My Husband's Son

Chapter Six

CAMILLA

I looked like a sacrifice in ivory lace. That was the only thought that came to me as I stared at my reflection impassively. A young woman kept putting goodness knows what on my face. My father had arranged everything, every decoration, every flower, every invite. It makes me wonder just how long they had been playing this. Since my birth? I wouldn't be surprised actually.

The makeup artist hovered behind me, way too cheerful. I don't blame her, she wasn't the one getting married today. She tilted my chin up, dabbed concealer under my eye, and frowned.

“That bruise is really dark,” she muttered.

Of course it was.

My father’s slap had been hard and it had turned to an ugly, violent purple bruise. Coupled with the ones on my upper arms and belly which I got when I tried to escape last night.

I watched through the mirror as she packed more powder over it.

“You’re very lucky, you know,” she said casually, going back to contouring my cheekbones. “Most girls would kill to be in your position.”

I didn’t answer because if I did it would probably be strangling her or ripping her tongue out.

She kept talking anyway. “You’re marrying the most powerful mafia lord in the city. Do you know how many women want a man like that? Vittorio takes care of his own. You’ll never want for anything.”

Vittorio? Where had I heard that name before?

My fingers curled in my lap. “Vittorio?” I repeated quietly. “Like Vittorio Salvatore? Isn’t he… older?”

And how did she know all these in the first place?

The makeup artist laughed. “Age doesn’t matter when a man has power,” she said stiffly. “You should be grateful because you won't be bothered by bedroom duties.”

I forgot that. I had to.....oh my God, I felt sick now.

I know the Salvatores and I know for sure that their don was almost thrice my age.

Not only was I being forced into marriage—but to a man old enough to be my father. Or worse.

Nobody said anything after that. The artist finished quickly, avoiding my eyes. When she stepped back, she smiled again, but it didn’t reach her face.

“Perfect,” she said.

I stood when someone told me to. The dress was heavy and all I wanted to do was to tear it off and no hear another comment about how beautiful I looked or how expensive the gown was. My mother didn’t come in. Neither did my father. That, somehow, hurt more.

The music started and the doors opened.

And just like that, I was walking down the aisle with my father who said nothing to me.

“So young…” “Poor thing.” “That’s him?” “She looks terrified.”

I kept my eyes straight ahead until I reached the altar.

And then I saw Vittorio. He was definitely… not what I expected.

I expected someone all gnarly and bat like but he wasn't.

Yes, he was old. White hair swept neatly back, lines etched deep around his eyes and mouth. There was no denying his age. It stared back at me plainly.

But he wasn’t frail.

He stood tall and broad, shoulders strong beneath a tailored black suit. His hands rested calmly in front of him. And he looked quite strong. When he lifted his gaze to me, my breath caught. He had such beautiful green eyes which u would have appreciated more if I didn't want to escape so badly. The eyes were familiar but I dismissed it.

At least they were… kind.

He looked at me like he already knew I was afraid. Like he noticed the tension in my shoulders, the way my hands shook as I handed my bouquet to the maid. There was no triumph in his gaze. Only a soft gaze as if he was trying to calm me. He looked protective, even.

But I hated this. Every part of it.

The vows blurred together. I repeated the words because I had no other choice. What happened after that felt rushed. Rings were exchanged. Cameras flashed. Applause followed, polite and practiced.

Just like that, I became someone’s wife.

The kiss was brief and respectful. His lips barely touched my cheek.

I didn’t know whether to be relieved or insulted.

The reception passed like a fog. Faces I didn’t care about, congratulations I didn’t want. Vittorio stayed close but never crowded me. He only spoke when necessary, guided me gently with a hand at my back, shielded me from too many questions.

I noticed the people watching him with respect and deference.

They bowed their heads when he passed.

Power radiated from him quietly, effortlessly.

By the end of the night, my body ached from smiling I didn’t feel and standing in shoes that hurt. When they finally led me outside, it was night and a black car was waiting. What was it with mafias and black cars

Vittorio opened the door himself like a gentleman.

“Camilla,” he said, my name low and deliberate.

I looked at him, this stranger who was now my husband, this man old enough to have watched me grow up.

I climbed into the car and we drove to his house. The house was quite moderate, my family house was way bigger than it so I was surprised. It had stone pillars, wide steps and soft golden lights glowing behind tall windows. It didn’t feel cold the way I expected a mafia lord’s home to feel. It felt… lived in.

Vittorio stepped out first and held the door for me again.

“Welcome home, Camilla Salvatore” he said.

I knew he purposely added his name. Like he was warning me, I had a feeling he was not a nice person even with all his gestures.

I stepped out of the car anyway, my heels clicking softly against the marble.

Inside, staff bowed politely as he introduced me. The inside was quite artfully decorated. I must say he has taste.

After the introductions, I thought I was finally going to be allowed to rest when he said, "There is one more person I would like you to meet."

I nodded, numb. “Alright.”

He guided me into what looked like the dining room and there was a man standing near the table with his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up. He looked..... familiar?

My eyes widened.....

No.

No, no, no. Please, whoever is listening, I promise to try and make this marriage work. Please don't let it be who I think it is.

He turned at the sound of our footsteps.

And the moment his eyes met mine, I knew he recognized me too.

Vittorio smiled faintly, oblivious to the nuclear explosion happening between us.

“Camilla,” he said, gesturing toward the man I had kissed, touched, begged to make me forget as he drove inside me.

“Meet my son, Luca Salvatore.”