The Villainess's Gambit

The first rule of survival in the Gattuso family is to make yourself valuable. The second is to never, ever be a liability. Tonight, my father, Don Marco “The Vulture” Gattuso, is cashing in on his most valuable asset.

Me.

I stand beside him in the smoke-filled back room of The Onyx Club, a neutral ground where Chicago’s five ruling families pretend civility exists. The air is thick with the scent of expensive cigar smoke, aged whiskey, and the metallic tang of unspoken threats. I am a statue carved from ice, clad in a sheath of blood-red silk that cost more than the new doorman drives. My face is a perfect, placid mask. Inside, I am screaming.

“The decade of bloodshed between our families ends tonight,” my father announces, his voice a gravelly proclamation that carries across the heavy oak table. He places a paternal, proprietary hand on my shoulder. His touch feels like a brand. “To seal this new peace, I offer more than a treaty. I offer a bond of blood. My daughter, Caterina, will be wed to the heir of the Moretti family, Alessandro.”

A murmur ripples through the assembled Dons. It’s a masterstroke, and they know it. An alliance between the cunning Gattusos and the brutally powerful Morettis would create a dynasty that could swallow this city whole. It’s a good move for the family. It is a death sentence for me.

Across the table, Old Man Moretti, a hawk-faced relic whose eyes hold a century of violence, gives a slow, deliberate nod. “The terms are acceptable.”

Beside him, the heir in question doesn’t even flinch.

Alessandro “Alex” Moretti.

His name is a curse whispered in the dark by his enemies. He is his family’s monster, their perfect, beautiful weapon. He leans back in his chair, a vision of dark, tailored perfection, a glass of amber liquid held loosely in one hand. He hasn’t looked at me once all night. His arrogance is a physical force, an insult he wields with the same casual grace as the ridiculously expensive watch on his wrist.

He finally deigns to lift his gaze. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, meet mine. They are cold, analytical, and utterly dismissive. He is not looking at his future bride. He is assessing a business transaction. A piece of property. A liability.

A slow, insolent smile curves his lips. It does not reach his eyes. He raises his glass to me in a silent, mocking toast. Welcome to your cage, the gesture says.

My father’s fingers tighten on my shoulder, a warning. Behave.

I incline my head, a graceful, submissive dip. My expression remains serene. But in my mind, a single, cold, and crystalline vow takes root.

You may think you’ve bought me, Alessandro Moretti. But you have no idea the price you will truly pay. This isn’t a marriage. It’s a war. And you have just met your new, and most intimate, enemy.