The Mafia's Bride

Chapter Six: Obsidian Hearts

South Wing Corridor — Afternoon*

Aria’s footsteps echoed lightly against the polished marble floors as she made her way through the east wing. Her reflection glided beside her on the golden-framed mirrors lining the hallway. Every inch of this part of the mansion reeked of money, power, and curated silence.

She had never been this deep into the wing before. Even the air felt heavier here, scented with imported perfume and the faint traces of cigar smoke. A pair of men in black suits stood at a corner, nodding stiffly as she passed. Her uniform suddenly felt too plain—like she didn’t belong.

“*Maledizione...*” she muttered under her breath, clutching her hands together to stop them from shaking.

Was this a punishment or some twisted test?

Her boots clicked softly as she turned another corner, led by the quiet directions of one of the mansion's security personnel. Finally, she stopped in front of a carved wooden double door, painted cream and trimmed in gold. She took a breath.

Behind this door waited *Sofia Moretti*—the woman chosen to marry *Il Serpente di Milano*.

She adjusted her apron, then knocked once. A few seconds passed before a maid opened the door, giving her a quick once-over before stepping aside.

Aria stepped in.

The room was vast. Velvet drapes. Gold chandeliers. A faint Italian pop song playing from a Bluetooth speaker. At the center of it all stood Sofia Moretti—perched on a padded stool in front of an ornate vanity, her golden curls perfectly done, her lips painted blood red.

She turned as Aria entered.

“Oh, finally,” Sofia said in that sweet yet condescending Milanese accent. “You must be the maid I picked.”

Aria straightened. “Aria, Signorina.”

Sofia’s eyes studied her from head to toe. “You’re prettier than I expected.” She smirked. “That might be a problem.”

Aria forced a smile. “Would you like me to begin unpacking your things?”

Sofia waved a manicured hand. “Eventually. For now, just stand there. I like to talk while I get my makeup done.”

Aria nodded and stood still as requested, her mind buzzing.

As Sofia babbled on about outfits, parties, and how she planned to “melt Matteo’s cold heart,” Aria remained silent—only her eyes betraying the storm brewing inside her.

“Did you see how they lined up outside just to open the door for me?” Sofia chirped, twirling a strand of her golden hair as she lay sprawled across her velvet chaise. “Honestly, I felt like Milanese royalty.”

Aria remained kneeling beside the closet, folding one of the silk dresses Sofia had tossed onto the floor earlier. “I’m sure you did, Signorina.”

Sofia didn’t even hear the sarcasm in her tone. She was too wrapped up in her own glittering world.

“And Matteo...” Her voice dipped into a dreamy sigh. “*Il Serpente di Milano* himself. I’ve only seen pictures, but mio Dio, that man is pure danger and beauty. Those cold eyes, that jawline, the tattoos... *Mmm, delizioso.*”

Aria’s jaw twitched. She didn’t look up.

Sofia suddenly sat up, her blue eyes gleaming. “Tell me, isn’t Matteo just HOT?”

Caught off guard, Aria blinked. “I… suppose so.”

“*Suppose so?*” Sofia gasped as if personally offended. “Come on, he’s the definition of a man. I want him all to myself.” She stood, sauntering across the room like she already wore the crown of Don’s wife.

*

The moment the guards whispered the words *“Il Don is back,”* Sofia’s eyes lit up like flames catching wind. She didn’t wait for an escort. Barefooted and half dressed in her silk robe, she stormed through the east wing like a queen reclaiming her throne.

She didn’t knock.

She flung open Matteo's double doors with all the elegance of a raging storm.

There he was.

Back turned, shirtless, covered in dried blood.

His broad shoulders rose and fell with a calmness that sent a chill down her spine. He was pouring himself a glass of whiskey by the window, moonlight catching on the silver of his rings.

“Matteo,” she whispered breathlessly.

“I didn’t send for you,” he said coldly, without turning.

Sofia walked in anyway. “You didn’t have to. I waited for you all day. I thought we could—celebrate.” She let her robe slip slightly, revealing smooth olive skin and the lace beneath.

He turned, eyes landing on her with that signature icy indifference. He sipped the whiskey slowly, then placed it down. “If you take one more step, Sofia, I swear on my mother’s grave, I’ll put a bullet between your thighs just to remind you who you’re dealing with.”

She froze.

His words sliced deeper than any blade.

“W-What?” she managed, her voice shaking despite her sultry exterior.

Matteo took a slow step forward. “You think you’re special? You think this little arrangement is about *love*? Let me make something very clear, principessa,” —his tone turned venomous— “I will marry you only because the council requires the next Don to be wed. Nothing more.”

Her breath hitched.

“You’ll stand beside me. You’ll wear my ring. You’ll smile when I say smile. But if you ever try to crawl into my bed again—I will ruin you.”

Silence.

Sofia’s lips quivered, but she forced a bitter smile. “You’ll fall for me eventually, Matteo. I always get what I want.”

He smirked darkly, walking past her like she didn’t exist. “Try harder. It’ll make your heartbreak more entertaining.”

He left her standing there, humiliated. But not defeated. Her eyes followed him as he disappeared down the hall. Her obsession deepened. She made a vow to herself... she most win his heart…at all cost.

*Matteo’s POV*

The corridor felt heavier after Sofia's desperate display. Her perfume still clung to his skin—sweet, suffocating. Matteo loosened the first two buttons of his black shirt and made his way outside, letting the crisp night air slap some of the irritation from his face.

He lit a cigarette.

One drag.

Two.

He hated the way Sofia looked at him. Like he was some damn trophy she was entitled to. But worse than that, was the ache inside him that wouldn’t leave—not even after slicing three men open earlier tonight. The itch in his blood was more than rage. It was... emptiness. Restlessness.

He turned toward the garden.

The only place that didn’t stink of blood, smoke, or lies.

As he stepped onto the stone path, his eyes scanned the space out of habit. Always alert. Always calculating. Until something soft caught his eye.

Silver.

Platinum, to be precise.

His boots slowed. His fingers froze midway to his mouth.

Aria.

She sat beneath the old pine tree near the fountain, knees drawn to her chest, her hair flowing wildly in the wind like strands of silk. The moonlight wrapped around her like a spotlight—uninvited, unbothered, and still somehow... enchanting.

She didn’t see him.

Not yet.

And for a moment, Matteo just watched her. The way her lashes fluttered when the wind kissed her cheeks. The curve of her neck. The subtle movement of her chest as she breathed—too fast to be calm. Something flickered within him. Something he’d buried for years.

Desire?

No. Curiosity. That was safer.

He took another slow step, his voice low and sharp.

*"Perché appari sempre quando meno voglio compagnia, gattina?"*

(*Why do you always appear when I least want company, little cat?*)

She startled. Jumped, actually.

Matteo smirked, watching her eyes go wide—those hazel eyes that always looked too innocent for his world. She scrambled to her feet, brushing her dress down, cheeks flushing that soft pink he was beginning to enjoy too much.

“Shit...I—I'm sorry, I didn’t mean—”

He raised a hand, silencing her.

Then walked closer.

One step.

Two.

Until she had to tilt her head to meet his gaze.

Still staring.

Still that damned fire in her eyes.

He leaned in slightly, inhaling something far sweeter than Sofia’s perfume.

“What are you running from tonight, Castellanos?” he asked, voice low. Dangerous. “Or are you always this... disobedient?”

She blinked, visibly confused at the name again.

He loved that.

She didn’t know who she was.

But he did.

She swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper. “I was just getting some air…”

Matteo tilted his head, eyes narrowing as he took in every inch of her face. “At this hour? In the De Luca estate? Alone?”

The way she shifted under his gaze told him she knew exactly how reckless that was. Good. At least she wasn’t entirely stupid.

He stepped closer again. No more than a breath apart now.

She stilled.

Like a prey cornered.

But her chin didn’t drop. Not entirely. There was a fire in her. He'd seen it that night in the garden. He saw it now, flickering just beneath the nerves.

“You don’t follow orders well, gattina,” he murmured, voice like smoke. “But I’ll let it slide tonight.”

“Why… do you keep calling me that?” she asked quietly, her lashes fluttering as she finally dared to look into his eyes.

Matteo smirked.

Because it annoyed her. Because it intrigued her. Because he liked the way her lips parted when she asked.

Instead of answering, he reached out—his gloved hand brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. She flinched slightly, not from fear, but confusion. Her breath hitched.

And that was when Matteo saw it again.

The pull.

Not hers—his.

He cursed internally.

Not now.

Not with her.

He dropped his hand. “Go back inside.”

“But—”

“Before I change my mind and remind you why no one comes out here at night.”

She hesitated, lips parted, wanting to say something—ask something.

But then she nodded. Almost a bow.

And turned to leave.

He didn’t stop watching her until her icy blonde hair vanished behind the trees.

Only then did he exhale—and realize the cigarette had burned down to his fingers.

“f**k,” he muttered.

And lit another.

★

Moscow, Russia – INTERPOL National Central Bureau*

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime on the top floor of the sleek, glass-paneled building housing INTERPOL's National Central Bureau in Moscow. The corridor was quiet, the hum of fluorescent lights the only sound.

Stepping out was a woman who commanded attention with every stride. Clad in a tailored black and dark blue uniform, her presence was both authoritative and enigmatic. Her long brown hair was neatly tied up, cascading down her back, and her sharp brown eyes scanned the corridor with practiced precision. Her lips, painted a deep crimson, were set in a determined line.

She stopped in front of a polished oak door bearing the plaque: "Director Natalia Ivanova." Raising her hand, she knocked firmly.

"Enter," came the stern voice from within.

The woman opened the door and stepped inside, standing at attention.

"Agent Voronova reporting as requested," she said, her voice steady.

Director Ivanova looked up from the file she was reviewing, her gaze assessing. "Agent Voronova, we have a situation that requires your unique expertise."

The room was austere, with minimal decorations save for a large map of Europe and Asia on the wall, dotted with pins and notes. A digital screen displayed various profiles, one of which caught Yelena's eye: Enzo Volkov.

"We've received intelligence that the De Luca syndicate is expanding its operations into Eastern Europe," Ivanova continued. "Your mission is to infiltrate their network and gather actionable intelligence."

Yelena's eyes narrowed slightly as she nodded. "Understood, Director."

As she turned to leave, Ivanova added, "Be cautious, Agent Voronova. The De Lucas are not to be underestimated."

Yelena paused, a faint smile playing on her lips. "They won't see me coming."

Yelena was halfway to the door when Director Ivanova’s voice called her back.

*“One more thing.”*

She turned, her hand still on the handle.

*“Your new identity.”* The director reached into a sealed envelope and slid a slim file across the desk. *“From now on, you are Alessia Romano. Half-Italian, half-Russian. No family ties, no traceable past. Daughter of a deceased arms dealer from Naples. Skilled in accounting, fluent in Italian, Russian, and French.”*

Yelena walked back, picked up the file, and flipped it open. Inside was her new life: passport, credentials, backstory—all fabricated, all clean.

*“And your target?”* Ivanova clicked a button, and Enzo Volkov’s face reappeared on the screen behind her. Cold blue eyes. Sharp jaw. Dangerous.

*Yelena's expression didn't shift, but her eyes darkened just slightly.*

*“Volkov,”* she murmured.

Ivanova noticed. “Do you know him?”

A beat. Then, Yelena shut the file. *“I’ve crossed paths with him before.”*

*“Good.”* The director’s eyes narrowed. “Then you’ll know how close you’ll have to get.”

Yelena saluted again, her voice calm, but her pulse had quickened.

*“Alessia Romano will make him fall first.”* Then, with a ghost of a smile—*“And when he does... she’ll bury him.”*

She turned and walked out of the office, heels echoing down the hall, ready to step back into the dark underworld she thought she'd left behind.

This time, as a weapon.

This time, against the man who once made her feel something.

And maybe still does.