Marriage of Sin - Paperback

My arranged husband is younger, relentless, and absolutely certain I belong to him. The worst part? He might be right.
ADRIANA

At forty, I've built my own empire. I answer to no one. I don't do love, vulnerability, or men who think they can handle me.

Then my father takes a bullet and suddenly I'm running his world—the one I spent my whole life escaping. The price of survival? An arranged marriage to Lochlan Molloy, the son of a rival crime boss.

He's twelve years younger. Cocky. Infuriating. Looks at me like I'm the only woman in any room.

I've spent my whole life keeping people out. Keeping myself cold. Protected.

He makes me want things I swore I'd never want. And I hate him for it.

I hate myself more for not being able to stop.

LOCHLAN

She thinks she's made of ice. She's wrong.

I see the fire underneath. The way she looks at me when she thinks I'm not watching. The way she melts when I touch her, even as she's pushing me away.

I'll break down every wall. I'll burn the world for her. I'll make her mine in every way that matters.

But I'm keeping a secret that could shatter everything.

And when she finds out I've been lying to her from the start?

Let her hate me. I’ll spend the rest of my life earning her back.

Tropes:

Reverse age gap
Arranged marriage
Mafia romance
Touch her and die
He falls first
Powerful heroine
Ice queen meets golden retriever
Only soft for her
Forced proximity
Older woman/younger man
Obsessed hero

Chapter One
Adriana

My father's world has rules.
Don't trust anyone.
Don't show weakness.
And don't ever forget that blood is thicker than the life you tried to build without those ties.
I broke all three before the night was over.
The Hartwell Foundation Gala is exactly the kind of event I hate. It’s old money pretending to care about new and trendy causes, air kisses from people who’d sell their grandmother for the right introduction, champagne that costs more per glass than some people make in a week.
But my mother asked me to come. And when Maria DiMicheli commands, you show up.
Even if you’ve spent two decades trying to pretend the DiMicheli part of your life doesn’t exist.
I step out of my Town Car — mine, not my father’s — and I’m immediately blinded by the camera flashes. They see Adriana Colonna, CEO on Forbes Top 40 Rising Female Entrepreneurs list with a Wall Street Journal profile. The woman who built a consulting empire from nothing.
But they don’t see beyond all of that. They don’t know about the life I escaped.
And that’s the point.
“Ms. Colonna! Over here!”
My lips lift into the smile I’ve perfected. It’s professional and controlled. The one that says successful businesswoman and absolutely nothing else that they can sink their teeth into.
I pull my phone out of my clutch bag when it vibrates, and my sister Luna’s name flashes on the screen. I click to open her text as I walk past the photographers with a final wave.
Please tell me you’re not wearing that black dress again.
I grin and look down at my burgundy gown before typing a response.
I’m not wearing the black dress.
Her next message comes through fast. Cleavage??
My sister thinks my taste in clothes is a little too uptight. She’s not wrong. I’ve definitely gotten more conservative with my outfits, especially since I started my own company. It’s not like I can command boardrooms wearing anything tight, low cut, or cropped. I’m not twenty anymore. I realized very early in my career that if I want to be taken seriously, I need to dress like I want to be taken seriously. That means no fun clothes or low-cut gala gowns.
Strapless.
Three gray dots appear. Then a crying emoji pops up on the screen.
I smirk.
At least you’re giving shoulder. Now get your butt inside, have some champagne, and find a hot guy to flirt with.
With a roll of my eyes, I shoot off a response.
I don’t flirt.
Her response comes almost immediately, and it stings a little, if I’m being honest.
That’s why you’re still single at forty, Adri. Live a little for once.
Ouch.
I say it with nothing but love. Call me later with a full report, and you’d better have a sexy story to tell me.
I stuff my phone back into my bag and walk into the ballroom, which is a blur of sparkling crystal chandeliers and designer gowns. I grab a champagne flute from a passing server and scan the room.
I spot my mother first. She’s holding court near the stage, looking elegant in navy silk. But her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. It never does at these things. She worries too much, about my father and Luna, about me, and about the invisible threads that tie us to a world she chose to marry into.
The one I ran from.
My father is next to her, shaking hands with men in expensive suits.
Francesco DiMicheli. Businessman. Philanthropist. At least, that’s what the speaker program said in the email Dad sent.
But I know what he really is. I’ve always known.
I just chose to build something separate and different.
Near my father, I spot Vincenzo — Zio Vinnie, as Luna and I called him growing up. He’s been my father’s right hand for as long as I can remember, more uncle than employee. He scans the room the way he always does, alert with one hand resting near his jacket. Just in case. Always on guard. Always in protector mode.
He catches my eye and gives me a nod and a wink. I wave at him.
Taking another look around, I see that there are plenty of potential clients in this room. It’s filled to the brim with the Boston elite, and I don’t ever waste good opportunities to snag new clients for my consulting firm. So I make my rounds, shake hands, make small talk, and pitch my services.
But something feels off.
It takes me a minute to figure out what. Then my gaze latches onto a man standing at the bar.
And he’s watching me.
He’s tall and built with dark hair and piercing blue eyes. He’s also younger than most of the men here, maybe in his late twenties. His tuxedo fits too well to be a rental, but he’s not running around flaunting his god-like form. He’s not drinking either, just holding a glass and watching.
Not the room. Me.
I blink and look away. I must be imagining it. He’s too young to be looking at me like that.
My eyes betray me and flit back toward him. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle.
Nope, definitely not imagining it.
But there’s something about the way he stares. I’ve spent my whole life surrounded by dangerous men. I know what they look like, how they move, and the air of confidence they have that comes from knowing exactly how much damage they can do.
This guy screams everything I should be afraid of.
Our eyes meet across the room.
My heart stutters and stalls for a long second.
He doesn’t look at me the way men usually do. They don’t really see me; they’re just interested in my wealth and connections. They look at me like they’re trying to decide whether I’m worth the effort, or if my barracuda reputation is better left in a boardroom.
But this man looks at me like he’s trying to confirm something, like which piece of a puzzle I can fit into.
Then he looks away, and my chest deflates when I let out the breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding.
Who the hell is that?
I should let it go. I have more potential clients to schmooze. And I want to check on my mom before Dad takes the stage for his speech.
But I can’t forget that man and his eyes. Especially his eyes. Blue ice that penetrated with the power to peel away layers, layers I don’t ever want exposed.
The room quiets as my father walks up to the podium. I can’t help the grin from spreading across my face. He loves the spotlight and takes every opportunity to pretend he’s a legitimate businessman. And with his commanding presence and natural charisma, he can fool a room into believing just that.
I watch him speak and feel the usual tangle of emotions in my chest. Love and disappointment. Pride and resentment. Fear that never quite goes away, no matter how hard I try to put distance between our worlds.
From her position just below the stage, my mother watches him with that familiar expression etched with love and worry. Because in her world, you’re always waiting for the other shoe to drop — or the other bullet to fire.
And it often does. You just never know when.
I slide through clusters of people, heading toward my mother and the stage when the first shot cracks the air.
Just wasn’t expecting that shot to already be chambered.
I reach my mother’s side. Then…chaos consumes the room.
Screams pierce the air, centerpiece vases shatter. Glass shards fly through the air as bodies hit the floor. More shots explode and panic bubbles in my chest as I cover my mother’s body with my own. She screams, shuddering against me. I dart my head around, a hiss of breath slipping from my lips. There are multiple gunmen in black masks by the service entrance, maybe three or four.
My father’s men are in front of the stage. They pull out their guns, searching for the source of the shots. Guests run, tripping over each other to get to the exits.
And my father—
Three more shots fire, hitting him square in the chest. He crumples to the floor like a bag of cement.
“Dad!” The scream rips from my lungs as I grab Mom by the arm and rush for the stage, shoving through bodies, tripping over an overturned chair.
One of Dad’s security guys, Marco, grabs my mother and pulls her toward a side exit. She fights him, yelling for my dad.
“Mom,” I cry out. But she doesn’t hear me. Marco leads her through the door and they disappear. But Dad…I have to get to him, even if the bullets keep flying.
Even if it puts me in the line of fire, too.
My heels catch on something—the carpet, a purse, I don’t know—and I stumble but keep going. I can barely squeeze out a breath to call his name, my throat is so tight.
Vincenzo is already on stage and on the floor next to my father. He shouts orders and presses his hands against Dad’s wounds. His face is pale, blood stains blooming on his white dress shirt. Other men start to surround them, forming a circle around Dad.
But before I can move another inch, hands close around my waist from behind. They’re strong and unyielding. I struggle, trying to wiggle out of the vise-like grip.
Then my blood chills when a low, calm voice hisses, “Don’t fight me.”
But screw that. I keep fighting because I never cower.
Something I learned from Dad.
I use everything — my elbows, my fingernails, my knees. But his grip is too tight, and I’m trapped in it.
“Fuck you, that’s my father—” I struggle and whip around to see the man from the bar holding me.
“And you’re no good to him dead.” He pulls me backward, toward the emergency exit. “Move.”
I claw at his arms, trying to break free. “Let me go—”
“Your father’s men have him. You need to move. Now.”
“I’m not leaving him!”
More gunfire. A bullet shatters something over my head, maybe a chandelier. A stifled cry knots in my throat and I duck, covering my head with my arm.
“You don’t have a choice,” he says.
For one second, everything stops. His chest presses against my back, his breath hot against my ear.
“We go now, or we don't go at all.”
He doesn't wait for me to agree. He just moves through the mayhem like our escape had been planned. He rushes me into the service corridor then through the kitchen and out a back door to the loading dock. The balmy night air chokes me, my body shaking uncontrollably from the adrenaline coursing through my insides. I pull up the hem of my dress so I don’t trip on it. My high heels pound on the pavement, sharp pains shooting up my calves.
A black SUV is parked near the service entrance. He pulls keys from his pocket, unlocks it, and shoves me inside. A second later he's in the driver's seat, and we're peeling away from the curb. Tires scream as he presses his foot on the gas.
I try to catch my breath, sucking in as much oxygen as my lungs will allow. Teeth chattering, I look down. My dress is torn. I didn’t even notice when it happened.
My father's face keeps flashing behind my eyelids. The blood. The way he fell. My mother being dragged away screaming.
Thankfully, my grandmother’s ring is still on my finger. I twist it, an anxious habit I’ve never been able to break.
“Let me out of this car.” I try like hell to keep my voice steady and strong, but my God, I feel like bawling right now. And I never cry.
“No.”
I grit my teeth and fist the sides of my dress. “I don’t take orders from—”
“You do tonight.”
I swallow hard and stare at him. He stares straight ahead, weaving through traffic with the kind of sharp movements that tell me he’s done this before. “My father was shot. He could be dead. My mother could very well be, too. I need to get to them.”
“He’s being taken to St. Peter’s. My people are making sure of it. Your mom will be with him.”
“Your people? Who the hell are you?” I say through gritted teeth.
When he finally breaks the silence, I swallow a gasp.
“Lochlan Molloy.”
The name hits me like a brick to the chest.
Molloy.
I know that name. Everyone in my father’s world knows that name. The powerful Irish crime family that’s held power in Boston for three generations. The family my father would always speak about with a mixture of fear and respect.
“You were watching me,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him. “Before it happened. I saw you.”
“I was doing my job.”
“What job? What the hell is going on?”
“I don't know.” His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. They’re cold and something I can’t quite name flickers beneath the surface. “But I’m going to find out.”
“Why would a Molloy save a DiMicheli?”
“Because you were about to run into a hail of bullets, and I don't let people die if I can stop it.”
“How noble.”
“Practical. There's a difference.”
He keeps his eyes on the road, fingers wrapped tight around the steering wheel, and shows zero signs of panic. He’s completely in control, over me, the truck. Fucking everything.
He pulls up to the emergency room entrance at St. Peter’s a few minutes later. It’s a mess of ambulances, flashing lights, and police cars. My stomach roils.
Dad…
Lochlan jumps out of the driver’s seat and shows up next to my door before I can open it. His hand closes around my arm as I step onto the curb, steadying me on wobbly legs that threaten to give out.
“Let’s go,” he says in a low voice. His eyes bore into me, the blue pools chilling me bone deep.
“What are you doing?” I say, my brows furrowing when he doesn’t leave my side.
“Making sure you get in there safely.”
“I don't need a babysitter,” I snap, twisting away from him.
“Until we know what the hell just happened, you're not going anywhere alone.”
He takes my arm again, not rough this time, but firm, and steers me toward the entrance. I should fight him. I should tell him to go to hell.
But my legs aren't working right, and I don't know if my parents are alive, and his hand is the only thing keeping me upright.
So I do none of those things and just let him guide me to where I need to go.
I scan the crowded Emergency Room, my heart thumping hard, looking for my mother, looking for anyone who can tell me—
“Adriana!”
My shoulders sag when I see my mother running toward me with blood on her navy gown and tears streaming down her face.
I meet her halfway and we collide, holding each other so tight it hurts.
“Mom—oh, thank God, Mom—"
“You're okay. You're okay.” She's sobbing, her hands running over my face, my hair, like she needs to make sure I'm real. “Marco got me out of there, but I couldn't find you, and I thought—" Her voice breaks and she chokes on a sob. “I thought they took you.”
“I'm okay. Someone helped me.”
She pulls back, her eyes finding Lochlan standing a few feet away.
“Who is he?” she asks.
I turn to look at him. The stranger who dragged me out of a potential massacre. The Molloy who won't tell me why he saved me.
“He’s a…Molloy.”
And the knot in my gut tells me my “savior” might very well be something far more dangerous than any of those bullets.
* * *
Luna arrives a little while after we did, her face tear-streaked, her hair thrown into a messy bun. She’s still wearing the oversized t-shirt she sleeps in. Vincenzo shows up a few minutes afterward, still in his blood-stained shirt.
“I stayed with him as long as I could,” he says. “But he’s in good hands.”
“What happened?” I ask in a hushed voice.
“The Russians,” he says, his voice taut. “Had to be. They’ve been pushing into our territory for a while. Your father knew it was only a matter of time before they made a move.”
“Why didn’t he—?” But I stop myself. Why didn’t he tell me? Because I left. I made it clear I wanted nothing to do with his world.
Vincenzo squeezes my shoulder. “He didn’t want to worry you. Any of you.” He sighs. “He thought he had it all handled.”
And I think to myself “until it wasn’t.”
***
The hours blur together.
Luna squeezes my hand so tight it hurts, and I let her because I need the anchor.
My mother prays. Rosary beads slide through her fingers. She always carries them with her.
At some point, I stand up from the uncomfortable chair and pace the room. Lochlan hands me a cup of coffee. It tastes like sludge, but I drink it because I need to focus on something other than my dad lying on an operating table. I answer questions from detectives who look at me like they know exactly who my father is and aren't particularly upset that someone tried to kill him.
I mean, who can blame them. So much of the crime that happens in this city has ties to his business ventures.
Lochlan stays the whole time. He keeps his distance, standing against the wall in a corner, giving us our privacy. I try not to stare but it’s impossible not to. With his face and body, he could be a cover model for one of the romance novels I keep stashed in my nightstand drawer. My one guilty pleasure.
And every time I sneak a glance at him, he's already looking at me.
I don't know what to make of him. I don't know what to make of any of this.
At four in the morning, a doctor in bloody scrubs pushes through the double doors.
“Family of Francesco DiMicheli?”
We all jump out of our chairs. My mother grips my hand so hard my fingertips numb.
“He's out of surgery,” the doctor says. “We removed two of the three bullets. The third is too close to his spine to extract safely right now.”
“But he's alive?” Mom's voice is barely a whisper.
The doctor’s voice is grave. “He's alive. But he's in a medically induced coma, and the next forty-eight hours are critical. I won't lie to you. It's going to be a difficult recovery. If he recovers.”
If.
My stomach freefalls. A weeping sound slips through Mom’s lips and Luna hugs her close. I just stand there, frozen, that single word ringing in my ears.
If.
The doctor keeps talking, rattling off visiting hours, ICU protocols, things we should prepare for. I nod, but hear nothing.
My father, the most powerful man I've ever known, is lying in a hospital bed with a bullet lodged near his spine, and there's not a damn thing I can do about it.
Movement near the emergency room entrance catches my eye.
Two men walk inside. One is older with silver hair, dressed in an expensive suit. He moves with an air of arrogance and superiority, like rules don't apply to him. The other one is younger, tall, with a cold expression and a jaw like it was cut from stone.
I recognize the older one. He was at the gala. Near where Lochlan was standing at the bar before the attack.
My mother stiffens beside me.
"Maria." The silver-haired man holds out his hand to her and she takes it. Reluctantly. "I'm so sorry. Francesco is a fighter. He'll pull through."
"Eamon." My mother's voice is neutral, but the tension radiates off her. "Ronan. Thank you for coming. Your son Lochlan saved my daughter, Adriana. He brought her here and has been waiting with us ever since."
Eamon. Ronan. Molloy.
I look at Lochlan. His whole body has gone rigid. His hands have curled into fists at his sides, jaw ticcing.
Eamon gives Lochlan an acknowledging nod before turning back to us. “An attack on Francesco is an attack on both our families.” His eyes slide to me. “And you must be Adriana. I've heard so many wonderful things about you.”
“I wish I could say the same in return.”
His lips lift in a hint of a smile.
“This is my oldest son, Ronan. You’ve already met Lochlan.”
Ronan gives me a stiff nod. His eyes flick to Lochlan, contempt in his hard gaze.
My mother's hand finds my arm, and she squeezes. Almost like a warning. Of what, I have no freaking idea. But my pulse spikes anyway.
Eamon turns back to me, his expression completely unreadable. And somehow that scares the hell out of me.
“I know this timing isn’t ideal, but I'm afraid we have a great deal to discuss, Maria.”
“Eamon, this isn’t the time,” Vincenzo says in a stern voice. “We’re focused on Francesco right now. Have some respect.”
“I understand, Vincenzo. But I’m afraid it has to be. These are matters that can’t wait.”
“Matters about what?” Mom says.
“About the future. About your family's safety.” Eamon glances back at Lochlan. "About a contract your father signed a year ago."
The way he says it makes my blood turn to ice.
My mother sucks in a sharp breath.
I look at Lochlan. This time, he won't meet my eyes. Instead, his stare is locked on Ronan, white hot anger crackling in the air between them.
Luna wraps an arm around my waist, sniffling.
Meanwhile, an imaginary noose winds itself around my throat like a threat as Eamon turns his attention to me.
I’ve spent the last twenty-two years running from my father's world.
Looking at Eamon Molloy's smile, I realize now I never really escaped.
I was just on a longer leash.