Cruelest Contract

Book 1: Storm's Eye Ranch

by Cora Brent

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Western Romance

Synopsis

A bookish accountant accepts an offer she can't refuse from a dangerously seductive mafia cowboy in this dark Western romance with vibes of Sons of Anarchy. 

I’ve been given a choice. Either I can marry one of the four fearsome Tempesta brothers … or I can bury my own troubled twin brother after his latest misdeeds. 

This is a sacrifice I will make with no hesitation. As a cruel favor, I’m allowed to choose which of the Tempesta brothers I’ll walk down the aisle with. 

One week among them on their vast ranch fortress in a remote corner of Wyoming is all the time I’m given to make up my mind. They are all different. All gorgeous and seductive. And all uniquely challenging in their own way. But only one of them stands out and fascinates me to the point of obsession. 

Years ago, Julian Tempesta saved my life and now our intense physical attraction is undeniable. Julian, as the charismatic eldest brother, is also the natural leader and protector, not a man who intends to use me and then callously crush my heart to pieces. 

When Julian says this marriage will be real, I believe him. I’m in far too deep by the time I understand the truth. I’ve foolishly trapped myself in a devil’s bargain. 

And now my ‘husband’ will be my undoing…  

Release date: March 24, 2026

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 448

Sample

The accident has made a lot of things impossible. Dancing is one of them.

No one notices when I escape from my brother’s wedding reception. A year ago I would have stayed and danced in the villa courtyard until my heart pounded and my heels blistered but not anymore.

A cluster of oak trees at the edge of my grandfather’s vineyard estate has always been a favorite spot. Today it’s the perfect place to hide and daydream about a future where I’m dancing with no pain.

My leg already throbs from the short walk. The ache travels along the scar line like it’s got a mind of its own and is reminding me why I’m trying to hide among the old oaks. Ten months of physical therapy has made a big difference but every careful step reminds me of my new limitations.

Angelo, my least favorite brother, flashed a nasty smirk earlier when he noticed I was trying to tag along with the boys. “Get lost for fuck’s sake. You’ll never keep up.”

Those words cut deep. Angelo’s insults always do. And I can never think of an equally mean comeback until he’s long gone.

Of course I couldn’t keep up with my brothers as they joined the Tempesta boys in a knot of wild shoving and cursing with stolen liquor bottles hidden under their shirts. I refused to beg them to wait for me. I knew they wouldn’t.

Boys are lucky. They’ll be allowed to do as they please. My grandfather’s guards are patrolling the grounds with long guns slung over their shoulders but they won’t care about a pack of teenagers drinking themselves sick in some remote corner of the vineyard.

Angelo, two years older, was born a bully so I never expect much from him. But whenever my twin follows along, I can’t help feeling crushed.

All of our lives we’ve been a team. The Grimaldi twins. Gabriel and Cecilia. Cici and Gabe. Now my twin brother leaves me behind without looking back. I don’t know how to make it stop hurting when Gabriel chooses to stick by Angelo’s side, not mine.

Behind me, the tempo of the tarantella speeds up. The laughter from the wedding reception grows louder.

Before I slipped away, I saw my parents out there, twirling around with the crowd in a rare moment of carefree fun. The bride danced with her bridesmaids. My cousins danced with each other.

I got a funny feeling when my eldest brother said his wedding vows. Eight years older, Matthias was always worlds ahead. We’re not close but he’s always been dependable and protective. I’ll miss him. He’s not out there right now and I haven’t seen him since he and Daniela shared their first dance. He was called to a private meeting with our grandfather. Last week I heard my father say that Matthias, as the firstborn grandson, will be receiving one of the beachfront resorts as a wedding present.

Today I’ve made a decision. I’ll never walk down the aisle until I find someone who looks at me the way Matthias looks at Daniela. Anything less would be like giving up.

The thicket of trees is just up ahead but Angelo’s sharp laughter stops me in my tracks. My heart sinks because I know Gabriel must have led them here. He’s the only one who knows about my favorite spot. The sense of betrayal tastes bitter.

There’s movement in the trees and I try to be quiet as I inch closer for a better look just as Angelo delivers the punchline of his latest obscene joke.

The boys sit on flat boulders and rotted logs while passing a bottle around. Gabe hesitates before taking a sip and immediately chokes but the Tempesta boys gulp from the bottle like it’s something they do every day.

The four Tempesta brothers and their father arrived for the wedding early this morning. I’ve never met them before but I’ve heard their names plenty over the years. They are close in age and they run wild on their Wyoming ranch. There’s a rumor that their father went sort of crazy after their mother was murdered.

I don’t know if Cassio Tempesta is really crazy but he does seem a little weird. I saw him at the reception and he was sitting alone while puffing on a cigar and glaring at no one in particular. Whenever he does speak to people, they look like they’re trying to figure out the quickest escape route.

His sons look like him, all of them with handsome faces, black hair and broad shoulders. They make me nervous. Even so, I can’t seem to stop staring at them.

Fortunato is the youngest, the same age as me and Gabe. But whereas Gabe is still short and scrawny, Fort is nearly as tall and strong as his big brothers.

The two middle brothers always trip me up. One is named Gaetano. The other is Tiberius. They aren’t twins but could easily be confused for twins.

Lastly, there’s the oldest Tempesta brother, the one who chooses to stand apart from the rest of them right now.

Julian can’t be more than seventeen but there’s a different energy about him, and not just because he’s more muscled and serious in the way that grown men are. He leans against the thick base of a tree with his arms crossed and his foot propped up on the trunk. The sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up past his elbows. He studies the other boys with an attitude that leaves no doubt he’s in charge. Like he’s the lone adult overseeing a rowdy playground and he’s just biding his time until he gets to do something more interesting.

None of the boys have noticed me yet but when they do, Angelo will say something rude. The rest of them will laugh. Gabe will pretend I’m not here. I’ll be forced to walk away with my cheeks on fire and my eyes watering and I’ll probably end up wiping my running nose on the sleeve of my cardigan.

None of this sounds like a good time. I might as well return to the wedding reception and watch everyone else dance. At least there will be cake.

While I’m trying to figure out the best way to retreat without being seen, Julian’s gaze flicks to me, scrolls quickly and then goes flat with disinterest.

My cousin Lianna insists she hooked up with him a few months back when he showed up with his father at my uncle’s Las Vegas hotel. I have no idea if this is true. Lianna has lied before and she’s definitely full of herself now that she’s sixteen and having all kinds of life experiences.

But now that I’m this close to Julian Tempesta, I have no trouble believing her story. I bet Julian does whatever he wants and always gets his way. I wonder how that feels.

The music is still playing. The buzz of laughter and voices drifts across the gentle slopes of the vineyard.

There’s also the beat of a new and inexplicable sound, kind of like galloping horses. My stomach tightens automatically.

I’ll never ride a horse again. I still think they are beautiful but I feel sick if I get too close to one.

Instinctively, I bend down to touch the damaged leg that’s lucky to still be attached to my body. When my mother tried to gently talk me out of wearing black winter tights beneath my dress today, I refused.

People see my scars and they stare. I will not give them anything to stare at. With a shaky breath, I take my hand off my leg and lift my eyes to search for the source of the noise.

Shades of soft orange streak the sky and dusk will soon fall but there’s still plenty of light. More than enough for me to see the two spidery shapes rapidly advancing in this direction.

Even after I realize the shapes are helicopters I’m not afraid. Helicopters aren’t rare and they aren’t scary.

It’s not until panicked shouts begin to ring out and I spot some of my grandfather’s men running through the vineyard with their guns raised that I know something is very wrong.

It all happens fast. So very fast.

A deep voice roars, “GET DOWN!”

I know I should listen. But I can’t move. I’m frozen in place on open ground. A sitting duck. A band of terror tightens in my chest.

Both helicopters hover above the formation of tables set up for the wedding reception. The wind from the propellers knocks over chairs and topples the five tier wedding cake. Some people understand what’s coming and dive under tables in desperation. But anyone who just finished dancing on the huge wide open patio has nowhere to go.

The bullets fire at an impossibly rapid speed, hundreds of them. The guns pointing from the open doors of both helicopters are being controlled by unseen men. And they are merciless.

It’s a shock when I’m knocked off my feet. My cheek hits the dirt. For one wild second I’m positive I’ve just been shot.

But I haven’t been shot and I’m not alone.

A very hard, heavy body has tackled me from behind and now pins me to the earth. Even if I wasn’t too petrified to move, I wouldn’t be able to.

Noises blend together. The deafening chop of the helicopter propellers. The endless rapid crack of fired bullets. Screams echo from all directions.

“Stay down,” growls my protector. Big hands cover my ears, a useless attempt to spare me from hearing what’s happening nearby.

All I can see of him are muscled forearms and white sleeves rolled above the elbows.

We’ve never spoken, but I know him.

Just a moment ago he was leaning against a tree and watching his brothers get drunk on stolen whiskey.

Now Julian Tempesta has come between me and death, shielding my body with his.

Bullets hit the earth not far away. Each impact vibrates the ground.

I don’t know how this is happening but it is. Every nightmare rolls into one. Time is an uncertain thing. I might have been here for a minute or an hour. Grass tickles my nose and my chest heaves with sobs.

As horrible as it is to be flat on the ground while bullets fly everywhere, I know things will get much worse.

The faces of all the people I love fly through my mind.

My brothers. My parents. My aunts and uncles and cousins. Even my strict grandfather.

I should be able to remember at least one prayer to save them but there’s nothing. Only intense, paralyzing terror.

The gunfire stops and the roar of the helicopters fades. Men are shouting. Women are wailing.

“Julian!” calls a frightened voice from the trees.

“I’m all right,” he calmly answers and the weight of his body leaves mine.

I might have just stayed there sobbing in the grass for ages but Julian gently pulls me up. He holds me by the arms when my legs threaten to melt. Behind him, five anxious boys stand at the edge of the tree line, his brothers and mine.

I’m relieved to see them. But they are no longer badass teenagers passing around a forbidden liquor bottle. They’ve become terrified, wide-eyed children.

Angelo mutters the word, “Fuck,” and vomits on the ground.

Gabriel stares at me, then shifts his eyes to something in the distance and sinks to his knees with a heartbroken cry.

Fortunato points a shaking finger. “Look, it’s Dad! He’s running over here.”

Julian’s eyes scan the space above my head and his tense posture relaxes a little when he sees his brother is telling the truth.

If their father is alive and running to his kids then maybe mine is too. And my mother. And the rest of them might also be safe, impossible as this seems.

But one look over my shoulder shatters the illusion. There’s been no miracle.

Images burn into my brain with cruel speed. In an instant I know they can never be erased.

Bodies are lying on the ground. A few are moving. Most are not. The blood is everywhere. Blood now stains a white bridal gown. Blood is splattered on the tables and the patio tiles.

My mother bought matching dresses for the two of us. When I reminded her that I hate wearing pink, she tickled me with a laugh and said the color was salmon. My father told her she looked beautiful and she blushed.

She really did look beautiful.

She’ll also never wear that salmon colored dress again. It’s now stained and ruined among the fallen bodies.

A single piercing shriek rips painfully from my throat and then stalls. The devastating weight of grief crushes my lungs from within and there’s no more air to scream with.

“Don’t look,” Julian orders and cups my face in his hands. “Just don’t look at it. Look at me instead.”

Panic threatens to engulf me. Every breath feels like a punishment.

And yet I do as he says. I look up into Julian Tempesta’s determined dark eyes and I keep staring at him, only at him, while trying to wish away the horror all around us.

Now I know how the end can come for you.

It can come for you under a beautiful summer sky in the dreamy moments before twilight.

It can come for you amid the laughter of your family and set to music that cuts off with no warning.

No matter how long I cling to Julian, this terrible new reality still exists.

And it waits for me.

“What do you know?” Tye’s boot kicks the charred pile. “This Dollar Store phony cowboy had a gold tooth.”

“Feel free to call dibs,” Fort grumbles and stabs the shovel into the earth again to deepen the hole. “Nobody will fight you for it.”

“Speak for yourself.” Getty hunches down for a closer look. “I like souvenirs.”

Tye drops his shovel and grins, sensing a challenge. “In that case, stand up and take your beating, shithead.”

I swipe the shovel off the ground and savagely scoop up a heap of human remains that have been burned to a crisp. “No souvenirs. Now quit clowning around before I get pissed off and knock your heads together.”

Tye starts cackling. “Our captain sure gets testy without his morning coffee.” He plunks his ass down with a grunt, having decided the best way to help out is to take it easy and watch the rest of us sweat.

Arguing with him isn’t worth my time. It’s been a long night and this chore needs to get finished. We’re a two hour ride back to the ranch and I dislike the way the clouds are thickening overhead.

Getty seems like he’s considering whether he should push my buttons by taking a time out beside Tye. One look at my face convinces him this wouldn’t be a good choice. Very wise, considering how much he’s already busted my balls in the last twenty-four hours.

“I’ll deal with this,” Getty says to Fort and holds his hand out. “You get the horses ready to go. You’re better at it.”

Fortunato recognizes reason when he hears it. It’s one of his best traits. He silently hands over the short-handled shovel and heads for the trees where four sturdy ranch horses are tied up.

Getty is a solid worker once he digs in and decides to be useful. An uncommonly warm spring now works in our favor. The ground is nicely thawed and soft. In no time we’ve got the pile of bones and ash buried, gold tooth and all.

Now that the work is done, Tye finally climbs to his feet. He spits on the dirt and then cracks up with laughter. I swear, he’ll be laughing as he wheezes out his dying breath.

He’s next in line after me but it’s not easy to picture him being in charge of anything. A few seasons in the NHL, where he averaged two fights per game and won the prize for league penalties, has convinced people he carries a chip on his shoulder.

I know my brother better than they do. Tiberius Tempesta doesn’t care about proving a damn thing to anyone. He fights because he likes to fight and that’s as deep as his reasons get.

The exception comes when it’s time to defend the family. Then he shifts to raging bull mode.

“Maybe we should say a few words for the dearly departed,” Tye says and punctuates the comment with a loud belch.

“Think I’ll give him a more appropriate sendoff.” Getty opens his jeans and aims a stream of piss.

My brothers, charming as princes.

I shake my head but don’t say a word while Getty waters the earth.

“Ready to ride,” Fort calls and smoothly heaves himself into a saddle.

Without looking back, I follow my brothers to the horses, leaving the fresh grave behind. Once we ride out of here, its location will be forever lost.

There might be someone out there who will always wonder what happened to this man, but all signs indicate the world is better off now that he’s no longer in it.

However, with this piece of unpleasant business handled, I’ve got one more on my agenda.

Tye has already climbed into a saddle and Getty has one foot in a stirrup when I grab the back of his shirt and give it a hard yank. He stumbles, caught off guard and sputtering. I move right in to seize a handful of thick flannel fabric and get right in his face.

“What’s the rule, Gaetano?”

He tries to throw me off. Can’t. Scowls. “Fuck your lessons, Julian. I’m too old for that shit.”

“And that attitude is exactly why you still need some guidance. Answer the question.”

He’s seething but not foolish enough to take a swing. “That piece of shit was a traitor.”

“I know it.”

“Haven’t we always said there’s nothing worse?”

“Sure. And he got what he deserved. But we might have squeezed some useful information out of him before you opened his throat.”

My brother rolls his eyes. “The fucker was a lowly hired gun. Not the consigliere of the Chicago mob.”

“Not the point. This time all you did was give some lousy spy a few minutes less on this earth. But next time your tantrum might provoke more than my temper. Every time you lash out you’re acting for us all. Remember that.”

He’s still sulking but the speech also made an impression. He doesn’t feel guilty. I’m not sure he knows how. All of his badass flexing isn’t just for show but his loyalty is never in question.

Holding his tongue for once, Getty nods before meeting my eye again. “I get it. Lecture’s over.”

Good enough. I slap his shoulder as a message that the matter is now settled. “Let’s get out of here. We’ve got a long ride ahead of us and I’m so fucking hungry I could eat one of the horses.”

Getty snorts and hops on the back of his mount. He intentionally bumps into Tye as he steers out of the clearing and Tye curses before giving chase. Fort waits until I’m in the saddle and then follows our brothers, leaving me as the last one to guide my horse away from the scene.

The man we killed and buried was an enforcer in Chicago’s Bonafaci family. Two months ago he showed up at the ranch looking for work with a story he’d just finished serving three years in Idaho for robbery. The name he gave checked out and his skills showed he’d spent time on a ranch. My guess is he killed the real ex-con. He caught my attention when our foreman mentioned he’d picked a few fights with the other cowboys. That’s when I took a much closer look at his story.

I’ve learned never to be surprised when some cocky upstart makes a foolish plan. He was sent here by his bosses, either to gather intel or make some trouble.

We’ll never know his objective. But nothing raises my hackles like a double crosser.

We took that bastard in. Put a roof over his head. Gave him a living. And he chose to pay us back with treachery. That’s not a redeemable offense. I would have preferred to extract more information from him before sending him to hell but Getty jumped the gun and sliced him from ear to ear in a fury.

He bled out in less than a minute while we watched. It’s a fucked up way to die. Men who get their throats cut always try to push the blood back inside with their fingers. And they always look so surprised when they can’t.

The dead man will never be mentioned at Storm’s Eye Ranch again. Our foreman is loyal. None of the wranglers will question the story that he packed his shit up and fled in the night. This happens sometimes and for any number of reasons.

Now our Chicago affiliates are primed to teach the Bonafaci family a painful lesson; you fuck with the top of the food chain and you’ll get eaten alive.

When all is said and done, there will be nothing left of them. The meager territory they’ve been so desperate to keep will be under our banner. Serves them right.

It’s funny, but not long ago I came across a news segment about the modern Mafia. Some suit and tie dipshit with a polished Ivy League smirk declared, “The brutal and secretive Mafia network that was glamorized by Hollywood and held entire cities in its vicious grip for decades is on life support these days.”

Ha! I got a hell of a laugh out of that. Then I showed it to my brothers and we all cracked up together.

If these civilians enjoy curling up under their covers at night and dreaming about the extinction of the Mafia, so much the better. To their eyes, we might be mildly interesting as a wealthy ranching family. We’re the ones who benefit when they don’t look any deeper at the vast web of connections that combine into our empire.

A light rain begins to fall when we’re still a few miles from the ranch. Every once in a while I remove my hat to shake away the water on the brim but otherwise the weather doesn’t bother me. The taste of spring is everywhere and the hills are painted a deeper green every day. All the seasons of my life have been spent here and I’ll never tire of celebrating the warmer months after a long and dreary winter.

I’m a few paces behind my brothers and halfway listening as they make plans to drive into Laramie tonight. The university is still in session for a few more weeks and there’s a far more impressive selection of hot girls than we get to see in the nearby small town of Vigilance.

Fort turns his head and searches me out. “You coming, Jul? You should.”

“How about it, big brother?” Getty flashes a wicked grin that promises trouble. “Why not clear those cobwebs off your cock and live a little?”

Tye finds this insult way too funny and howls so hard he nearly falls off his horse. “Cobwebs,” he cackles and slaps his thigh.

I’m not going to defend the state of my cock to these assholes. When I reach my limit and need a fuck, I never have any trouble finding a pretty face who wants a good time. But one negative feature of living and working so closely with your own brothers is they know when you haven’t been serviced in a while.

Flipping through the calendar in my mind, I hold back a wince when I realize that I haven’t touched a pair of tits since a trip to L.A. last summer.

In my defense, I’ve been busy. Being Cassio Tempesta’s eldest son and right-hand man isn’t a role for anyone who expects a lot of leisure time.

I’d like to pass on the Laramie outing. However, my brothers get too unruly when all three of them are out drinking. I’ll probably tag along to supervise even though ten minutes inside a college bar leaves me feeling like I’m the fucking prom chaperone. Frankly, I’ve reached the phase in life where my patience for giggling college girls has worn thin. Most spend too much time babbling about sororities or whining about roommates.

If some sexy, intelligent woman who behaves like an adult wants to drop out of the sky and land in my lap then I’m all over the opportunity. But I don’t have the time to go hunting for her.

We’re coming up on the last bend in the creek before we get a view of the valley. Storm’s Eye Ranch has now swelled to a hundred thousand acres, which makes the eyes of newcomers bug out until they find out the acreage belonging to some of the country’s largest ranches runs to nearly a million.

Over forty years ago our grandfather correctly predicted a massive federal crackdown was on the horizon and decided the New York climate was no longer friendly. A lot of old Mafia families were left in the dustbin of history within a decade but our family pivoted. And we thrived.

Although the ranch is not even close to our main income source, we’re bonded to this place. We always will be, in spite of everything that’s happened here.

Or maybe because of it.

There’s no shortage of wealthy hobbyists snatching up land for bragging rights but the ranch means something far deeper to us. This is a working cattle ranch in every sense and it will stay that way.

The sight of home always hits me square in the chest. Perhaps if there’s such a thing as a soul, that’s where it’s kept. I’m frequently sent away on family business and every time I return, relief is the primary emotion. A sense of belonging that’s impossible to express in words.

I feel it now as I scan the two long buildings where the horses are stabled. Then there’s the massive barn, the corrals, the shop building and the equipment shed. The colossal main house, known far and wide for its imposing size, was modeled after the Gilded Age tycoon mansions of old New York. In contrast, the modest dorm for the cowboys nearly blends into the scenery. The foreman’s cabin is hidden a quarter mile beyond the cowboy clubhouse.

From this spot, no one can see the building half a mile away at the bottom of a shallow slope. The ranch staff know to keep their distance and pretend they see nothing. The men who come and go from that place are not in the cattle business. We only refer to it as ‘the barracks’.

Overhead, heavy clouds skid across the sky and grow darker by the second. The south pasture is empty, the horses having all been moved inside. A spear of lightning flashes in the distance.

Miguel Estrada, longtime ranch foreman, strolls out to meet us. “You made it back just in time. We’re minutes away from a thunderstorm.”

A low growl from the sky confirms his forecast. I climb down from the saddle and he moves to take the reins.

“I’m not too high and mighty to see to my own horse,” I tell him. “But thanks.”

He flicks the brim of his cream-colored cowboy hat and jerks his head to the right. “Since your dad is waiting, you might want to reconsider.”

I shift my eyes and see his point. My father stands on the front porch, barely under the overhang. He’s having a word with Sonny Vitale, his most dedicated Capo and our full time security manager. Sonny’s dark suit is comically ill-suited to the environment and he looks like a lost stockbroker but there’s nobody tougher than him. Their conversation wraps up and Sonny steps back, plants his shiny shoe in a mud puddle and curses before waddling away in the direction of the barracks.

This time when Miguel reaches for the reins I hand them over. He whistles and two wiry flannel-clad ranch hands come trotting out to handle the rest of the horses.

Miguel shifts the toothpick in his mouth. “By the way, we lost a wrangler yesterday. Just skipped out with no notice. Never liked him. And I’d take a bet that he’s the one who stole a money clip from Jed’s footlocker.”

“Lesson learned,” I say, pretending this is news. “Next time we won’t be so careless when it comes to vetting our staff.”

“Definitely,” Miguel deadpans, holding my eye, not fooled for a second. After twenty years among us, he’s seen plenty on this ranch. I doubt anything surprises him by now.

Among my brothers, only Fort is annoyed to hand the horses over. He’d much rather linger in the stables than deal with our father’s scrutiny.

Cassio Tempesta stays on the front porch, the tips of his black boots hanging over the edge of the top step. He waits until we are collected at his feet before speaking.

“Did you boys have a nice overnight campout?” he says in a mild tone that any curious father might use. The question is addressed to us all but he looks to me when he expects an answer, as always.

“We did,” I tell my father, matching his easy tone. “It was a nice bonding exercise.”

The next crack of thunder is almost overhead and the rain is now spilling in sheets. But the four of us don’t make a move to take shelter until our father steps back.

“All of you get cleaned up and pay your respects to your mother.” The hinges of the thick iron door groan when he pulls it open and motions for us to file inside. “Then come to the dining room for a meal. We need to have a talk.”

Ten minutes with soap and water is all it takes to erase the acrid stench of smoke and sins. There’s no better modern luxury than a hot shower following a long ride in the rain. My stomach, however, still has plenty of complaints.

My father insists on formality at meal times. Seeing his four sons sitting around the table and looking respectable is one of the few things that make him happy so we don’t argue.

Freshly shaved and towel dry, I tuck a navy blue button down shirt into wrinkle free black pants and run a comb through my hair before leaving the room. Enzo, the ranch chef, has been busy. The smell of baking bread and sausage is torture as I jog down the stairs. But I don’t shirk my obligation and my first stop is my father’s study.

A two inch remnant of a recently smoked cigar lies in a horseshoe-shaped ashtray on my father’s broad desk, which is free of clutter. The broad bay window overlooks the corral and the big barn with the peaks of the distant Medicine Bow Mountains rounding out the view.

Turning from the window, I face the huge stone fireplace, which is empty and cold today. Above the thick wood block mantle hangs my mother’s picture. The oil portrait of Teresa Castelli Tempesta was painted to be larger than life. Because it was commissioned after her death, the artist worked from her wedding photos.

My smiling mother is immortalized as a serene princess. White dress aside, she probably looks much as she did when Cass Tempesta saw her for the first time the day he walked into her family’s restaurant. He happened to be in New York on business when he was invited to join a mobster poker game in the basement of Gino’s Pizzeria. She was working behind the counter. I’m not a believer in love at first sight, but I have no other way of explaining what happened next.

Within weeks, they were married.

Nine months aft