Married to the Mafia

by Lucy Smoke

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

From bestselling author Lucy Smoke comes a new dark mafia romcom full of high heat, hilarious banter, and a marriage-of-convenience love story, perfect for fans of Butcher & Blackbird and Rook & Rebel. 

Daisy Turner is a broke, single recent college graduate who would say yes to just about anything if it helps her climb out of the pile of debt she’s in. Which is why she agrees to fill in for her roommate as a waitress catering a high-end private wedding. Her expectations are low—at most she’ll get a small stack of cash and a free meal, right? Wrong. Bad luck has a way of finding her, and so it’s no surprise that she would become an accomplice to a murder. Okay, not an accomplice but definitely a witness.   

Turns out the wedding is an arranged marriage between two rival crime families, and the woman who died was supposed to be the bride. As the sole witness and the only living, breathing woman within feet of the angry and ruggedly handsome soon-to-be husband, Daisy knows she has to do something. Unfortunately offering to bake him a sympathy casserole isn’t what he was looking for. Sorry for your loss, also not good enough. She's sure he’ll kill her on the spot but instead he shakes his head and gives an ultimatum.  

Death or marriage.  

Of course Daisy chooses to marry the man. Marriages can be annulled, but there’s no coming back from death...

Release date: April 21, 2026

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 368

Sample

Quick! Pop quiz.

What do you get when you put a clueless waitress, a dead bride, and half of the FBI’s most wanted in a room?

The answer is fucked. I am well and truly fucked… and not in the fun way. If it were in the fun way, like, say… I was about to get railed by several hunky firefighters and then fed a slice of my favorite carrot cake before they paid all my bills and called me their queen, then I’d totally be rubbing it in my roommate’s face when I got home and informed her that we were now well taken care of and didn’t need to work at shitty, low-paying temp jobs anymore. Unfortunately, that’s not what’s happening here.

Several eyes land on where I stand in the doorway, clad in my somewhat stained black-and-white waitress uniform. For a moment, I think, this is it. The end. Goodbye. Sayonara. Auf Wiedersehen. Au revoir. Or, in Samuel L. Jackson–speak, “See ya later, motherfuckers!”

When no one makes a move toward me or even acknowledges my stumbling upon a roomful of men surrounding a pretty woman laid out on the floor in a pool of blood, looking like she’s impersonating one of those bear throw rugs minus the gaping mouth and fur, I wonder if perhaps I’ve somehow turned invisible.

Weirder things have happened in movies.

Unfortunately, this is no movie. This is my life, and as if being a broke waitress sharing a shitty loft with her best friend and trying to pay off her hundreds of thousands of dollars in student loans wasn’t bad enough luck, this takes the cake. The wedding cake. Because yeah, I’m supposed to be out there in the reception hall setting up for when the happy couple comes out after saying their vows, not standing here, as an accidental witness to a crime.

No happy couple here. I look back to the woman on the floor. Just a dead bride.

Okay, maybe her luck is worse than mine. My only hope is that it stays that way.

“Grab her and shut the damn door.”

That one phrase is enough to let me know that I am not, in fact, invisible.

Rough hands encircle my upper arm and drag me further into the room. The door slams closed behind me; the lock flipping into place is a deafening sound. I stumble forward on shaky legs and slam into the man’s side. I narrowly miss stepping in the bloody circle spreading outward beneath the woman’s body.

“I don’t think she’s coming back from that,” I mumble, and shake my head in disappointment.

By some miracle, neither the man at my side nor his comrades offer any sort of remark on my inappropriate comment.

“What the fuck are we going to do, boss?” the man holding me asks. “Isa’s supposed to walk down that aisle in twenty minutes.”

Isa, I’m guessing, is the woman’s name. I stare down at her limp body. She’s pretty—even if she no longer has a heartbeat. Thankfully, her eyes aren’t open, and I can look at her face without being creeped out by the dead-animal look in her eyes. Is it weird that I’m not screaming my head off? Maybe. But I was never particularly squeamish, not even when they brought in cadavers for dissection during my college anatomy class.

I just think of this lady like one of those cadavers. She just… unknowingly donated herself to act as a prop in what I’m sure is an extremely elaborate and drawn-out way for me to find out I’m about to be killed myself. Honestly, if college—and specifically, student loans—have taught me anything, it’s that death is the only way out of paying those back. So, while dying might suck… at least I won’t be in debt anymore.

Bright side? Hello, it’s me, Daisy.

I’m ushered closer to the dead lady as the guy holding me moves toward his “boss” and inadvertently steps on her skirt. I cast him a particularly nasty look. I know I’m standing here trying to think of the poor woman as a scientific cadaver so I don’t start screaming bloody murder, but that is so disrespectful. Even if he doesn’t care about the woman, he doesn’t need to step on what’s probably a multi-thousand-dollar wedding gown.

Hell, just looking at it makes me think it’s probably worth more than a year of rent on my shitty loft. There’s intricate beading across the bust and down over her front, creating a faux corset. Her makeup—whatever brand of cosmetics she’s wearing—must be worth a pretty penny, too, because that shit has stayed despite the obvious bullet holes in her chest as well as her forehead.

What a waste.

“The wedding must go on,” the older man—the one the first had referred to as his “boss”—states. Not sure how that’s going to happen when the bride is quite obviously closer to the grim reaper than her actual groom. “Giulio must be married today. He will not be happy about this.”

“You think he’ll care?” the third guy says, not sounding convinced. “He didn’t even know Isa.”

I whip my head around and gape at the man. The groom didn’t even know the bride? What the hell was this, an arranged marriage?

“Giulio La Rosa is just like any other man in our organization,” the older man snarls. “He cannot be trusted with anything more until he marries—having a wife means having ties. Family means everything to Don Luciani. Giulio knows that. Regardless of whether he knew Isa or not, he’ll be quite displeased with this interruption.”

Yup, definitely an arranged marriage. A mobster’s marriage. Fuck. Me. I should not be here. Why oh why did I let Michelle convince me to take her stupid shift? Oh, right, because of my equally stupid student loans—damn government-mandated payments.

I slowly tug at my arm, hoping the movement will escape the notice of the man standing next to me and that he’ll forget that I’m even here. The sharp responding squeeze followed by black eyes snapping down to me confirms that he hasn’t, in fact, forgotten my presence.

Double damn.

“What about her?” he says, jerking my arm as if to punctuate which “her” he’s referring to—as if I could be mistaken for the dead woman.

“Her?”

My eyes widen with what I’m hoping reflects “innocent and totally trustworthy young lady who would in no way betray the confidence of several mobsters about an obvious murder.” If they notice my look, they don’t comment. Instead, the three men in the room suddenly switch to a new language.

“Dobbiamo ucciderla.”

The man at my side gestures down at the dead bride. “E che mi dici del corpo di Isa?”

“Gli addetti alle pulizie possono gestirlo.”

“Girl,” the elder man snaps, turning to me, “what is your name?”

Think, Daisy, think! I dive deep into my brain as I look back at him. I wonder if I can pretend not to understand. Maybe if they think I’m just a dumb girl, they’ll let me go. So, I could just… “Erm… no habla inglés?” I say quickly. “Como se llamo?” I wince at the butchering of the language. My high school Spanish teacher, Mr. Rodriguez, would be horrified.

The stare I’m met with has less life in it than a dead fish. “Did you just try to speak Spanish to a bunch of Italian men?” the man holding me questions. “Completely wrong, I might add.”

“No?” That singular word doesn’t even sound sure to my own ears. Had it been incorrect? Well, damn. Guess the jig is up. So, when in doubt, just gaslight. If men can do it and get away with it, then so can I.

I straighten my spine and lift my chin, eyeing the man who’s glowering down at me with a mixture of irritation and confusion. “I mean,” I say, clearing my throat, “no, I definitely didn’t speak Spanish to a bunch of Italian men.” Incorrectly. Yeah, okay, maybe I hadn’t gotten the best grade in Spanish 101.

“You just said ‘no habla inglés,’” the man with a steel grip on my arm mocks, and if the slight cough in his voice is anything to go by, he’s trying his best not to laugh. How can he laugh when there’s a dead woman on the floor… staining what I’m sure is a very expensive rug?

“Are you sure?” I ask. “I don’t remember talking at all.” Gaslight! Gaslight! Gaslight! I scream in the back of my head.

“You’re talking right now.”

An internal gasp of outrage that is both me and not me sounds. Oh shit. Mean Daisy, a.k.a. my inner psycho, a bitch I’ve tried to keep on the leash for the last twenty-three years, comes roaring to life. Tell him to fuck off! she yells. Then kick his teeth in.

Ignoring her, because her suggestions only ever end with more problems for me, I reach into the furthest recesses of my mind and pull out the oldest trick that I have in my box of coping mechanisms. Ha, I think to myself. I knew I’d need them someday. I mentally find the one I’m looking for and dust it off. When in doubt: Deny. Deny. Deny.

I arch my brow at the man and give him a pathetic little smile—the same kind of smile I give to Mr. Benny, the homeless guy who lives behind my apartment building whenever he tries to tell me about the aliens that are sure to arrive any day now. “Am I?” I ask the man before insisting, “I don’t recall.”

The men turn to each other, their expressions mirroring one another in that “we know better than this small, dumb woman” look I’ve seen too often. I’ve been to college. I know those looks quite well and I know what they mean. They mean I’m not fooling anyone, no matter how awesome my bravado is.

Okay, time for a new approach.

“Listen,” I try, forcing a lighter tone as I wince both inwardly and outwardly. I peer around at the three men who appear to be closing in on me, “let’s look at it this way. I didn’t see anything—I’m not a witness to anything. I’m just a waitress. I won’t tell anyone what happened. You can trust me.”

I try out the innocent and trustworthy look again and end with a hopeful smile, like I’m trying to sell Girl Scout cookies instead of convincing them not to kill me. As one, the men share another of those looks. God, how I hate those damn looks. Why don’t women have those? Well, Michelle would say that we do have one. It’s called the “is this motherfucker stupid?” But I’ve never had an opportunity to use it, and now doesn’t seem like the most appropriate time.

“We don’t involve civilians,” the man holding me responds.

The bubble of hope in my chest swells. I straighten, and my eyes dart to the two older men, both of whom still wear an expression of uncertainty and confusion, like they’re not quite sure what to make of me. That’s fair—half the time, I don’t know what to make of myself.

“That may be true, but we can’t trust her based upon her word alone,” the oldest of the men replies with a sigh. “We can’t just let her go.”

My lips turn down, and my eyes begin to burn. No no no. I’m so not ready to bite the bullet. I’ve barely experienced life. I haven’t even been graduated from college for a whole year yet. I haven’t had a chance to make my mark on the world—or get a full-time freaking job! I deserve at least a job for all the hours studying and the debt I’ve accumulated over the last four years. I mean, come the fuck on. There’s more to life than all-nighters, crabby professors, and lots and lots of missed opportunities, right?

Yeah, my inner bitch snaps, like breaking all of their kneecaps and running like hell!

Does anyone else have to fight with a weirder, scarier, terrible version of themselves? I distantly wonder with a mental voice full of sarcasm. Or am I just lucky?

“I—” I’m ready to launch into a very well-worded lecture about all of the negative points that come with killing a “civilian,” as they put it, when one of the men holds up a hand.

“We need to bring Giulio in on this,” he states, nodding to the older one. “Go get him, Otello. Don’t—” he barks as the older man dips his chin in acquiescence and begins to move toward the door. The older man—Otello, I assume—stops and looks back. “—let anyone else know what’s happened.”

Otello’s features tighten as if he’s insulted by the mere suggestion, but merely nods and disappears out the door. Leaving me alone in a room with two members of the mob.

Man, sometimes I wish the day started with a visual preview. Because had I known that taking Michelle’s shift would lead to this, I’d never have accepted. As it stands, I’m never doing her another favor for as long as I live—that is, if I live through today.

I notice an open bottle of champagne sitting in an ice bucket on the table by the three-piece mirror. I wonder, absently, if they’ll let me chug that before they kill me. If I’m gonna go, I certainly don’t want to go sober.

Cheers, to an untimely death.

If at first you do not succeed, pull the trigger and kill the obstacle in your way… or marry it.

Right now, I wish someone—anyone—would simply put a gun to my head and do that very thing. Several wedding attendees shift in their seats, a few glancing back over their shoulders as they wait for the wedding procession to start. The pianist, an older, skinny man whose name I’ve already forgotten, leans heavily against the massive pianoforte, his head tilting to one side as his eyes slide shut and then jolt open when he nearly topples onto the keys.

Fan-fucking-tastic. Even the hired help is falling asleep before the wedding has begun. The doors at the end open so abruptly that several attendees look back expectantly. I straighten, ready to get this shit show on the road, finally, only to be greeted with disappointment when instead of Isabela Ariotti, my soon-to-be wife, I spy Otello, one of my captains.

Dressed in a dark gray suit sans tie at his throat, he offers a nod to a few of the wedding guests as he hurries straight up the aisle toward me instead of taking a seat. What the hell is going on? My scowl deepens.

The moment he draws near, I pivot away from the priest and snarl at him. “What the fuck are you doing here?” I demand, lowering my voice in deference to Father Paulo’s sensitivities. “Where is Isa?”

Otello’s throat bobs at the vehemence in my tone, and his face blanches for a singular moment before he sucks in a breath and lowers his face. “There’s been a small problem, Signore,” he whispers.

Problem? That problem better be getting her ass down this fucking aisle in the next ten minutes, or I swear to God… I’m at the point where I have to wonder if marriage is worth the headache this woman is giving me. We aren’t even married yet, and I’ve considered every viable way to murder her. “What kind of fucking problem?”

My eyes dart to Father Paulo, but much like the pianist, the old man—with his snow-white hair carefully coiffed back from his face—appears dazed. I sigh and turn back to Otello with expectation.

“So, uh, the problem is… Isa’s been killed.”

I blink.

Of all the things I expected him to say—that Isa had thrown a fit about her wedding dress not being as elaborate as she’d wanted, or her makeup wasn’t perfect, or the shoes weren’t the right color, or her damned bouquet was dying too fast—it was not that the damned girl was dead.

I reach up and pinch the bridge of my nose. No, no, no. This was not supposed to happen. This marriage couldn’t wait any longer. Don Luciani had left for the old country two weeks ago to visit his own ailing fratello, the brother of his heart, with one request: that I be married upon his return.

It was just like the traditional Italian man to make such a casual demand with very little actual time to fulfill it. Or perhaps he thought this was his only recourse, considering I’ve been far more involved in running the shipping company than actually finding a wife, despite his repeated comments on the topic. In his eyes, a man who has no family has nothing to lose and nothing to protect. If I want to continue to act as his second—and soon, his son’s—then I need to form a “family” of my own—starting with a wife. And now my only potential bride is dead.

Fuck. Me.

Dante, Luciani’s son and my best friend, steps closer, arching one brow as he lowers his own voice. “What’s going on, Otello?”

Despite being around for as long as I’d been alive plus some, Otello easily turns in deference to Dante. But before he can speak, I reply.

“Isa can’t be dead.” The words come out of my mouth in a clipped tone. “Don Luciani gets back tomorrow.”

Dante’s eyes widen. “Dead? Fuck.” He looks to Otello. “I’ve already told him that Giulio is going to introduce his bride as soon as he gets back.”

Otello looks about as happy with the news as a turkey trussed up for a feast. “She was shot point-blank in the chest and forehead in her dressing room,” he says. “We have no idea who the culprit could be, or how they managed to get past security.”

Though Isa may have been annoying, her connections within our world—her sexual partners, in particular—weren’t high-profile enough to make her a target. So her death can only mean one thing. Someone is attempting to prevent me from continuing on in Luciani’s organization. I knew some of the old codgers find my presence distasteful—what with my subpar background and half-Italian lineage—but to kill Isa? A low growl rumbles out of me.

No doubt, coming after me directly would have been more difficult than getting rid of Isa and ensuring Don Luciani removes me from my position for failing to follow his command. No one should have been able to get to Isa… I lift my head and scan the waiting wedding guests. Everyone here knows the reason for this wedding. I narrow my eyes at the crowd.

There are several men and women seated in the pews of the small chapel. Many of their heads are bent to one another as they chat amicably and curiously cast their glances our way. There’s no hiding the fact that something is wrong now.

Isa is missing to them and dead to us.

If I could kill the annoying woman myself, I would bring her back to life simply to do just that. I can’t say I enjoyed the idea of tying myself to Isabela Ariotti—vain, money-hungry, airheaded woman that she was—but she’d been perfect for a mafia man’s wife. She knew the score, knew not to expect my attention, knew that her role would be to play the doting wife, to bear a child and begin the family that Luciani wants from me. She was perfectly happy accepting my money and the security I’d give her in exchange, but now none of those things matter, because she’s dead.

Dante nudges me, disrupting my less-than-happy thoughts. “Go with Otello,” he orders. “I’ll deal with the wedding guests.”

“They can’t leave,” I say suddenly. “The wedding must go on. I have to be married today.” Even if I have to drag some unsuspecting woman off the street and force her to be my wife.

Otello shifts nervously on his feet, moving slightly closer. “Actually, Signore,” he begins, “there may be a solution.”

I jerk my head in his direction. “Speak.” It’s one word, but it does the job, and Otello begins talking in harsh whispers so fast that his words collide with one another as if he’s using one breath to say it all.

“The waitstaff I mentioned is one of the waitresses who was hired for the reception—she’s seen the body, and we’ve kept her contained.” Otello stops to take a shaky breath before continuing. “I know we try not to involve civilians with our business, but if the girl is a witness to the crime, then we can’t let her leave. Perhaps she…” He drifts off, but his meaning is clear.

“Take me to her,” I demand. “Now.”

Otello nods and steps down from the dais. I follow, and as I do, I hear Dante’s mellow voice ring out at my back as he attends to the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll please remain seated, the ceremony will begin in a few moments. Giulio has to take care of a small issue, and then we’ll be back on schedule.”

Yes, we’ll be back on schedule soon—if the girl is amenable to our plans, and if she is single. If she’s not… well, she’ll soon find herself with little other choice.

Don Luciani’s twisted view of family and expectations is a tightening noose around my neck as I follow Otello toward the bridal suite and my potential bride. I never thought I’d see the day when I’d have to not only marry a civilian girl—my lips tighten at the reminder of her innocence—but threaten her with death if she refuses.

The idea of marriage sours in my gut like expired milk. Were God not an understanding Being—and I have to assume He is considering He’s yet to kill me for the things I’ve done—I’d have no doubt He’d strike me down the second I enter the chapel with my captive bride. But in this world, we all make sacrifices for the greater good—even if that means marrying a complete and total stranger.

Dear life, fuck your lemons. Squeezing them in people’s eyes isn’t working. Please send a shotgun, instead. Thanks. Xoxo, Daisy.

Calm down.” The man who shoved me into a nearby chair the moment the older man—Otello, I dimly remember—disappeared casts me an annoyed look when I gasp out a breath and settle my head deeper between my knees.

I’m doing everything I can not to fall into a full-blown panic attack. I mean, who in the world wants to see that anyway? I guess I’ve already experienced death today; might as well check another box off the bucket list of things I never planned to do or experience.

Also, let’s take a vote. When in the history of ever has a woman calmed down after you told her to do so? No worries. I’ll wait for you to answer. No one, that’s right. But telling him that feels about as useful as asking for help from the dead woman still sprawled out on the floor. I hope they don’t plan to keep her there much longer.

“You calm down!” I half cough, half sob as tears prick at my eyes.

Stab him, Mean Daisy orders, side-eyeing the prick. In the guts. And then wrap them around his neck like you’re stringing lights on a Christmas tree.

No, I reply, because unlike my inner psycho bitch, I recognize it’s probably not a good idea to yell at a man who might kill me, but I’m also not thinking too rationally at the moment.

Kill me. They’re going to kill me. Oh God, I’m too young to die. I’m too—hungry, I recognize a moment later as my stomach grumbles in displeasure.

A groan rumbles up my throat. Yes, I’m too hungry to die. I can’t die hungry; that’s just cruelty on top of cruelty. I glance mournfully at the old wall clock hanging above the door. If things had gone as planned, I’d be finishing up in the reception hall by now and on my way to break for lunch before the wedding guests flood in.

The thought of my homemade peanut butter and jelly sitting in a Ziploc bag in my purse only serves as another reminder of how screwed I am. A small whimper escapes me, and I curl my arms around my middle. PB&J on white bread and a bag of plain ol’ potato chips sound divine right about now. The sweet jelly and the salty chips dance round and round in little happy, sentient, jerking movements in my mind.

Lifting my head, I peer at the two men still left in the room, both of them quietly talking in low tones. “Hey,” I croak, my voice thick with the flux of my emotions taking over now that I’m totally expecting to die. If I’m going to die, I deserve a last meal, right?

They turn and look at me, the younger of the two—a man likely in his thirties with short, dark hair that’s shaved practically to baldness—answers me. “What?” he demands.

“I’m hungry,” I tell him. “If you guys are going to kill me, don’t you think you should offer me a last meal or something? I mean, even murderers on death row get a last meal.” And I’m not a murderer—at least, not in real life. Video games and my imagination? For sure. But in reality? I’m an innocent bystander.

Brown eyes blink back at me, but instead of responding, he merely turns toward the door as it opens. The older man from earlier comes walking in behind a tall, well-built man with a shock of jet-black hair and angular features that belong on a runway rather than a mobster’s wedding.

Holy shit—they kidnapped a model. Why would the mob kidnap a model? Does he owe them money? Why would they bring him here?

The man turns his attention to me, and wickedly brilliant ice-blue eyes meet mine. My whole body goes quiet as our gazes collide—or at least, it would if it weren’t for the riotous hunger in my gut. A loud gurgle sound erupts from my belly, and heat steals over my cheeks. I don’t know why. There’s nothing embarrassing about being hungry, and I did warn them.

The man—model?—doesn’t appear that concerned with his current predicament, or that he’s stumbled upon a woman being held hostage while another lies on the floor—dead, literally, to the world. He strides farther into the room with only a cursory glance at the dead bride on the floor. No reaction, words, or scream? Weird. It’s really his lack of reaction to the dead body that tells me he’s not a second captive as I originally thought.

No normal person just looks at a body and scowls in annoyance, which means this man is not normal—not at all. He steps over the white-heeled foot of the would-be medical cadaver and then comes to stand over me.

Straightening where I sit, I quickly wipe my cheeks with the backs o. . .