MARRIED TO THE MAFIA’S ENEMY

Myra sat still in the backseat of the black Rolls Royce, the silk of her white wedding dress sticking to her skin like a second prison. The city lights passed in a blur, but she couldn’t stop staring at her reflection in the window. This wasn’t a wedding—it was a sentence. And the man waiting at the altar... was the executioner. The private chapel was bathed in candlelight, eerie and cold. No guests. No music. Just a silent priest and two witnesses who looked more like Aryan’s bodyguards than friends. Myra walked down the aisle alone. Aryan stood at the altar in a black suit, emotionless. Dangerous. Beautiful in a way that could ruin you. “You’re late,” he said, barely glancing at her. “Sorry,” she replied, voice steady despite her racing heart. “I forgot I was marrying a psychopath.” One corner of his mouth twitched. Maybe amusement. Maybe a warning. The priest began the vows. Mechanical. Empty. “Do you, Aryan Moretti, take Myra Rathore—” “Yes,” he interrupted coldly. “Let’s not waste time.” The priest flinched. Myra didn’t. When her turn came, she hesitated. Just for a second. “Yes,” she whispered. A ring slid onto her finger—heavy, cold, custom-made. Like everything else in this marriage. “You may now kiss the bride.” Aryan stepped forward. But instead of kissing her lips, he leaned close to her ear and whispered: “Smile. Or I’ll make sure your brother watches what happens on our wedding night.” Myra turned to the cameras and smiled. Click. The photo will be all over the press tomorrow. The mafia prince and his new bride. But behind that perfect smile, Myra’s mind was already racing. You think you control me, Aryan Moretti. But you have no idea what I’m capable of.