Page 24 of Fractured Empire

He hums, considering. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, sis.”

When I turn around to reply, he’s already gone, disappearing back through my bedroom window and cloaking me in silence as he goes. My stomach twists as his words dance around in the back of my mind. Discomfort settles in, and I can’t seem to shake it off. My mood has been shaken, and I know there isn’t anything I can do to fix it. Even the sky doesn’t seem like good company anymore.

The days of planning for the meeting have officially come to an end as the sun sets, and I know that I need to go to bed. Tomorrow we fly out to Moretti territory together, and everything comes to a head. I can’t decide whether or not I’m nervous, anxious, or mournful for the trip. One thing is for certain though, I have a sinking feeling that something is going to go wrong.

After getting ready for bed, I do exactly what I shouldn’t do. I open my laptop and start searching. Leon Moretti doesn’t have a large social media presence in a sense that he doesn’t post often. His sisters do, though. Both Jade Moretti and Ana Moretti post a ton of family photos, some of which include him.

His dirty blonde hair is always perfectly styled in that messy not messy sort of way, and it’s short enough to look professional and expensive rather than lazy on him. He’s tall and obviously strong, his jawline and cheekbones framing his undeniably handsome face quite well. But there’s something else to him. Something almost…sad.

His eyes, I think. They’re crystal blue like almost all of his family’s are, but they’re not bright and wide like Jade’s, or as steely and striking as Apollo’s. They’re downcast and woven with a sort of lost quality. None of the photos seem to be taken after his wife’s death, but perhaps he was mourning her long before anyone knew she would be leaving this Earth.

Eyes can tell you a lot about someone. Not necessarily the color, of course. But the way they gaze and the emotions they hold. Some people say that eyes are the windows into the soul, and part of me wishes it weren’t true.

If Leon’s soul is sad, I don’t know if finding a new wife can fix that for him.

I don’t know if Chloe can fix that for him.

The uncomfortable thought has me shutting my laptop fast and storing it away in my bedside drawer. I can’t let Ares’ words get to me, and I can’t think about my friend that way. She’s a good person, and I’m sure she has every intention of trying to be a good wife, even if her motivations for this match aren’t purely innocent.

Made men marry for selfish reasons all the time. I can’t fault her for wanting to marry into a wealthy, safe family. Anyone would want that.

Including me.

Chapter Eleven

Leon

Over the last couple of days my father found ten potential candidates. He did most of the searching himself, only coming to me for approval since he had my requirements to work with. And after my torturous night of drinking and desire, I knew it was unwise to wait any longer before proceeding. Since he has all of the best connections, Dad did all of the contacting himself, reaching out to mafia family after mafia family and inviting daughters to my home to see who might be a good fit.

Given the unusual way of conducting a marriage match, we needed to make plenty of assurances and hammer out logistics to make the process smooth. Each woman was allowed to bring security, with a maximum limit of five men—either related to or working for their fathers. They were free to reject the offer of coming, of course, but not a single one did.

We decided to do the “interviews” in two different time slots. The first five in the beginning of the afternoon, and the second group of five closer to the evening. The first five went well enough, of course. Each of the women were kind, spoke the languages I needed, and seemed to be keen on becoming stepmothers. The best candidate even spoke to Leo while he colored in the sitting room that we set up as a waiting area, my son being too sociable to be dissuaded from exploring the space filled with new faces.

It seemed like most of the women weren’t sure if they should interact with him, but Gabbie Stone wasn’t shying away from my boy. The twenty-four year old went to Empire with a few of my brothers, and was even there for Jade’s first and only semester. She speaks fluent Italian, despite being the heir to The Lost Reapers—an American motorcycle gang that we have a peace treaty with.

She’s beautiful, yes. With dark hair, tan skin, and deep green eyes that could almost be mistaken for brown. And Leo seemed to like her chitchat enough, but she’s an heir. A female heir is uncommon, but not unprecedented. Her responsibility would be split between the Morettis and The Reapers, unless she chose to leave her old life behind entirely. I get the feeling that it might not be off the table for her completely, to leave her position in favor of an easier—slower—life as a wife and mother in the Moretti Outfit, but her priorities could always be split.

Dad and I agree that she’s one of our top contenders, but we’re waiting for the next group of informal introductions and interviews to kick off before we discuss it further. I would need Gabbie to make some assurances, and there’s no point in talking it through with her until I look at every possibility.

Rayna is directing the last few women of the second group into the room when I step into the corner hallway to take a deep breath and a drink of water. Despite only being a few hours in, this day has been about as draining as you’d expect it to be. Picking a wife is a lot of work when it has anything more to do with logistics than love. I feel like I’m auditioning actresses for a TV show that will never end, and it’s as exhausting as it is unsettling.

“Ready for this?” Apollo asks, suddenly appearing by my side.

My shoulders lift in a shrug. “As I’ll ever be.”

“You’ll find the right one,” he assures me, unprompted. “You’ll know her when you see her, and if she’s not in this batch, we’ll try again.”

“Just like that, huh?”

“Just like that.”

Reluctantly, I follow Apollo back into the sitting room and my eyes roam over the new batch of women. All of them are different shades of pretty. Some with long hair, some with short, some blonde, some brunette, even a redhead. A few of them are shorter, and one or two are taller than average. Nothing particular sticks out to me, at least at first. I’m too in my head to really look.

Dad pulls the first woman aside and waves me over to chat, and the process begins all over again. It goes smoothly, even if I’m a bit stiff and unsure. The first two candidates are sweet, albeit nervous, a trait I can hardly fault them for.

If I were a woman in their shoes, I would be nervous as well. It’s a big thing for plenty of them, not just the prospect of marriage, but the idea that they may be able to help their families in the process. Many smaller syndicates would benefit greatly from a marriage pact with The Outfit. Some would kill for it, frankly.

But to my relief, none of the women I’ve met today have given me any indication that they’re here against their will, or suffering immense pressure to impress me. Nothing would turn me off more than knowing I could pick another wife who wants nothing to do with me and is only marrying me because of their family’s demands. I might not be able to take it—going through that again.