The Mafia's Bride

Chapter Four: Forbidden name

*De Luca Mansion*

*East Wing — Matteo's Private Chamber*

The low hum of jazz spilled from Matteo’s record player as dusk bled into the sky. He leaned back in his leather chair, one leg crossed, a crystal glass of bourbon in hand. The room was dim, shadows clinging to the ornate walls, disturbed only by the flicker of candlelight and the slow-burning cigar in the ashtray.

A knock—two sharp taps.

"Avanti," Matteo muttered.

The door opened. Enzo strutted in with that usual overconfident swagger, black shirt rolled up to the elbows, tattoos peeking under his sleeves. Nico followed, silent as always, a cigarette hanging from his lips, eyes dead as ever.

“You better have a good reason for barging in while I’m trying to unwind,” Matteo said without looking up.

“I always do,” Enzo smirked. “And this one’s juicy.”

Matteo exhaled through his nose, impatient. “Cut the crap, Enzo.”

Enzo slid a file onto Matteo’s desk. “I thought something was off about the nosy maid. Too pretty. Too curious. So, I dug.” He tapped the file dramatically. “Turns out, she’s not just ‘Aria Castell’.”

Matteo finally sat up, glass clinking as he set it down. He flipped the file open.

His eyes scanned the documents—birth certificate… orphanage records… medical reports… an old black-and-white photo of a child clinging to a blood-soaked woman.

Then, he froze.

Name: *Ariana Castellanos.*

Daughter of: *Silvio Castellanos.*

The silence stretched. Matteo’s jaw clenched.

“Impossible,” he muttered in Italian. “Li ho uccisi tutti. Tutti.” (I killed them all. All of them.)

“She’s a ghost,” Enzo whispered, almost reverently. “A Castellanos survived.”

Nico finally spoke, flicking ash into a tray. “And now she’s working in your home. Coincidence?”

“No.” Matteo’s voice was ice. “No such thing in our world.”

“So what now?” Enzo asked.

Matteo’s gaze darkened. “She came back either to *die... or kill.*”

He stood, adjusting his cuffs. “Make her life hell. Strip her peace. Watch everything. I want to know if she knows who she really is.”

Nico nodded once. Enzo grinned like a wolf.

“As you command, boss.”

—

MAIDS QUARTERS

The clang of the morning bell jarred Aria from her shallow sleep.

Her arms ached. Her legs, heavier than stone.

Lucia stirred beside her, rubbing sleep from her eyes. “Dio, you look like you fought the devil in your dreams,” she muttered.

Aria gave a weak smile. “Close.”

Renata rolled over and gave her a quick once-over, lips twisted. “You look like you got dragged through a vineyard.”

Aria didn’t respond. Her thoughts were still tangled in the memory of last night—of the bloodied floor, the man’s broken cries, and Matteo De Luca’s cold voice cutting through it all.

Il Serpente.

She’d seen him. Heard him. And then… he’d seen her. That unblinking stare. Sharp. Animalistic. Dangerous.

Yet he let her go.

Why?

She didn’t want to find out.

But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

She barely stepped into the staff hallway when Mrs. Mara intercepted her with a clipboard in hand.

“Castell,” the head maid barked. “You’re assigned to the courtyard and kennels today. After that, scrub the kitchen floors. You’ll eat after the others.”

Aria blinked. “Ma’am? That’s not my rota—”

Mrs. Mara shot her a look that could pierce through bone. “Is that a complaint?”

“No, ma’am,” Aria muttered, bowing her head.

Lucia gave her a confused glance but said nothing.

By midday, her hands were scraped, her knees caked in dirt. The heat was relentless, and the courtyard stones burned under her palms as she scrubbed like a prisoner of war.

She wasn’t imagining it.

Something had shifted.

The glances from the guards. The way Renata suddenly acted smug. The silence from the other maids.

By the time she was sent to clean the dog kennels, she could barely stand.

As she knelt beside a soiled crate, clutching a bucket of suds and bleach, she muttered under her breath, “Cazzo… this is punishment.”

But for what? For seeing him? For hearing him?

Did he really care that much?

The Serpent didn’t look like the type to concern himself with a maid’s wandering eyes.

Unless he saw her as a threat.

Aria dragged herself back to the maids’ quarters long after dark. Lucia sat on her bed, concern etched in her features.

“What happened to you?” Lucia asked, rushing to her side. “You look like you fell off the Duomo.”

“Apparently, I pissed off someone important,” Aria gritted out.

Renata, who was brushing her hair, glanced over with a smirk. “Maybe learn when to keep your mouth—and your ears—shut.”

Lucia turned to her sharply. “What's your problem?”

Renata only shrugged and walked out.

Aria collapsed onto her cot with a groan. “This place is cursed.”

Lucia sat beside her. “Did you do something?”

Aria hesitated. Then whispered, “I saw something… last night. In the east wing.”

Lucia’s face paled. “No. Aria… tell me you didn’t go near Matteo’s quarters.”

Aria stared at the ceiling. “I didn’t plan to. But curiosity...”

Lucia hissed, “That man—he doesn’t forgive. He doesn’t forget. If he caught you…”

Aria turned her head slowly. “He did.”

Lucia went silent.

“He looked at me like he could burn the world if I said the wrong word,” Aria added quietly. “But then… he let me go.”

Lucia stood up quickly, her voice barely a whisper. “Then this—everything happening today—it’s not a coincidence.”

Aria nodded slowly. “I know.”

★

The moon hung low, casting a cold silver glow over the sprawling gardens. Somewhere in the distance, crickets chirped lazily, unaware of the storm brewing in Aria’s chest.

She’d barely said a word since Lucia fell asleep. The ache in her bones was nothing compared to the whirlwind inside her head. Scrubbing floors like a criminal, thrown cruel tasks back-to-back — it wasn’t just bad luck. This was retribution.

And she had a pretty good guess who was behind it.

*Him.*

Aria’s feet moved before her mind could stop them. Past the servant halls, through the side entrance of the mansion, and into the maze-like garden she’d glimpsed once from a window. The cool night air brushed her cheeks like silk.Her long platinum hair dancing freely to the breeze.

For a second, she could breathe.

She sat on a stone bench tucked between trimmed hedges, arms folded tightly, lips pressed.

"Why me?" she muttered biting her lips. "Why can't I just be invisible in this hellhole?"

The snap of a twig jerked her upright.

Her head whipped to the side—nothing.

But then she saw it.

The brief flicker of orange in the shadows. The glow of a cigar being drawn. A figure leaned against the marble pillar just beyond the hedge.

She squinted.

Then froze.

Tall frame. Dark suit. Cold presence.

And then the slow drag of smoke parted enough for her to see his face.

Her heart dropped. "*Dio mio...*"

Matteo.

She panicked and tried to silently retreat—but her foot caught a loose stone.

*Crunch.*

His head turned.

She stopped cold.

“*Not another step, Gattina.*”

His voice was low. Lethal. It sliced through the silence like a blade.

Her breath hitched. She turned slowly, dread creeping into every muscle. His eyes were on her now—dark and amused. His lips curled into a lazy smirk as he took another pull from his cigar.

“*Ah… Sei venuta a spiare?*” he said with mock innocence.

("Ah... So you came here to spy?")

“*Ma devo dire che sei terribile a farlo, Castellanos.*”

("But I must say you are horrible at it, Castellanos.")

Aria’s heart stopped. Her lips parted. “W-What…?”

Fear wrapped around her chest like a vice.

“N-No!” she gasped. “I swear I'm no...t a spy... I-I just wanted to clear my he...head, I didn't know you were here. I swear!”

He chuckled, a dark sound with no humor in it.

“So you *do* know who you are,” he said slowly, stepping out of the shadows. “*Che interessante…*”

He paused in front of her, gaze narrowing.

“What makes you think you can get revenge with that pathetic behavior of yours, *Castellanos*?”

Aria blinked. Her blood ran cold. “W-What are you talking about?”

“And why do you keep calling me that? It’s *Castell*, not—” she swallowed, “—not Castellanos.”

He tilted his head, something wicked flashing in his eyes.

“*Finta innocente.*”

("Fake innocence.")

He let out a scoff that wasn’t quite a laugh. It was sharp. Mocking.

“You’re dumber than I thought, *Castellanos*.”

Her eyes twitched. Her mind whirled.

“W-what?” she whimpered, shaken. “I don’t know what you're talking about—”

He crushed the cigar beneath his heel with a slow, deliberate motion.

Then turned.

Without another word, he walked away—leaving smoke in his path and confusion tangled in her chest.

Aria stood frozen in place.

Her real name...

Her identity...

Revenge?

None of it made sense.

But the look in his eyes said one thing clearly:

*He knew something she didn’t.*

And that terrified her more than anything else.

★

The heavy doors of the east wing closed behind Matteo with a soft click. The air still held the scent of cigar smoke and night roses, but his mind wasn’t on Aria anymore.

Not entirely.

His jaw clenched as he ascended the marble steps toward his chamber, fingers loosening his cufflinks.

But before he could enter, a voice echoed behind him.

“*Il Don ti sta cercando.*”

("The Don is looking for you.")

Matteo stopped.

He turned slowly to face the elderly butler standing respectfully at the hallway’s end. No emotion. Just the message. But Matteo already knew what it meant.

His father never called for him this late unless it was important—or irritating.

With a low sigh, he adjusted the cuffs back on, turned on his heel, and headed toward the west wing.

*Don Riccardo’s chamber* was dimly lit by a single golden lamp. A fireplace cracked quietly in the corner. The old man sat in a high-backed velvet chair, his cane resting against his knee, the weight of age hanging from his shoulders. His once-black hair now silver, eyes dim but still sharp as a blade.

Matteo entered silently.

Then, as tradition demanded, he dropped to one knee before his father.

“*Padre.*”

("Father.")

The Don nodded faintly. “*Alzati, Matteo.*”

("Rise, Matteo.")

Matteo stood but remained stiff. “You summoned me.”

Don Riccardo gave a slow breath. “*È tempo.*”

("It is time.")

Matteo raised a brow. “Time for what?”

The Don leaned forward, voice rough from age and sickness. “You will marry.”

The words landed with a dull thud in Matteo’s chest.

He blinked once. “*Scusa?*”

It hit him hard,he had totally forgotten.

“I’ve chosen a bride for you, since you didn't want to look for one your self,” the Don continued, ignoring the tension in his son’s shoulders. “Sofia Moretti.”

Matteo scoffed. “You must be joking.”

The Don coughed—deep, hoarse, and real. When he spoke again, it was weaker.

“I am not.”

Matteo’s eyes darkened. “Sofia is an *overly spoiled brat*, Father. She parades her life on social media like a soap opera. My enemies wouldn’t even need to search to find my weak points. She’d hand them the entire map.”

“She’s loyal,” the Don replied flatly.

“She’s *naïve*,” Matteo bit back. “She smiles too much. Talks too loud. She’ll drag the weight of my name through filters and hashtags.”

The Don closed his eyes for a moment, exhaling slowly. “*Basta.*”

("Enough.")

Matteo ground his teeth, hands clenched at his sides.

“You wanted the family,” his father rasped. “You wanted *il potere.*”

("...the power.")

“Then you’ll follow the path laid before you.”

“I’ll think about it,” Matteo snapped, turning toward the door.

“She’ll be arriving soon,” the Don said behind him. “Prepare.”

Matteo stopped. The flame in his chest flickered higher.

Without another word, he opened the door and stepped out into the corridor.

His footsteps echoed like gunshots.

And his thoughts?

*Dangerous.*