She Never Planned to Marry for Money—Until Her Mother Got Sick and the Mafia Boss Made His Choice

The sanctuary of their bedroom lasted twenty-four hours.

By Thursday morning, the underworld of the American Northeast had mobilized. The shooting at the Marble House had forced the New England Commission to accelerate its timetable. Don Moretti had called an emergency tribunal at the Biltmore Hotel in Providence.

Matteo Ferraro had survived his beating, but he had arrived in Providence in a wheelchair, his jaw wired shut, accompanied by four high-priced lawyers and half of the Boston syndicate’s muscle.

In the glass study, Walter poured coffee for Santino, whose knuckles were bandaged in white linen.

“The vote is set for three this afternoon,” Walter said, his aged face etched with deep lines of worry. “Moretti has bought three of the family votes. Matteo’s faction controls two. You have four. That leaves Don Castiglione from Connecticut holding the deciding ballot.”

Santino looked down at his watch. “Castiglione is old-school. He values bloodline, legitimacy, and honor.”

“Castiglione also knows Antonio Marchetti’s blood runs in Caitlyn’s veins,” Walter warned softly. “Moretti intends to expose her identity before the council. He will claim that Antonio stole two million dollars from the syndicate, that Caitlyn is an accomplice, and that your marriage is a fraudulent attempt to shield a thief’s daughter from mafia justice.”

The door opened.

Caitlyn stepped into the study. She wore an impeccably tailored charcoal pantsuit with a silk ivory blouse, her hair pulled back into a sleek, severe ponytail. On her lapel pinned the oleander brooch. In her hand, she carried a battered, leather-bound notebook with yellowed edges.

Santino stood up immediately. The hardened boss vanished from his eyes, replaced by an open, tender warmth that only she was allowed to see.

“You shouldn't be down here,” Santino said, reaching out to touch her waist. “You should be resting.”

“I’m not resting while Moretti tries to take your life,” Caitlyn said. She laid the battered notebook on the walnut desk.

Santino frowned. “What is this?”

“My father’s journal,” she said quietly. “He kept it in the false bottom of our spice rack in Boston. When the house was raided, I took it before we ran.”

Santino picked up the book, flipping through the handwritten pages filled with routing numbers, dates, and names of cargo ships.

“My father didn't steal two million dollars from Don Moretti,” Caitlyn said, her voice ringing with absolute certainty. “Don Moretti stole six million dollars from the Commission’s pension fund and northern port tariffs fifteen years ago. He framed my father, had him murdered, and took the money to buy off judges in Massachusetts.”

Santino looked up from the pages, his gray eyes turning to cold, razor-sharp steel.

“These are the offshore account numbers,” Santino murmured, tracing a line of ink. “The shipping manifests from Boston Harbor. Every single transaction Moretti hid from the Commission.”

“My father kept every receipt,” Caitlyn said, stepping closer to Santino, resting her palm flat against his chest, right over his beating heart. “He knew Moretti was going to kill him. He hid the proof so that one day, someone could finish what he started.”

Santino looked at the notebook, then down into the green eyes of his wife. A dark, terrifying smile spread across his face—the smile of a predator that had just watched its prey walk directly into a steel trap.

“Walter,” Santino called out.

“Yes, boss?”