Cruelest Intentions

1: A Forced Fiancé

What's a sweet, subtle way to tell your fiancé you're going to murder him?

I think it's only fair for him to have a little warning before I bury him; I like to consider myself an empath.

I had originally planned to kill him a little later, but at the rate this piss poor 'date' was going, it would be a miracle for him to walk out of the restaurant alive. 

Matteo Ricci, the first in line to inherit the Ricci empire, and sworn enemy of my family sat across the dinner table from me, oblivious to my homicidal thoughts.

"Siobhan, darling?" He taunted. I glared, looking up from the menu as he swirled his red wine and smirked at me before delivering the next barb. "You've been staring at that menu for so long I'd begun to wonder if your backward family ever bothered to teach you to read." 

He chuckled in satisfaction, as if his comment was a display of dazzling wit. 

"First: call me darling again and you'll find the cornlet between your legs missing faster than you can sip your pinot." He rolled his eyes, unimpressed. "Second," I spat, "I was concentrating on deciding between the Carbonara, Amatriciana, and slitting your throat as possibilities for how this wonderful evening could proceed."

I gave him a slow grin that didn't hide the wrath and violence my blood was thrumming with. 

I've decided to go easy on him since he doesn't seem to be a complete asshole, like the rest of his godforsaken family. The Ricci Mafia is comprised of either brainless pricks or swaggering guidos—with no in between.

Of course, they would never describe themselves as a "mafia", and they're commonly known as the Ricci Family, owners of the prestigious Angelhair, Brooklyn's finest Italian restaurant.

Although the true heart of their enterprise is much darker.

His eyes scraped over me, looking me up and down like one of his greasy henchmen who mildly impressed him. Cold amusement danced across his features.

"Ah, a difficult choice, indeed." He didn't look like he believed me, but he continued on anyway. "Can I personally recommend the Amatriciana? The red pepper is Calabrian, and the pancetta is sourced from Florence. It just may be the best thing you put in your mouth this evening."

I lost the battle with my eyes, rolling them to the back of my skull, but I succeeded in not impaling him with my butterknife. Or the six daggers I had strapped and concealed under my black silk slip dress.

 I had more delicate assassination plans to uphold, after all.

"I have at least fourteen interesting tasks I could be completing tonight; I will not sit around and let your ego run rampant because daddy owns the restaurant." I leveled him with a hateful stare. "I will not hesitate to cut you down if you sling a half-assed innuendo my way again." I snapped. 

My temper was flaring, and I wasn't going to control my anger anymore, orders from my 'father' or no.

Matteo just leaned back in his chair and ran his fingers through his black curls, utterly at ease.  

"My, my," he drawled. "Look who has some piccoli artigli." My claws were a lot fucking sharper than he could imagine. He sneered as he continued. "You'll have to try harder than that to intimidate me, sweetheart. Let's not forget why we're here."

How could I forget that my father was forcing me to marry this bastard?

"Why don't you shut your mouth and order the fucking pasta like a good boy?" I purred. He glared at me, the irreverent amusement gone and looking for a moment like he was going to lunge over the table.

Good.

Instead, he rolled his anger back with surprising control and snapped his fingers absently. A waiter from across the room abandoned the table he was taking an order from to rush to ours. Matteo sharply ordered everything in rapid Italian, and I studied him silently.

If I wasn't planning on murdering him, and he wasn't my direct enemy, I might find him attractive. His slightly unruly black curls brushed his forehead while he spoke, the sharp angles of his face cast shadows in the dim lighting of the restaurant.

When we walked in earlier, I noticed he towered above me, and he was fairly bulky for a second in command. They typically don't need to get their hands as dirty as the rest of their thugs.

Although in my family, most train anyway. Just in case.

My family business has its own dark underbelly, our strip clubs acting simultaneously as our front and main attraction. We own eighty percent of the strip clubs in New York.

My family, the Murphy's, have had a tenuous understanding with the Ricci's; since our business was so widespread, we'd filter in and send 'special' customers to their underground casino, called Il Rifugio. In return, they would pay us twenty percent of their profits as well as owing us a special favor a month.

It was working well, until they simply stopped paying.

Then the goddamn war started. For the last five years, we've been fighting an exhausting battle, losing a lot of people on both sides, and hurting both our businesses. My father and Matteo's boss decided that a union between our houses would be physical insurance for the truce.

Essentially, Matteo and I are collateral.

The thing is, I don't appreciate being used.

Unbeknownst to the Ricci's, my "father" honed me to be the most lethal weapon in both families. I wasn't going to lay down and marry this prick.

And unbeknownst to daddy dearest, I wasn't going to let him push me around anymore.

I have much bigger plans than either posturing prick could conceive.

I'm going to take them all down.

AN:

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