Marrying the Mafia Boss,The Judge's Rebellious Daughter

I woke to the sound of my mother screaming again. Never a good sign. I dressed in silence, terrified of letting her know I was awake—and even more terrified of the liquor bottle I knew would be clutched in her hand.

Mother wasn't always like this. Before I turned thirteen, she'd never laid a finger on me. It all started the day I accidentally played a forbidden song on the old jukebox my father left behind in his study. That melody was a relic from the Capone era, a Chicago mob's "farewell tune" for traitors before execution. The moment the music started, I understood: I was the descendant of a "Mafia family."

My mother was a judge, one of the youngest tenured justices ever appointed to the Chicago Court of Appeals. She knew better. And yet, she still pined for the man—the romantic painter who shared just one night with her, left her pregnant and unwed, shattered her reputation. was actually the exiled leader of the Colombo family. She hates him. She hates the indelible mark he left on me even more.

The only silver lining? Her surname, her status, act like an expensive perfume, temporarily masking the inherent "scent" in my bones. We live in an unremarkable Wilmette townhouse, right on the border of Viscotti family territory. And according to hints in my father's old letters, the young leader of that family—Vito Viscotti—is my "arranged marriage" husband, a pact between two underground Mafia dynasties.

He doesn't know I'm his future wife. And I have no intention of telling him.

Vito Viscotti. In my eyes right now, he might as well be a walking god.

He's the classic elite prep school type: Ivy League-bound, football team captain, always with his politically-connected girlfriend on his arm. Every time I see him kiss her, my heart twists like it's being squeezed by a Sicilian lemon. Thank God, they seem to keep it at that.

I'm slowly sinking. And I will *not* drag him down into the abyss with me.

My name is Ella. A stupid name for a stupid girl—at least, that's what my mother always says.

I was named Ella long before some popular novel made the name ubiquitous. People still ask if my mother was a fan, completely ignoring the fact I was already walking by the time that book came out.

I speed on my motorcycle. I'm sharp-tongued with teachers. Their stupidity isn't my fault, but my inability to keep my mouth shut absolutely is. It's easier this way—easier to hide the bruises my mother leaves, easier to explain the wounds I carve into myself.

It's also another reason I can't get involved in this "arranged marriage." He can't step into this world. An alcoholic judge for a mother… her damage is far more lethal than fists. Her tools are the law, public opinion, the power to have you locked up in juvie. I had friends once. Until Mother "handled" them.

Let's just say they experienced such vivid nightmares about me that they'd run away crying if they saw me again.

Mother despises my "family nature" so fiercely because it's a constant reminder of *him*. He was her "one great love"—or so she believed—until he used her, got what he wanted, and abandoned him to "marry up" into a more powerful family. It broke her. And she, in turn, broke me.

On my way out, I passed the mirror in the hall. A bruise was blossoming from my cheekbone up towards my temple. Mother always aims with precision. Even with my unnaturally fast healing, this mark would linger. I sighed silently, successfully slipping out the door without triggering any more screams. I swung my leg over my motorcycle and sped towards school.

Saint Ignatius Preparatory. In other words: hell.

The school is the most cliché den of privilege you can imagine. Mafia scions and Wall Street heirs "mingle," but the football stars still mock the nerds, and the nerds still cower when they pass them in the halls.

I'm the school's resident "junkie." I've never touched drugs.

My guess? A few times I showed up smelling like alcohol, and rumors of me being a drunk spread. The truth was, Mother had thrown the bottle at me, and I hadn't had time to change. If I'm late for school… let's just say Mother's "hospitality" at home escalates.

I parked my bike, sighed, and my gaze drifted to him against my will. Vito fucking Viscotti. He didn't even notice my stare, his ocean-blue eyes locked on the girl tucked under his arm.

Paige Amorta.

Stunningly beautiful, and rumored to be stunningly kind with a stunningly powerful background. Something about a senator for a father.

She wasn't the type to give you hell for talking to Vito. Rumor had it they were childhood friends, and if neither found a more suitable "alliance" by twenty, she'd become the Viscotti family's "Madam." I didn't care. Even if, deep down, I ached for him.

*'Hmm, maybe he'd have you if you stopped fucking hiding.'*

I rolled my eyes at the voice in my head. She said the same thing every time I saw him, even though she understood. I was probably a psychopath. I called her Lia, and she'd start panting in my mind whenever we thought about bringing him home.

She never wanted to imagine what my mother would do to him. A Mafia leader! Ha. In a judge's house.

I walked past them quickly, not daring another glance. My boots clicked against the pavement as I took the stairs two at a time, my wild black hair flying behind me. His scent hit me full force—ocean, mint, fresh-brewed espresso. The salty sea air mixed with the sharp bite of mint and the rich bitterness of raw coffee beans.

I heard his laugh rise above the crowd, and my heart clenched just as I reached the doors.

That should have been me. But it wasn't.

I walked into the hallway, shoved my bag and helmet into my locker, slammed it shut, and headed for English class. I took my seat in the corner by the window, closed my eyes, and felt the sun on my face. I stayed like that long after the bell rang, not moving even when attendance was called.

"Miss Marsh, care to join our discussion?" I opened one eye. The entire class—including *his*—gaze was on me.

"Not particularly, but if you remind me what we're discussing, maybe." My lame attempt at a joke drew a few chuckles from the class. A faint smile even flickered across his face. God, what that smile did to me.

"We're talking about Shakespeare and the upcoming related project. If you had to perform one of his plays, which would you choose? Or, do you know any besides *Romeo and Juliet*?"

I gritted my teeth, my gaze shooting back to her face. "I'd pick *The Taming of the Shrew*. Or *Macbeth*. Hell, even *Hamlet*!"

I was nearly shouting by the end of the sentence. Her eyes widened at my outburst. I quickly realized what I'd done, my eyes scanning the room. Everyone was staring.

I snatched my bag from the floor, muttered an apology, and bolted out the classroom door. Leaning against the lockers, I sighed. Five minutes into class, and I'd already blown it.

I slid down the cold metal to sit on the floor, knocking the back of my head against the locker door repeatedly.