Claiming The Don’s Daughter Read online

  Not even the stress of wedding planning had bothered her—she’d approached it all with enthusiasm. Carmen had wanted things big and fancy and Summer had her own ideas, but they’d found ways to compromise.

  Her career had shifted, too. All on her own, she’d picked up several teaching gigs, working mostly with teenagers, and she planned to apply to a Master’s program in Dance/Movement Therapy at Columbia, her alma mater.

  Her friend Maggie had been upset about how quickly she’d agreed to marry him, but once they spent some couple time with her and Pete, Summer had received her approval, which he knew was important.

  In the car, he removed his gun and holster and stashed it in the glove box. He’d worn a gun in church before, but at his own wedding, it seemed wrong. HIs bride shouldn’t have to be reminded of the danger in his life on the day she committed to make a life with him.

  * * *

  It was colder than a witch’s tit in Chicago in December. Mario and his two capos sat in the rental car with the heat on full blast outside Alberto La Torre’s house. There had been a lot of activity—vehicles coming and going. People carrying boxes out to cars. Carrying hairdryers and curling irons inside. Now a white limo sat out front. Must be a big occasion—a wedding, perhaps.

  He’d tracked his Uncle Junior’s grappa exports to the La Torre family in the Chicago area. Oak Park, to be precise. The don was some kind of relative of his Zia Maria—a nephew, maybe.

  This might be a wild goose chase—he had no evidence that Carlo was in America—but he had to come check it out for himself.

  The door swung open again and he lifted the binoculars, feeling more like a cop than the don of the most powerful crime family in Sicily. Several people exited, getting into the various cars parked within the gated property. Sure enough, a beautiful girl in a fluffy white wedding gown emerged, flanked by an older couple who must be her parents and a younger girl in a bridesmaid dress.

  He put the car in drive and pulled away, turning down a side street, where they wouldn’t be noticed. If Carlo was part of the La Torre Family, he’d be at the wedding and Mario and his men could probably blend in, unnoticed. There would be no better place to get a bead on his baby brother.

  He idled until the limo passed and let two more cars follow before he pulled out to stay on their tail. They wove through the suburb with its towering trees, the branches glittering with a coat of ice. Snow had begun to fall—big wet flakes that melted on his windshield as soon as they landed.

  The limo pulled into a parking lot of a Catholic church bearing the name St. Mary’s Cathedral. He accelerated and drove past, taking a trip back to the main street to get a coffee. Better to show up late to the wedding than be noticed as early arrivals.

  An hour later, they drove back. Good thing they’d always dressed sharp, so they looked ready for a wedding.

  They headed in and sat on the bride’s side in the very back, just as the wedding march music began.

  The bridesmaids filed in—a young blond and a teenage girl who resembled the bride. Then twin boys, looking no more than 11 years old.

  Two little flower girls giggled and threw pink rose petals which caught in their froth of white skirts.

  And then the groom. He stopped breathing for a moment when he realized the groom was Carlo. So his baby brother was marrying into the La Torre family. That’s one way to secure his place.

  His brother looked older and yet unchanged—still the same proud face, their mother’s hazel eyes looking out with cool appraisal, even on his wedding day.

  He shifted behind Tony, who Carlo didn’t know, to block the view of his face.

  Carlo walked to the altar, dropped to his knee and made the sign of the cross. When he erected himself, he had eyes only for his bride, who was walking down the aisle on Alberto La Torre’s arm.

  He’d assumed the marriage to be political in nature, not that he doubted his brother would play the part of doting husband to a “tee,” but Carlo’s stoic mask crumbled as he watched the beautiful young woman walk toward him. His eyes reddened, his nostrils flared. The two stared at each other and she, too, grew teary, then giggled a little and leaned on her father.

  He hadn’t doubted Carlo would find success wherever he landed, but seeing him in love made his chest tighten. His life hadn’t been a complete misery, then.

  A fat lady sang Ave Maria and the ceremony proceeded in Latin. Carlo’s focus remained on the priest or his bride until he’d kissed her and turned to their guests. Only then did his gaze land on Mario and his body went perfectly still.

  His new wife smiled tearfully as he walked her down the aisle, but Carlo’s face was made of stone.

  Mario’s aisle was the first to exit and they were handed little plastic bottles of bubbles with the instructions to wait outside the church and blow. Instead he walked to their rental car and leaned against it. He had no doubt Carlo would find him there.

  * * *

  “Give me your gun,” Carlo whispered urgently, grabbing Sonny’s arm and yanking him back into a church hallway.

  “What is it?”

  “My brother is here from Sicily.”

  Sonny looked at him blankly.

  “He wants me dead. Give me your fucking gun.” He yanked it out of the guy’s holster and shoved it in his jacket pocket.

  “There you are. We’re supposed to be doing photos,” Al said, sticking his head around the corner. He must’ve noticed Carlo and Sonny’s expressions. “What’s going on?”

  “Mario’s here. My brother.”

  Al’s hand went to his gun. “I’ll take care of it. You go take care of my daughter.”

  Carlo gritted his teeth. “No. I have to go.” He pushed past his father-in-law and found an exit to the church, his fingers closed around the handle of the gun, safety off.

  Al and Sonny were right behind him.

  “Hey what’s—” Joey caught them in the hallway and joined the parade.

  Carlo paused and put his hand on Sonny’s chest, stopping him. “You’re not armed. You stay in here. Joey, do you—”

  Joey flashed his gun.

  “No, Joey’s not supposed to be involved in this shit. Give your gun to Sonny,” Al ordered.

  “What the fuck is going on?”

  “Carlo’s brother showed up.”

  Joey pursed his lips and reluctantly turned his gun over to Sonny. “I’ll stall the women. Make this come out right—it’s a fucking wedding.”

  “Like we need advice from you,” Al muttered as they filed out the door and into the parking lot.

  Mario stood by a car, flanked by his two men, clearly waiting for him.

  Someone ought to pray for his soul, because he aimed his gun at his brother’s forehead, right there outside St. Mary’s Cathedral. He walked swiftly forward, his gun arm steady.

  Mario didn’t move. His men stiffened, looking warily at the three armed men approaching. None of them reached for their guns.

  “I’m not here to kill you,” Mario said when he arrived and pressed the muzzle of his Ruger against the guy’s skull. “If you want to commit murder on your wedding day, that’s on you.”

  He sucked in his breath, the searing pain of his brother’s betrayal still as fresh as the day they’d tried to kill him. Suddenly he was that young man again—shocked to the core, unable to believe his own brother wanted him dead. Slowly grasping the enormity of his loss, because even though he’d lived, his life had been stripped from him.

  Mario held his palms up, without making any quick movements. “I came to make amends. I was wrong. I sinned against you, and our mother and our father, God rest his soul.” He spoke in Italian, his voice so achingly familiar. He sounded like their father.

  “Stronzata.” Bullshit.

  “Truth.” Mario touched Carlo’s gun hand and eased it away from his face. Snowflakes fell into his hair making it look salt and pepper gray. Or maybe it was salt and pepper gray now. ”What I did was wrong. I own it. Not a day goes by I don’t re
member how I betrayed you. I was terrified about leading the Family, and about Pops dying. I didn’t feel worthy. And then when I thought you were trying to push me out—I just lost it.”

  Mario’s two soldiers stared at their boss in shock, clearly as surprised as Carlo to hear him admit any wrongdoing.

  “I’m tired of seeing our Ma cry on her birthday because she hasn’t heard your voice in eight years. I’m tired of the guilt of depriving you of Pop’s last days. I have sons now—three boys and I hate to think they would ever have bad blood between them like I have with you. So I’m here now. You wanna shoot me, you do it. Otherwise, I’m gonna hug you and say congratulations because you have a beautiful fucking bride.”

  It was a sign of his total weakness that his knees buckled and he wanted to weep like a baby. He was good at reading people, but he hadn’t guessed this outcome.

  Mario pulled him into a hug and then he was crying as his brother thumped him on the back over and over again.

  “Gesù Cristo, you fucking guy,” he said, referring not to the attempt on his life, but to him showing up and making him cry on his wedding day.

  “I hope someday you’ll forgive me.” Mario kissed his cheek, his own eyes wet. “I’m unarmed, so if you wanna bring something down on me, do it.” He spread his arms wide, as if inviting Carlo to punch him.

  Carlo shook his head, swallowing the lump in his throat.

  “So, you gonna introduce me to your new family?” he asked and looked pointedly at Don Al.

  He swiped his eyes with his thumb and middle finger. “This is Don Alberto La Torre, my father-in-law. And this is Sonny, my number one.” The men shook hands, Don Al and Sonny putting their guns away.

  “He’s not allowed to move back to Sicily, so that better not be why you came here,” Al informed Mario.

  Mario grinned. “Duly noted. Maybe just a honeymoon? Our Ma would sure like to see his ugly mug,” he said, slapping Carlo’s cheek.

  He drew in a deep breath of the icy air, struggling once more with his emotions. Bringing Summer home to visit Sicily would be a dream come true. She still complained she didn’t know him well enough. He would show her everything, until there were no secrets about his past or who he was under the tough exterior.

  “Come in and I’ll introduce you to my beautiful wife.”

  He led his brother back up to the church where he’d just married the young woman who’d always held his heart. There could be no happier conclusion to the best day of his life than to be reunited with his family, which he thought he’d lost forever.

  Summer had gone to the door, but Joey blocked her, shielding her behind his own unarmed body.

  “It’s all right,” Al said.

  Joey stepped aside and Summer came out into the cold, scanning their faces with a creased brow.

  Carlo gave her a smile and held out his hand. “Angel, my brother Mario decided to crash the wedding.”

  She looked uncertainly from him to his brother, but took his cue and attempted a smile.

  “Signora Romano,” Mario said, opening his arms.

  She giggled at the new name, throwing him a glance as she stepped into his brother’s embrace, accepting his kisses.

  “Welcome to the family.”

  “Let’s go inside,” she said, looking at him. “I’m sure you’ll want your brother in the photos.”

  He smiled and tucked her against him as they walked together back into St. Mary’s.

  There was a time when he thought forgiving his brother would be impossible, even if he’d died a miserable death. But on a day like this, with the perfect woman beside him, surrounded by his new family, it was hard to hang onto his old grief. Mario’s actions had sent him here—to Summer, his everything. And for that, he had to be grateful.

  About the Author

  #1 BEST SELLING AUTHOR IN

  SCI-FI & PARANORMAL EROTICA!

  Named Eroticon USA's Next Top Erotic Author in 2013, Renee Rose is a naughty author who writes romance books centered around her favorite kink: spanking. She has won Best Historical Romance from both The Romance Reviews and Spanking Romance Reviews, has often made the list of Amazon's Top 100 Erotic Authors, and is a regular columnist for Write Sex Right. She also pens BDSM stories under the name Darling Adams.

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  Claiming The Don’s Daughter

  Book Three in The Bossman Series

  Scoring with Santa

  By Renee Rose and Theresa Roemer

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