Married to the Mafia CEO

Chapter 3 - NOLANA

Morning tastes like regret and citrus.

The regret is self-explanatory. The citrus is Mia’s fault — she believes oranges are medicinal and insists on shoving a glass of freshly squeezed juice into my hand like it’s holy water.

“Drink,” she orders. “You danced like a possessed woman last night.”

“I was exorcising capitalism,” I mumble, face buried in a pillow that smells faintly of Chloe’s expensive perfume and poor decisions.

Chloe, ever graceful even while half-dead on my sofa, peers at me over her coffee mug. “You disappeared for five minutes.”

“I did not.”

“You did,” Mia insists. “You got quiet. That’s suspicious. Quiet Nolana is planning something.”

I sit up slowly, blinking against the sunlight cutting through the curtains. “Or,” I say carefully, “quiet Nolana was enjoying not being responsible for anyone.”

They exchange a look — the kind best friends reserve for moments when they are absolutely about to pry.

“Did you meet someone?” Chloe asks.

“No.”

Mia grins. “Did someone meet you?”

I throw a pillow at her.

Truth is, I can’t shake the feeling that followed me home. Not fear — not exactly. Awareness. Like walking past a mirror and realizing someone else is standing behind you.

I don’t mention the message. Per favore, non lasciarla sola. (Please, don’t leave her alone.) It sits in my phone like an itch I refuse to scratch.

Instead, I change the subject. “So,” I say, stretching. “Hypothetically. If I were to get married before either of you, would you both cry?”

Mia chokes on her juice.

Chloe blinks. “Married? To whom? A billionaire? A duke? A confused barista?”

“Details,” I wave. “Unimportant.”

“You’re lying,” Mia says slowly. “Which means this is about Brian.”

Ah. There it is.

Brian Robert — the human embodiment of almost. Almost loyal. Almost serious. Almost enough. He left with promises of ‘finding himself’ and promptly found three influencers and a podcast.

“I just think,” I say lightly, “that it would be poetic.”

“Petty,” Chloe corrects.

“Art,” I argue.

My phone buzzes on the coffee table before they can interrogate me further.

Dad.

That alone tightens something in my chest.

I answer on the second ring. “Good morning, Chairman Musk. Should I curtsy?”

“Nolana,” Bennett says, skipping the pleasantries. “Where are you?”

“At home. Surviving.”

“Come to the house. Now.”

That’s new.

He doesn’t usually summon. He schedules.

“Is Logan okay?” I ask.

A pause. Just long enough to be wrong.

“He’s fine,” my father says. “Just come.”

The Musk family estate sits behind gates that open like reluctant mouths. Everything about the place is designed to look open while being absolutely sealed.

Logan is pacing when I walk in. That’s never a good sign.

“What happened?” I ask.

My father gestures for me to sit. He looks older than he did last night. Not tired — strained.

“There’s been… an offer,” Bennett says.

I laugh, because when your father looks like that, humor is armor. “Please tell me it’s not another charity gala. I refuse to auction my smile again.”

Logan doesn’t laugh.

I stop.

“A business merger?” I try.

“In a sense,” Bennett says carefully. “An arrangement.”

Oh no.

“What kind of arrangement?”

Logan runs a hand through his hair. “Marriage.”

The word lands like a dropped glass.

I blink. Once. Twice. “Excuse me?”

“A man,” my father continues, “of considerable standing has expressed interest in you.”

“Interest,” I repeat. “Like a museum exhibit?”

“This is not funny.”

“Then stop phrasing it like a medieval alliance.”

Logan steps forward. “Nola, please. This man is dangerous.”

I tilt my head. “Define dangerous. Emotionally unavailable or actual villain?”

Both of them go still.

My heart stutters.

“Who is he?” I ask slowly.

My father exhales. “Lorenzo Greco.”

The name means nothing to me. Which, judging by their expressions, means it should.

“He’s a businessman,” Bennett adds quickly. “Respected. Powerful.”

“And?”

“And refusing him would be… complicated.”

I look between them, irritation rising. “You’re not answering the real question.”

Logan’s voice drops. “He’s connected.”

Connected.

The word carries weight in families like ours.

I lean back, studying the ceiling. My life has been charmed — curated — protected from sharp edges. I’ve never been offered like collateral before.

I should say no.

I should laugh, walk out, call Mia, and turn this into a story we drink over later.

Instead, Brian’s face flashes in my mind — smug, dismissive, already telling someone else how I “wasn’t serious enough.”

A slow, wicked idea curls in my chest.

“What does he want?” I ask.

“Marriage,” my father says. “Public. Immediate.”

I smile.

Both of them stiffen.

“I’ll meet him,” I say. “And if he’s tolerable… I’ll say yes.”

Logan stares. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am,” I reply calmly. “And for the record? This will solve several problems.”

“Which problems?” my father asks carefully.

“Mine,” I say.

They look at me like I’ve lost my mind.

Maybe I have.

Or maybe I’ve just decided to use the rules the way everyone else has been using me.

I stand. “Set it up.”

As I leave the room, my phone vibrates again.

Unknown number.

Buona giornata, Stellina. (Good day, little star.)

My breath catches.

I don’t know why the word feels intimate. I don’t know who sent it.

But something in my life has shifted — quietly, irrevocably — and I am standing directly in its path.