A Deal With The Italian Mafia

Chapter 4—wedding preparations

I woke up to the sound of someone knocking on my door.

Correction: banging on my door like they were the FBI coming to raid the place.

For one glorious second, I forgot where I was. Then reality hit me like a truck I had been kidnapped. My decision to stage a fake marriage to lure my father out and the story I heard last night.

Right. So basically, my life was a badly written mafia romance novel.

The door swung open before I could even drag myself out of bed. A tall woman in heels sharp enough to stab a man waltzed in, trailed by an army of assistants carrying garment bags, makeup kits, and enough fabric swatches to upholster an entire mansion.

“Good morning, darling,” she announced, looking me over like I was a stray dog she had to clean up. “We have a lot of work to do before you say ‘I do.’”

I blinked at her. Then at the wedding dress one of her assistants dramatically unveiled, like it was some kind of royal treasure.

“And If i may ask, who might you be?”

I asked giving her a strange look.

“Oh pardon my manners, I'm Vivienne. Personal stylist, event coordinator, and your best friend for the next twelve hours.”

“Well hate to break it to you, Vivienne,” I said, rubbing sleep out of my eyes, “but I don’t think even your magic can make me look like a blushing bride instead of a hostage with Stockholm Syndrome.”

Vivienne smiled. The kind of smile that said she’d dealt with worse.

“Nonsense,” she said breezily. “You’ll be the most stunning bride this city has ever seen.”

“Well, that’s great news,” I muttered, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. “Because if I’m going to ruin my life today, I might as well look hot doing it.”

Before I could protest, two of the girls had already yanked me from the bed and all but dragged me toward the bathroom. “I can bathe myself, you know,” I grumbled, but they ignored me.

After a torturous bath, with them cleaning every single inch of my body, I was dragged out and forced to sit on the chair in just a towel.

Turns out, wedding prep is a lot less fun then I have been told they are.

Vivienne and her army of stylists had me seated in front of a large vanity mirror, fussing over my hair and makeup like I was some kind of royal bride. I sat there, stiff as a board, while they poked, prodded, and pulled at my hair and face.

“I'm beginning to regret suggesting this but it is not like I ever had a choice in the first place ” I muttered trying to move my stiff neck.

“Sit still,” Vivienne warned, dabbing makeup on my face. “You’re about to marry one of the most powerful men in this country. The least you can do is look the part.”

“Oh, right. How silly of me,” I deadpanned. “Here I was thinking that my kidnapper might not care if I showed up in just my nightgown.”

Vivienne let out a long sigh. “You’re lucky I don’t have time to argue.”

“Yeah, I wouldn't want to be late to my own wedding.”

A stylist behind me snorted before quickly covering her mouth. Vivienne shot her a look so sharp it could’ve cut through my dress. The poor girl turned pale and immediately went back to curling my hair.

I arched an eyebrow. Poor girl. But at least she wasn’t the one getting married to a mafia boss. Lucky her.

A few agonizing hours later, Vivienne finally stepped back and studied me with a critical eye. “There,” she said, nodding in approval. “You almost look like you want to be here.”

And after she and her girls helped me into my gown, I turned to look in the mirror and wow.

As much as I hated this, even I had to admit—I looked breathtaking. My hair had been styled in elegant waves, pinned back just enough to frame my face. My makeup was soft but striking, giving me that expensive mafia wife look.

And the dress, the dress was beautiful but too tight. Layers of delicate lace, a long train fit for royalty, and a corset so tight I was pretty sure I’d need medical attention by the end of the night.

I turned to Vivienne, my lips pressing into a thin line. “So, be honest. Do I look more like a blushing bride or a sacrificial lamb?”

Vivienne smirked. “Depends on who you ask.”

Before I could come up with a witty comeback, the door creaked open and alessino stepped inside.

The room fell silent. Vivienne and her assistants froze mid-motion, their chatter vanishing in an instant.

I didn’t need to look to know it was him. The air shifted. A weight settled over the room, pressing against my chest like an invisible hand. He didn’t need to speak for me to feel the danger curling off him like smoke.

Vivienne stiffened beside me. Her fingers, which had been adjusting the lace on my gown, trembled for half a second before she stepped back.

"My job here is done," she announced quickly, her usual confidence nowhere to be found. “I’ll leave you to it.”

Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and rushed out. The other stylists followed, heads down, moving as if they feared making a single sound would get them killed.

Then it was just me and him. My stomach twisted painfully.

Alessino's gaze flicked over me, as if he were studying a weapon before deciding if it was sharp enough to use.

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to sit up straighter. I wasn’t stupid, I knew exactly what I looked like right now. A girl dressed up for a wedding she never wanted. A girl trying not to tremble under the weight of a man who could end her life without a second thought.

“Stand,” he said with a cold voice..

I hesitated only a second before obeying, the heavy fabric of my dress rustling as I rose to my feet.

Alessino stepped closer, until he was right in front of me. His presence was overwhelming. He reached out, and for one terrifying moment, I thought he was going to grab me by the throat.

Instead, he took the edge of my veil between his fingers, adjusting it slightly.

“You look the part,” he said, voice unreadable. “Now let’s hope you can play it.”

I hated that my breath felt unsteady. That his proximity sent a chill down my spine.

“I’ll do my part,” I said quietly, “as long as you hold up your end of the deal.”

Alessino’s fingers stilled against the fabric. His emotionless eyes locked onto mine.

"I don't make deals," he murmured. "To go back on,”.

My throat tightened, but I refused to look away. Finally, he released my veil, taking a step back.

"The wedding starts in an hour," he said. "Be ready."

Then, without another word, he turned and left, the door shutting behind him with a quiet finality.

I exhaled, my fingers tightening against the fabric of my dress. One hour. That’s all I had left before I became Emilia Alessino. The weight of it crashed over me all at once. There was no backing out now.

I was about to walk down the aisle and say “I do” to a man who might put a bullet in my father’s head the second he found him. But there was something Alessino didn’t know.

I wasn’t letting him kill my father. Not like that, no matter what he believed, no matter the guilt twisting inside me after what he told me. Antonio was still my dad.