My Father Sent Me As A Cruel Joke To A Syndicate Boss — Now We’re Dismantling His Empire
Part 1
Dead silence blanketed the vaulted ceilings of the cathedral, broken only by the muffled snickers echoing off the marble pillars.
I stood frozen at the threshold in an ivory gown that had been deliberately tailored two sizes too small.
My soft, full figure spilled uncomfortably over the biting corsetry.
Every shallow breath I took sent a sharp ache through my ribs.
I was a physical punchline to a very dangerous, highly calculated joke.
My father, the head of the city’s largest Irish syndicate, gripped my arm tight enough to bruise.
He had sent his overweight, invisible daughter to marry the most ruthless Italian boss on the Eastern Seaboard.
He fully expected a bullet to sever their forced peace treaty before I even reached the altar.
Just three days ago, my father had dropped the garment bag onto the rattan table in the solarium.
The commission had mandated a marriage between our family and the Romano syndicate to stop a street war.
Everyone knew my younger sister Heather, a slender socialite, was supposed to be the bride.
My father had simply smiled a callous, terrifying smile when I asked why he was sending me.
He explained that Vincent Romano thought he could demand the best girl in the family as compensation for a botched shipment.
He refused to comply.
He called me a fat, unlovable sow, telling me that Vincent would view me as a final, unforgivable insult.
I warned him that Vincent would kill me the moment he lifted the veil.
My father told me that if Vincent killed me, it would be an act of war sanctioned by the commission.
He called it a win-win scenario.
Heather’s custom gown was violently altered by her loyal seamstress to fit my size sixteen frame.
The woman had let out the seams as much as she dared, but the dress remained a medieval torture device.
Heather had leaned against my doorframe on the morning of the wedding, sipping a mimosa and laughing.
She gave Vincent ten seconds before he either walked out or shot me.
I had refused to cry.
Now, the heavy oak doors groaned open, and the organist struck the first chords of the bridal march.
I stepped into the aisle, my hand resting lightly on my father’s rigid arm.
A low, dangerous murmur swept through the Italian mobsters like a lit fuse.
Every step was pure agony.
I could see the men on the Romano side shifting in their seats, hands moving toward their tailored jackets.
At the end of the long velvet runner stood Vincent Romano.
His face was a mask of sharp angles, his eyes as dark and unfathomable as the ocean floor.
Beside him, his underboss hissed a warning, offering to paint the walls red on a single word.
I stopped walking, my feet gluing themselves to the floor ten feet from the altar.
My father yanked my arm roughly.
I braced myself for the disgust.
Vincent’s dark eyes swept over my straining dress, taking in the flush of shame on my cheeks.
He did not reach for a weapon.
Vincent stepped down from the altar.
The massive cathedral fell into a breathless, terrifying silence.
Vincent spoke in a low, smooth baritone that echoed with absolute authority.
He told my father he had forgotten how to treat a bride.
He stopped right in front of me, bringing with him the faint scent of cedarwood and danger.
He raised a calloused hand and gently lifted the heavy lace veil from my face.
I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the revulsion I knew would be waiting in his gaze.
He commanded me softly to look at him.
I opened my eyes to find him staring intently at my face.
He turned his head slightly and ordered his underboss to sit down.
He announced to the room that we were having a wedding.
A shocked gasp rippled through my father’s men.
My father stepped forward to protest, but a single, violent look from Vincent froze him in his tracks.
Vincent offered me his arm.
He whispered that he knew exactly what my father was trying to do.
He promised me no one in the room would ever laugh at me again.
The priest stammered through the rites.
Vincent slid a heavy, flawless emerald-cut diamond onto my trembling finger.
He took my face in both his hands and kissed me firmly on the lips.
It was a public claiming that sent a shockwave of electricity straight down my spine.
The reception was a suffocating exercise in tension.
Vincent intercepted anyone who approached our table, shielding me from the thinly veiled sneers of my own family.
He guided me out of the hall at eleven o’clock without saying goodbye to my father.
The ride to his estate was silent.
I stared out the window as the adrenaline faded into a bone-deep exhaustion.
The protection at the altar had likely just been a public show of dominance.
We pulled through the heavy iron gates of his sprawling modern fortress.
A stern-faced housekeeper waited for us in the foyer.
Vincent shrugged off his suit jacket.
He ordered the housekeeper to bring Maria to the master suite immediately.
I stared at the heavy oak doors, wondering what kind of private humiliation he had waiting for me upstairs.
