Bride by Initiation: Secret Society Mafia Marriage Pact (The Underworld Book 1)
Bride by Initiation: Chapter 8

Work kept me busy the last few weeks. I’ve resisted texting or calling Sean. I want to make things right between us, but I don’t know how. He wants answers I can’t give him, and he won’t let it go.

My parents texted me this morning that they were flying in and wanted me to come for dinner. It was a welcome invite, and I’m excited to see them. They bought a condo in Chicago when I took a job here, and they only stay away for a short time without visits.

My last appointment ran late, so I rush to get ready. Mom’s making her veal osso buco, and it’s my favorite. I pick up my hair dryer, and my phone rings. The caller ID says it’s the reception desk.

I answer, ‘Hello?’

‘There’s a delivery for you, Ms. Marino. Should I bring it up?’ the receptionist says.

‘Sure. Thank you.’ I remove my towel, put on my robe, secure the belt, and go to the front door.

Richard arrives shortly after, and as soon as the doorbell rings, I open the door.

He holds out a yellow envelope. ‘This is for you.’

‘Thank you, Richard.’ I take it from him.

‘You’re welcome, Ms. Marino.’

I shut the door and glance at the envelope. Nothing but my name is written on it.

My pulse quickens. I debate opening it as I return to the bathroom. I set it down, then turn on the hair dryer. Less than a minute passes before my curiosity gets the best of me. I turn off the dryer, pick up the envelope, tear it open, and pull out a stack of photos.

My gut churns so fast, I feel nauseous. I grab the counter to steady myself and then turn to lean against it.

Each photo is of my father when he was younger. He’s with men and women I don’t recognize. He looks happy in most of them. He’s laughing, smoking cigars, drinking what I assume is scotch, and always dressed in his suit.

I thumb through the stack several times, staring at them and realizing the photos were taken over a fifteen-to-twenty-year span based on how my father looks in the photos. I turn them over and discover writing on the backs.

Names and dates are written neatly on the bottom corner of each one. Names like Jacopo Abruzzo, Biagio Abruzzo, Leo Abruzzo, and Uberto Abruzzo. And it only makes me feel sicker.

While I’ve never met or heard of these men, their last name is the only thing I need to see. They’re enemies of the Marinos.

Why would my father be with them and look so happy?

I flip the photos back around, confused, staring at them and studying each one the same way I assessed the binder full of men.

One in particular makes my gut sink to the floor. There’s a beautiful woman in it. She has long, dark hair, stunning eyes, high cheekbones, and a killer body. She’s holding a baby and looking at my father like she adores him. Or maybe she’s in love with him? And he’s touching the baby’s head.

My hands shake as I turn the photo to read the back of it. Finzia and Aurora. No last name or date like the others.

Who are they?

Is the baby my father’s?

Was that his wife before he married my mother?

Is it still his wife?

Do I have a sister?

Questions spin in my mind, making me dizzy. I glance at the dates on the other photos and see they were all taken between when my mom would’ve been pregnant with me to when I was fifteen, which was before my father came into my life.

I don’t finish drying my hair. I go into my closet, put on a pair of joggers, and toss a sweater over my head. I slide into a pair of sneakers and return to the bathroom. I shove the stack of photos back into the envelope. Then I text Calogero.

I take the envelope and put it in my oversized bag, then slip on my coat. I make my way through my building and step outside.

Calogero is waiting on the curb. He stands next to the back door of the SUV and opens it, nodding. ‘Ms. Marino.’

I blurt out, ‘I need you to take me to my parents’ house, please. Quickly.‘

His expression shows concern. ‘Yes, ma’am. Is everything okay?’

‘Yes. Please, just hurry.’ I slide into the back, and he shuts the door.

He hurries to the front, gets in the driver’s seat, and veers into traffic.

I put up the partition, not wanting to talk. My insides quiver. A million scenarios race through my mind, but confusion plagues me.

Calogero pulls up to my parents’ building and gets out. Before he can come around to my door, I open it.

‘Ms. Marino,’ he frets, following me.

‘You don’t need to walk me up,’ I call back, but like always, he doesn’t listen.

It’s my father’s rule, and I know it. Calogero will always walk me anywhere I go unless my father or someone like Sean is with me.

The ride up in the elevator is excruciating. It takes forever before we get to the penthouse, and the elevator opens.

‘Thank you,’ I say to Calogero as I step out. I quickly reach over and hit the button so the doors close before he can follow me.

The house smells delicious. The rich, deep scent of Mom’s veal osso buco hangs in the air.

Normally, I’d be excited to be here. I love visiting with my parents. But my emotions are hitting me hard, and I don’t know what to think.

I walk through the penthouse and into the kitchen. Mom and Dad stand side by side, cutting up vegetables for a salad. Slow music plays in the background, and glasses of red wine are in front of them.

Mom sees me first, and her eyes light up. ‘Ah, Zara, you’re here.’

She comes over to hug me.

I hug her hard, and she pulls back. She tilts her head, asking, ‘Zara, is everything okay?‘

‘I need to speak to Dad alone,’ I tell her.

She wrinkles her forehead. ‘Why?’

‘I just do. Please, Mom.’ I blink hard, and my eyes well with tears.

‘Zara, what is wrong?’ she repeats.

‘Mom, please let me talk to him alone,’ I beg.

‘My precious figlia, what is going on?’ Dad inquires, stepping up to us, concerned.

‘Please go, Mom,’ I plead.

She looks at Dad.

‘Zara, whatever you have to say, you can say in front of your mama. We don’t have secrets between us. You know that,’ Dad asserts, and puts his hand on my back.

I shrug it off.

He tosses his hands in the air. ‘Whoa. What’s going on?’

The worry in Mom’s expression deepens. ‘Zara, please. Talk to us.’

I realize I’m not going to get my father alone. I hate that I’m going to hurt my mother, but I lift my chin and meet my father’s eyes. I step backward to put some distance between us, then accuse, ‘What have you done? Who are you?’

Shock and hurt fill his features. He peers at me closer, asking, ‘What are you talking about?’

I pull the envelope out of my purse and turn to Mom again. ‘Mom, please go.’

She glances at my father, then at me.

He steps next to her and puts his arm around her. ‘No, you stay. We don’t have secrets.‘

‘But you do. I know you do,’ I say, my voice quavering.

‘Zara, what is going on?’ Mom asks again.

My father grabs the envelope from me. He opens it, pulls the stack of photos out, and tenses.

Mom glances at them, and her face turns pale.

I blurt out, ‘Why are you with the Abruzzos?’

Dad’s gaze, dark and penetrating, meets mine, and he sternly says, ‘These are not photos you should have. Who gave them to you?’

I huff. ‘Does it matter?’

‘Yes, of course it matters. Where did you get these?’

‘It doesn’t matter. Why are you with enemies of our family?’

‘I want to know right now, my beautiful figlia, who gave you these?’ he asks, his tone commanding.

I cry, ‘What are you hiding from Mom and me?’

Mom steps forward and puts her arm around me. ‘Zara, I know all about your father’s past. I don’t know where you got these, but this isn’t your business.’

Dad interjects, ‘These photos are dangerous for you to have. I want to know who gave them to you.’

I shout, ‘I want to know why you’re with Abruzzos!’ A tear drips down my cheek, and I’m so tired of my father not being able to tell me the truth of where he was for fifteen years of my life. And I can’t stand how my mom thinks it’s okay. It’s not enough to tell me he did it to protect us.

He replies with the same thing he always does. ‘We’ve gone over this multiple times. Your mother hid her pregnancy, and you, from me because she didn’t think it was safe. I agree with her decision. So I was away and you were protected.‘

‘It’s true,’ Mom insists.

I shake my head. ‘It’s not a full answer. I want to know the whole truth!’

‘Zara,’ Mom warns.

‘You’re laughing and happy in those photos,’ I shriek at Dad.

My father fumes, ‘You should not have these. Whoever gave them to you is dangerous. I’m not going to ask you again, Zara. This is not a request. Who gave these to you?’

‘They showed up on my doorstep.’

The color drains from his face. ‘Someone knows where you live.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I claim.

‘Of course it matters!’ Dad cries out.

Mom puts her hand on my arm. In a soft tone, she requests, ‘Please answer your father.’

I shake my head. I know where they came from. John, Sylvia, or somebody associated with them left those photos at the front desk. But I’m not telling Mom and Dad anything.

‘Think, my precious figlia,’ Dad insists.

I don’t answer him. Instead, I question, my voice cracking, ‘Who’s the woman and the baby?’

‘None of your business,’ he replies.

Mom looks surprised. She blurts out, ‘What woman and baby?’

Dad hadn’t gotten to that photo yet, but he didn’t even flinch when I brought them up.

My gut spins. I put my hand over it, feeling ill. ‘Do I have a sister? Are you married?‘

His eyes turn to slits. ‘I will not answer questions about my past. It is not your business, and it is unsafe for you to know.’

‘Luca, what woman and baby?’ Mom repeats.

‘Show her,’ I demand.

Dad scowls at me.

I reach for the photos.

He shoves them back in the yellow envelope, demanding, ‘I want to know who gave these to you.’

‘Luca,’ Mom says, more emotion filling her voice.

‘Tell us. We deserve to know,’ I order.

Dad’s face goes red with anger. He puts his finger in the air, pointing at me. ‘You aren’t entitled to anything. This is not your business.’

‘It is! And I want to know why you look like you’re besties with the Abruzzos and if you have another family!’ I hysterically shout.

Deafening silence fills the air.

Mom’s lip trembles. She glances between Dad and me.

I glare at my father, seething. ‘Tell. Me.’

He refuses. He steps in front of the fireplace and then tosses the photos onto the fire.

‘What are you doing?’ I cry out as the edges curl and the pictures erupt in flames.

He spins to face me, his cheeks maroon, eyes wild. ‘This is not your business. There is no reason to dredge up the past. Whoever decided to do this has nothing good up their sleeve. So you will tell me right now who brought these to you.’

I lie again. ‘I told you, I don’t know.‘

He steps closer to Mom and puts his hands on her cheeks. ‘We will talk about this later.’

She stares at him, blinking hard.

He vows, ‘I promise we will talk about this later.’

She swallows hard.

He turns back to me. ‘Zara, everything I do is to keep you safe. If you are involved with people you shouldn’t be⁠—’

‘Like your buddies, the Abruzzos?’ I hurl.

‘Zara!’ Mom chastises.

I turn on her. ‘How can you stand there and be okay with his lack of answers?’

She stays silent.

My eyes overflow with more tears.

My father kisses Mom on the forehead and sternly states, ‘We will not speak anymore of this. I will replace out from security who brought you the photos.’

‘You do that,’ I sarcastically fume.

He points at me. ‘We are done discussing this, Zara. Chanel, we will talk more about this later. Now, let’s go back to making dinner.’ He walks over to the bar, picks up a glass, and fills it with wine. Then he returns and holds it toward me. ‘Have a drink, Zara. Tell us what you’ve been up to since we were last in Chicago.’

My insides quiver harder. I glance between him and Mom.

How can she stand there and not ask questions?

How can she trust that he’ll tell her the truth about whatever this is, whatever he’s done, and whoever in the world may be linked to us?

Was he with that family instead of us? How can she be okay with the secrecy?

‘Zara, here.’ He motions with his head for me to take the wine.

I briefly glance at it and then at him. ‘No, I’m not staying for dinner.’

‘Zara, don’t leave,’ Mom begs.

I refocus on her. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t stay.’ I brush past her toward the elevator.

They follow me.

Dad calls out, ‘Zara!’

‘Please, don’t go,’ Mom pleads.

But I can’t stay. I can’t continue to not know the truth about why I spent the first fifteen years of my life without a father, with my mother telling me she didn’t know who he was when she knew the entire time.

I’m tired of lies and deceit and the questions I never get answers to. Now, there are even more.

Dad puts his hand on my arm. ‘Zara⁠—’

I shrug away from his hold. ‘Do not touch me. Do not touch me, and do not talk to me until you’re ready to tell me the truth.’

I hit the elevator button.

‘Zara, you have to trust me,’ he claims.

I shake my head. ‘Do you know how tired I am of hearing you say that I have to trust you? Well, guess what, Dad? I’m tired of trusting you.’

Mom snaps, ‘Zara⁠—’

‘No! You both ruined the first fifteen years of my life! Now, this new information comes to me, and he won’t explain it. And you’re going to support him? Sorry, but I’m thirty years old. I’m not a child,’ I point out.

Dad declares, ‘No, you’re not a child, but you’re still my precious figlia. I don’t want anything to happen to you, so you have to trust me.’

‘Dad, please. Enough with all the protection excuses.’ Tears fall, and I swipe at them.

‘They aren’t excuses,’ he claims.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t stay.’ The elevator door opens, and I step inside. I push the button, not looking at my parents.

The door shuts, and I make a decision.

If given the opportunity, I’ll go through initiation. I’ll do it no matter what it involves because I need to know the truth—the truth I’ll never get from either of my parents.