouldn’t agree to this. But then I saw the twisted smile forming on his lips, and I knew. Of course, he’d agree—it would strip me of my choice and allow him to assert his dominance.

“I’m sure Raffaele could easily discipline her. He’s been looking for a wife, so this is perfect.” This was far from perfect, and I certainly wasn’t looking for a wife. I didn’t need women in my life—they either want your money or your love.

“Wouldn’t it be perfect, son?” Dad asked, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Or maybe I could ask Gabrielle.”

I froze. Gabrielle was only seventeen, still a kid. Dad knew exactly which buttons to push—I’d never let Gabrielle be married off, especially not before he was even an adult.

“Of course,” I replied, forcing a polite smile.

The lunch continued, the tension simmering beneath the surface. After a while, Dad spoke up again.

“So, what do your daughters think about this marriage? Will they be excited?”

“It doesn’t matter what they think,” Matteo answered, laughing. “They’ll go through with it because they’re just women. They shouldn’t have opinions.” The other men burst into laughter, applauding how well Matteo had been raised. Michael and I focused on our food, ignoring the disgusting display.

“Your sons can meet them next week,” Dante added. “It might be better if they fly to New York. I’m sure they’ll be excited about marrying the future leader and Enforcer of the Italian Mafia.”

I could see Michael clenching his jaw. It was obvious to anyone paying attention that he wasn’t pleased with the situation. But no one was paying attention—they were too absorbed in discussing the alliance.

My father wholeheartedly agreed to us going to New York next week. I dreaded the thought. If these women were raised in that environment, they’d likely be power-hungry maniacs, eager to climb the social ladder by marrying into our family.

We could as good as day goodbye to the owner we had in our new house.