THE HYPOCRISY OF THE MAFIA
2142 Words
THE HYPOCRISY OF THE MAFIA
The suite’s mirror did not lie; the woman reflecting back was a stranger. My eyes no longer held the light of innocence, nor the warmth of love.
The dress Aaron had chosen for me was not an outfit for mourning; it was a declaration of war woven in French lace and black satin. It clung to my body like a second skin, with a neckline that pushed the boundaries of decency and a skirt that fell in a heavy, elegant, and regal sweep.
But the true protagonist of my attire was the black diamond. It hung from my neck, cold and dense, absorbing the room's light without offering a single reflection in return. It was like a demon’s eye monitoring my pulse.
Aaron appeared behind me. He was already prepared, dressed in a custom three-piece suit so black it seemed like a tear in reality. He took a moment to observe my reflection, his hands—gloved in fine leather—resting upon my hips.
"You look exquisite, Sofía," he murmured, his warm breath contrasting with the chill of the diamond. "You have that perfect pallor of women who keep lethal secrets."
"They aren't secrets, Aaron. They are the scars you carved yourself," I replied, meeting his eyes in the mirror.
He smiled—a slow, cruel curve. He pulled the silver dagger from his pocket, the same one that had tasted Enzo’s blood, and with an expert flick, slid it into the lace garter he had ordered me to wear. The cold metal against my skin made me gasp.
"A diamond so they look you in the face, and silver so they repent if they lower their gaze," he decreed. "Today, you are not my submissive wife. Today, you are the woman who stole the breath from a Moretti. Walk like a queen. My queen, and no one else's."
The Crime Scene
The Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore was surrounded by men in sunglasses with indiscreet bulges beneath their jackets. The air was heavy, thick with the sickly-sweet scent of thousands of floral wreaths attempting to mask the smell of death emanating from the varnished oak coffin at the center of the altar.
Faces hypocritically painted with grief stood in line to pay "respects" to the deceased.
As we stepped out of the car, the world seemed to stop. The whispering cut off as if a blade had been drawn across the throats of those present. Aaron didn't lead me by the arm; his hand rested firmly on the small of my back—a possessive caress telling every Don present that I was sacred territory. His possession.
"Keep your head high," he commanded in a barely audible whisper. "Let them see that you don't blink in the face of the corpse."
We walked down the center aisle. My heels struck the marble with a rhythmic echo, steady as the ticking of a bomb. Upon reaching the front row, the Moretti family awaited us.
Dante Moretti, Enzo’s older brother, had eyes shot through with blood. He was a man of coarse features, the unpolished version of the man I had stabbed. At the sight of us, his knuckles turned white as he gripped the rosary in his hands.
"D’Luca," Dante growled, his voice a cavernous rumble. "You have a lot of nerve bringing your b***h to the funeral of the man she bled out."
I felt the air freeze in my lungs, but before Aaron could respond, something inside my chest snapped. It wasn't fear. It was that "strong will" Aaron had once mentioned. I took a step forward, breaking free from Aaron’s touch, and locked my gaze onto Dante’s.
"I am no b***h, Signore Moretti," I said, my voice ringing clear and icy through the cathedral vaults. "I am the woman who survived your brother's cowardice. If Enzo is in that box, it is because he failed to measure the price of what he tried to touch. My condolences for his lack of judgment."
A collective gasp rippled through the church. Behind me, Aaron let out a short, dark laugh that made the hair on my neck stand up.
"You heard my wife, Dante," Aaron said, stepping forward to stand by my side. "We came to pay our 'respects.' Don’t turn this into a double funeral."
Dante went pale. The message Aaron had sent in the box to Don Moretti had taken effect. The truce was a lie, but the terror was real.
The Feast of Wolves
Following the burial, the reception was held at the Moretti estate. It was a hypocritical tradition where the Dons of the Clans and their assassins toasted with the families of the fallen.
Aaron left me for a moment on the terrace under the watch of Franco and an escort of expert assassins. He needed to "clear up business" with the other capos. I leaned against the stone balustrade, looking out at the vineyards stretching like veins across the Tuscan earth.
"Power feels good, doesn't it, Sofía?" A soft voice, laced with venom, made me turn.
It was Enzo’s mother, a woman draped in black veils who looked like a shadow.
"Does it feel good to know you are the reason a son will never come home?" she asked, approaching until I could smell the incense on her clothes.
"He tried to kill me, you know that," I replied, struggling to maintain my composure.
"What did you expect me to do? Thank him while he pulled the trigger?"
"I expected you to be a woman, not a monster," she spat. "Aaron D’Luca has infected your soul. He has turned you into his reflection. Just look at yourself... you wear that black diamond as if it were a medal of victory, but it is a tombstone. You are dead inside and you haven't even realized it."
"Perhaps," I said, feeling the dagger on my thigh burn. "But at least I am standing. Your son is under the dirt."
The woman raised her hand to slap me, but before she could make contact, her wrist was intercepted. It wasn't Aaron. It was Franco, appearing like a protective shadow.
"Signora Moretti," Franco said with lethal courtesy. "The Don has given clear instructions. Any disrespect toward Signora D’Luca will be treated as a formal act of aggression. Punishable by death. Return inside."
When she left, I remained there trembling. Franco looked at me with a mixture of respect and pity.
"You did very well in there, Signora. The Don is... impressed. And that is the most dangerous thing a man like him can feel."
The Punishment of Desire
The return to the mansion was different. There was no longer a need for warnings. The adrenaline of the confrontation in the cathedral had transformed into a suffocating s****l tension.
The moment we crossed the threshold of the study, Aaron didn't wait. He pinned me against the closed door, his body crushing mine. His mouth descended onto mine with a ferocity that sought not pleasure, but total dominance. He tasted of tobacco, expensive wine, and victory.
"What you did with Dante..." he growled between kisses, his hands sliding up my thighs, seeking the silk of my lingerie. "The way you challenged him... you nearly made me lose control in the middle of the church."
"You forced me to be this, Aaron," I gasped, my hands tangling in his tie to pull him closer. "You asked me to be a queen. Well, queens do not ask permission to hate."
He stopped dead, pulling back just enough to look me in the eyes. His gaze was manic, unhinged.
"Tell me you hate me," he demanded, his voice cracking. "Tell me that every time I touch you, you feel the disgust of my world."
"I hate you," I whispered, even as my hips pressed against his by pure instinct. "I hate you because you’ve stripped away my ability to be innocent. I hate you because when you look at me like that, I feel alive for the first time."
He let out a low roar, yanking my dress upward and lifting me until my legs wrapped around his waist. He carried me to the mahogany desk, sweeping aside business documents, shipping routes, and blood-stained contracts with one arm. The papers flew like startled birds as he deposited me onto the cold surface.
"Then hate me more," he said, undoing his belt. "Hate me until you don't even remember your own name."
Moonlight poured through the window, illuminating the scene: the contrast of his dark suit against my pale skin, the glint of the silver dagger still hanging from my garter, and the black diamond thumping against my chest with every movement.
It was a battle. There was no delicacy, only the raw necessity of two broken souls trying to fit their jagged pieces together. In that office, where death sentences were signed, I signed my own.
With every gasp, with every mark his fingers left on my hips, I accepted my place in his hell.
Revelation in the Silence
Hours later, the sweat cooled on our bodies. Aaron sat in his leather chair, smoking, watching me as I tried to piece together my torn dress.
"Your father won't last long in the safe house," he said suddenly, breaking the silence. "He’s started talking."
I tensed. "About what?"
"About the real reason the Morettis wanted you." Aaron exhaled a cloud of gray smoke.
"It wasn't just about the gambling debt. Your father hid something on the lands you inherited from your grandmother.
Something worth more than all the D’Luca smuggling routes combined."
I approached him, my heart hammering against my temples. "What did he hide there?"
Aaron extinguished the cigarette and took my hand, bringing it to his lips.
"Documents, Sofía. Proof that the Vatican and the Five Families have been laundering money together for decades. Your father used you as a human hiding place. He knew that as long as you were with a Moretti or with me, no one would look on those lands."
I froze. All this time—my fear, the kidnapping, the blood on my hands... had it all been for a pile of old papers?
"Where are those documents now?" I asked, my voice a broken whisper.
Aaron looked at me with a twisted smile. "In a safe place. But now you understand why I can't let you go, don’t you? It's not just because you are my crown, Sofía. It’s because you are the most dangerous secret in all of Italy."
He stood up and walked toward the wall safe. He opened it and pulled out a small vial containing a transparent liquid.
"Tomorrow, your real training begins," he said, setting the vial on the table. "If you’re going to be the target of the Five Families, you have to learn to kill before the enemy blinks. The dagger was the beginning.
Tomorrow, you learn about poisons."
I looked at him, feeling an abyssal void beneath my feet. My father and Aaron had turned me into a chess piece, a weapon, and a living vault. I walked to the window, watching the sun begin to stain the Tuscan horizon red. The black diamond at my neck felt heavier than ever.
"Was there ever an option for me, Aaron?" I asked without looking at him. "Was there ever a path that didn't end in blood?"
I felt his arms wrap around me from behind, his solid chest against my back. He kissed the crown of my head with a tenderness that scared me more than his rage.
"For people like us, Sofía, the only path that doesn't end in blood is the one that ends in ashes. And I would rather burn with you than reign alone."
I closed my eyes, accepting the warmth of his embrace. I knew he was lying to me—that love in this world was just another form of control. But as I felt the weight of the silver dagger against my thigh, I made a silent decision.
If Aaron wanted me to be a weapon, I would be one. But weapons, when fired, do not choose whom the bullet strikes. And one day, perhaps, the barrel would point directly at the man who had taught me how to shoot.
In this war, I would not be the prey. I would be the predator sleeping in the king’s bed.
- Writer
