1: greek god

POV: Bianca

I lost my mother the day my father died. The lights seized from her eyes, the cheer died from her voice, and her 'I love yous' became cold and monotonous.

I didn't blame her. I was a tough person to love, a feral beast trying to climb out of the hole the goddamn mafia was digging around us.

I didn't love her any less, though. Even when she pretended not to notice the scars and bruises my uncle left in places he shouldn't touch. Even when I went hungry for days because she was depressed. Even when she turned a blind eye to the times I needed her, I didn't resent her.

But this. This threatens to change everything.

As I stood in front of the beautiful gates and brownstone walls that separated the DiMarco mansion from the rest of the world, in my 'fuck you' outfit, I muttered a soft 'merda' under my breath, getting cold feet already.

Two giant archangels wielding flaming swords let me know that I was in the right place but I searched the piece of paper to reconfirm that this was indeed the right address.

When she said she had found someone new, I didn't expect that she had waltzed into the arms of a prominent retired godfather of the Italian mafia.

Dio mio, I whispered, fear seizing me as a man in a dark uniform walked over to me, his expression impassive, his eyes hidden behind dark shades. His right hand was reaching behind him, no doubt to a gun tucked in his back.

"State your business," he ordered.

And I knew he was one of the soldiers that guarded the DiMarco family.

Stalling would only make me end up with a bullet in my skull and I raised my chin, flicking my raven dark hair behind my shoulder, portraying confidence that hid the fear and feeling of impending doom knotting in my belly.

"Bianca Carla Fiori," I stated with as much confidence I could muster, even though I was shaking in my fake prada boots.

His entire expression went, 'oh shit,' as his hand slipped from behind him. "Mária Fiori's daughter?" He asked.

"Yes."

He gave me a swift once over, taking in my tube top and my very short skirt, my tousled black hair and my fake prada heels, probably trying to decide if I was the soon to be mafia princess, or a delusional skank claiming obscene rights.

"You can call and ask her if you'd like," I snapped impatiently at him.

Given that I was over a month late to RSVP their invitation, I guess everyone just thought that I wouldn't make it.

I watched the guard speak into his earpiece, saying something in rapid fire Italian and then, he turned on his heels, "come with me."

Immediately, a dozen other men crept out from their hiding places, escorting us into the estate. My heart crawled into my throat at the fact that I hadn't even noticed their presence.

I followed him into the sprawling estate that was the size of a small village, my confidence shaking with each step. Every step brought me closer to my new future that was going to be the stifling life of a mafia princess.

He led me into the building, his steps brisk and intended and I openly gawked at the screaming wealth and class of it all. Even though it was all blood money.

He bowed briefly as we came to a stop in the middle of a large room with shiny waxed floors, high white ceilings and delicate chandeliers dropping from them, leaving me to myself.

I heaved a breath, hacking up a lung.

This is it. I'm here. I'm really here.

"Mia Cara!"

I whirled around at the sound of my mother's voice and saw her coming down the skirt in a rustle of black tulle and leather, looking very much like the mafia godmother she was about to be.

Her hair was pinned up in a fashionable updo, a diamond clip holding it up. Her skin was radiant, her grin was infectious.

It was like a punch to my belly seeing how good she looked, how happy she was. I haven't seen her smile in over a decade since my father passed away.

She gathered me in her arms and held me in a tight embrace and my arms wrapped around her just as tightly.

"Mama," I whispered.

"I didn't think you would come," she let me go to inspect my outfit, her nose wrinkling a bit.

For the umpteenth time, I wanted to go back home and change my outfit but decided against it when I remembered that this was probably the only way to get a reaction from mum.

"Bianca-" she sighed, exasperated, but before she could say more about my outfit, a loud booming voice that resounded throughout the entire room had me shaking in my shoes.

"Is that my soon-to-be stepdaughter?" Mr DiMarco bellowed and my eyes snapped up to a large elderly man in a crisp black suit, walking down the stairs, pride and strength in his glorious strides.

"Mr Emilio DiMarco," I ducked my head immediately, avoiding his piercing gaze but he surprised me by taking my shoulder in his strong grasps and pressing a kiss to my forehead.

"None of that, Bianca," his usually grim expression lightened up into a nice smile. "Call me Emilio. We're about to be family!"

The warm look in his eyes set me at ease and the way his eyes lit up as his gaze found my mother let me know that what they had was beautiful and pure. My mother wasn't taken against her will or forced into this marriage the way most women in the mafia were. This was more mercy than I could ask for.

A smile graced my lips as I really started to buy into this idea. Nothing needed to change about me. I could still become a renowned performer like I always wanted and mum would be safe and happy.

"My children will be downstairs in just a minute," Emilio said, and the frightened knots started squeezing my belly again.

No. God no.

Emilio's daughter was nice enough, but the person I dreaded meeting was his son. Andre DiMarco. The notorious don of the entire Italian mafia that ruled the streets of Chicago with an iron fist.

I knew that it was only a while before we met but the knowledge didn't stop the ball of anxiety from working up my throat.

I smiled tightly at my mother, "can I use the bathroom please?"

"Of course," she grinned back, telling me directions on how to get to the closest guest bathroom without losing my way in this maze of a mansion.

"Do you want me to come along?" She asked, watching me leave.

"No," I threw over my shoulder, needing some alone time before I had to meet the rest of this notorious family.

I found the bathroom easily, easing my bladder that was about to burst from all the nervousness and after splashing cool water on my face and fluffing my hair, I stepped out of the bathroom and took a turn to my left.

And immediately walked into a wall of flesh and muscle.

"I'm so so-" I began to apologize but as my eyes gazed up into eyes as dark as nightmares and terror, my words hung in my throat, throttling me.

Andre DiMarco.

Mio Dio, he even looked better in person.

Even though everyone in the underground network knew who Andre DiMarco was, I had done my fair share of research into the family to know what I was getting myself into, but none of the information I had scoured had prepared me for the full impact of meeting him in person.

He looked like an avenging god, almost celestial with his dark hair of liquid night, wavy and soft on top his head. His eyes were piercing. Cold. Intense. His face was all sharp lines and perfect symmetry. He had a beauty that was otherworldly. Out of this world. The type of beauty that would make you stare and stare, cruel in its beauty.

It felt like a bomb detonated in me, splattering my confidence to smithereens.

Fear dripped into my veins. Terror gripped my entire body and I remained frozen for a few seconds. The entire air was cackling with his powerful energy.

I took a step back, swallowing and trying to gather my wits. My eyes dropped to his neck where an angry vein was pulsing on his golden skin.

My gaze dragged to his eyes again. His livid dark eyes. A low tremor passed between my legs at how tragically beautiful he was. A low thrumming hum that made it clear I found his darkness and beauty attractive.

"Are you lost?" He asked in a slightly accented voice, irritation marring his features. He raised his hand to adjust the cuff of his sleeve and for the first time, I noticed blood on his hands.

Dark rivulets of blood was dripping down from his hands and unto the stainless perfectly waxed quartz floor.

H- he just killed someone. .

My heart stuttered in my chest, canting a racing beat.

Dio. Dio. Dio.

"I asked a fucking question," he snapped, dragging me out of my thoughts.

My startled eyes went back to his mercilessly beautiful face and I fought hard against the burning churn in my stomach. My heart squeezed painfully.

"No," I whispered, clearing my throat and wetting my lips. "I'm not."

He nodded, "tell the others I'll be downstairs in a minute and the next time you walk into this home, put on something decent. I will not have my future stepsister looking like a common whore."

His words were a resounding cymbal in my head, terrorizing and humiliating and all I could do was fold in on myself until he walked past me.

I caught a whiff of his scent, spicy and so thoroughly male and powerful, it sent a shiver slithering down my spine.