Lorenzo Beretta (Unseen Underground 1)

“Fine.” My nostrils flared as I agreed to it all. “Bring me options, and I’ll get married on my goddamn birthday. Then we can get on with business.” I paused, realizing that until I turned thirty, I couldn’t be boss. “Who’s gonna take over until then?”

“Me,” Uncle Alonzo said, and it made sense. He was my dad’s right-hand man, he had been for more years than I’d been alive, and most importantly, he was the underboss. You couldn’t jump ranks in the business, so he was the only one who could be acting boss. “You keep doing what you normally do, and I’ll just act as boss until you can take over.”

“Good.” I stared at each person in the room. My younger brother, whose life would change more than it ever had. My mother, who had lost the love of her life. My uncles, who were determined not to let the business get into someone else’s hands. And finally, my best friend, the man who had been by my side every step of the way. But right now, I didn’t want to look at any of them.

I needed to be alone.

/> I needed to drown my goddamn sorrows.

I spun around, leaving them in the office that would be mine in three weeks.

LORENZO

The roar of the engine vibrated through me as I pulled through the open, vast, metal gates and into the property that was now my home—again. I looked around, trying to see if the truck delivering all of my things from my penthouse had turned up yet, but from the looks of things, it hadn’t.

The mansion we’d all grown up in was now officially mine, but if I was honest, I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to be back in my own living room, looking out at the entire city with my floor-to-ceiling windows. Ma’s words echoed in my mind: You need a house with protection. The penthouse apartment I’d lived in since I was eighteen wasn’t good enough, apparently. No. I needed a mansion now to house the staff, security detail, family, and of course, my new wife.

So, here I was, back in the same place I grew up, only now things were different. I was the boss—well, nearly. Thirteen days. I only had thirteen days to get married and turn thirty. Then I would become the boss. The head of the family.

Christian’s car pulled up behind mine, and I stared in the rearview mirror as he got out, but I didn’t make a move. Instead, I just stared at him as he waited patiently for me. He’d done that all morning while I took my frustration out on a soldier who’d tried to double-cross us. He’d thought that my father’s death would allow him to jump on opportunities presented to him from other organizations. He was wrong. And he’d learned that lesson slowly and painfully.

I’d left the underground bunker near Uncle Antonio’s house feeling some of the pressure lifting off my shoulders, but as I stared at Christian, it all came tumbling back, almost taking my breath away.

My morning may have been full of relief, but my afternoon was going to be full of yet more prospective women brought my way. I groaned, already fed up with today and it wasn’t even lunchtime yet. For the last eight days, I’d been presented sixty-two women—sixty-two prospective wives—and not one of them was right. I needed someone who didn’t want attention and wouldn’t use the family name for her own agenda. It was a delicate balance, one that was proving more difficult than I ever would have thought.

The most important thing was that she would be in name only. I had no intention of being a loving husband to a good Italian woman. She’d want things I wasn’t capable of giving. Like babies, a family, a life where we held hands and I bought her flowers.

I wasn’t that person. I’d never be that person.

Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath, schooled my features into the mask everyone expected of me, then pushed out of my car. I didn’t take one look at Christian, knowing he would follow me inside while also watching my back.

The large double doors opened as I came within a few feet, and there, in the circular entryway, were four women, lined up, ready for me to see.

“No,” I said, flicking my hand in the air in a shooing motion. It took me two seconds to look in their eyes and know whether they were right or not. And none of these were right, not for me anyway.

“You’re too damn picky,” Christian groaned as several sets of heels clicked on the tiled floor and outside. Not one of them said a word as they were ushered out. They knew better than that.

“None of them are right,” I told Christian simply as I turned around to face him. “Whoever it is is gonna be around for years. She’s gotta be the right person.”

“You have thirteen days left,” Christian reminded me, his brow raised. “You may be Lorenzo Beretta, but that don’t mean shit if you turn thirty and you don’t have a bride for the wedding your ma is already planning.”

I growled, frustrated at the whole situation. I hadn’t committed to anyone for a goddamn reason, but now, in one fell swoop, I was going to become the boss and a husband. Fuck. I couldn’t deal with this shit, not right now. The high from this morning had well and truly dissipated into nothing.

“I need a drink.”

“Lorenzo,” Christian snapped, but I ignored him and made a beeline for the kitchen at the back of the house. I hadn’t been in my dad’s office since the day of his funeral, and that was where the good stuff was. Right now, alcohol was alcohol, and I knew exactly where I could find some.

The side door to the kitchen was open, but I didn’t take any notice of it as I headed for the top shelf of the secret cabinet Ma kept. She thought no one knew about it, but we all knew that was where she kept her favorite drinks. They weren’t the same kind of expensive alcohol that was in my dad’s office, but even a weird-flavored vodka was better than nothing right now.

I huffed out a breath. Christian was right. I’d never find a wife, not with the people they kept bringing to me. Maybe I just needed to settle with one of the women and call it a done deal. Maybe I was being too picky.

I sneered at the light-purple color of the vodka, twisted the top off, and took a swig. “Fuck.” I slammed the bottle down. “That’s disgusting.” I darted for the sink, slammed the faucet on, and filled a glass with water, hoping that would take the awful flowery aftertaste away.

“I think you’re meant to mix that with something else,” a soft, lyrical voice said from behind me. “Like, you know, a mixer.”

My back straightened, my nerves on edge. I was always aware of what was around me, and yet I hadn’t even noticed someone coming into the room. Slowly, I turned, wondering if another prospective woman had been sent my way. I was about to open my mouth, to ask her what she was doing in a part of the house she wasn’t allowed in, when Mr. Ricci halted behind her.

“Oh, hello, Mr. Beretta.” He gulped, his wide eyes veering from me to the woman who I now realized was holding a box filled with groceries. “I’m bringing your mother’s delivery for the week.” He shuffled from side to side, unease clearly spreading through him. “I apologize if my daughter disturbed you.”