The Mafia's Forced Bride

Chapter 2

Damian narrowed his eyes. “Because I need you in my life. At least for now... and for some time ahead.”

Alea lifted her chin, undaunted. “Then just kill me now. Better than dragging me into this sham of a marriage built on lies.”

Suddenly, Damian moved closer—too fast. Alea instinctively stepped back, but she was already cornered against the cold wall. He stared at her from an uncomfortably close distance. His breathing was steady, his face showing neither fear nor the slightest trace of mercy.

“You’re not a puppet, Alea... but you are a pawn.” His voice was low, threatening. “And in this game, a pawn can become a queen... or die by the second move.”

Alea raised her head, meeting his gaze with fierce defiance. “And what does that make you? A king? Or a coward too afraid of his past that he sacrifices other people’s lives instead?”

Damian’s eyes darkened for a moment. But instead of lashing out, he... smiled. Just faintly. Barely noticeable if one wasn’t paying attention. Dangerous.

“You’ve got guts,” he murmured. “Not the best metaphor for me... but definitely intriguing,” he added with a nod.

Alea shoved past him roughly and walked away from the cluster of mafia guards, refusing his protection. One of them tried to grab her arm, but Alea elbowed him hard in the gut, making him groan.

“Touch me again, and I’ll make sure your fingers don’t survive the night,” she hissed.

Damian let out a soft chuckle at her rebellion. “Take her to her room. Don’t force her. She’s trying to build her own reputation for being strong.”

As Alea passed by Damian, she turned sharply. “You think I’m afraid of you? HUH?!”

Damian replied calmly, though his eyes held secrets deeper than any ocean. “No, Alea. But one day... you’ll fear what I’ve been protecting you from.”

The guards led Alea to the door, but just before it closed behind her, she turned once more, eyes burning with tears, but her gaze remained steely. “I’ll fight you, Damian. I won’t let you destroy my life—not even an inch.”

Damian gave a slow nod, as if accepting a challenge. “We’ll see, Alea,” he said before turning away, hiding whatever emotion lay behind that unreadable face.

The door slammed shut, leaving only the echo of Alea’s voice lingering in the silent corridor. Damian stood still for a moment, took a deep breath, then walked away, leaving the grand hall filled only with whispers from the shadows.

The room was too luxurious to be called a prison. High ceilings, stained-glass windows, a four-poster bed carved from oak. But to Alea, it was still a cage. Gilded or not, a cage was a cage.

She approached the window. Locked tight. Thick glass. Her phone had no signal since earlier. She had tried knocking, even pounding on the door—only to be answered by silence.

“I have to get out of here,” she muttered under her breath.

Then came a soft knock. A middle-aged woman entered, dressed in a maid’s uniform. Her face was kind, but her eyes watchful. “Miss Alea, I’m Rosa. I’ve been assigned to take care of you during your stay here.”

“I don’t need a maid,” Alea said flatly.

Rosa smiled faintly. “I understand that you’re angry. But believe me, this place is safer than the outside world right now.”

Alea glared. “You’re part of that criminal organization, aren’t you?”

Rosa didn’t answer directly. She simply said softly, “Damian saved my daughter from a human trafficking ring not long ago. He’s not a good man... but he’s not a monster either.”

Alea froze, her eyes locked on the woman’s face. Rosa’s words echoed in her mind, cutting deeper than expected. Tears welled in Alea’s eyes, but she swallowed her pain. She bit her lip, refusing to cry in front of someone who had just shattered her confidence. Yet no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t escape the bitter truth that had just been spoken. Silently, she felt herself shrinking, lost for words.

Night fell swiftly, cloaking the sky in deep darkness. Inside the room lit only by a dying fireplace, Alea sat in silence. She wore a simple white dress she’d found in the bathroom—simple, yet far too expensive for a mere university student. As her thoughts grew heavier, the door burst open without warning. Damian entered without knocking.

“You don’t know manners, do you?” Alea snapped, shocked and annoyed.

Damian walked in, unfazed. “This is my house. That room is mine. You’re the one trespassing,” he said coolly, his voice unreadable.

There was authority and a trace of apathy in his tone that made Alea feel small. But she stood her ground. “Then throw me out!”

He stared at her a moment before speaking quietly. “If I let you go, they’ll kidnap you tonight. Your father’s enemies know exactly where you are. And I... haven’t given them permission to kill you yet.”

Alea went pale as Damian threw a folder onto the table. Her hands trembled as she slowly opened it. Her eyes widened—photos of herself, taken secretly from a distance. Some from her boarding room’s window. Detailed logs of her daily routes and routines. Then, a photo of a man—someone who’d bumped into her on the street two weeks ago. His face was cold and unfamiliar.

Swallowing hard, Alea pointed at the photo, voice cracking. “Who are they?”

Damian took a deep breath, his eyes locking onto Alea’s with intensity. “The people who are after your father,” he said curtly. A beat passed. “And now… they’re coming for you.”

The words hit Alea like a bolt of lightning in broad daylight. Her body went limp as she collapsed into the chair, overwhelmed by the chaos of thoughts trying to make sense of it all. Damian sat across from her, his eyes never leaving her, filled with a blend of worry and unwavering resolve.

He couldn’t look away from her face—so full of confusion, disappointment, and a quiet panic. The warmth of the room had turned cold, slicing through the air like a blade. He stopped at the threshold, heart pounding, his hand frozen inches away from the doorknob. He turned his head slightly—just enough to catch Alea’s eyes, which were still desperately searching for meaning in everything that had just unfolded.

“Goodnight, Mrs. Alaric,” he said quietly, his voice trembling as he fought to mask his inner turmoil.

Without waiting for her reply, Damian stepped out, leaving Alea rooted in place. The door clicked shut, and a soft sob pierced the silence. She slid down against the nearest wall, burying her face in her hands, trying to understand what had just slipped through her fingers so suddenly.

***

It had been three days since Alea was confined in that mansion—trapped in a luxurious room that felt more like a velvet-lined prison. She wasn’t shackled. No chains, no bruises. But freedom? That was out of reach. Hidden cameras tracked her every move. The servants were too polite, too cautious—like they feared her wrath more than they respected her.

But Alea knew it wasn’t her they feared.

It was Damian Alaric.

And what unsettled her more was the question that wouldn’t leave her mind: Who was this man? What could possibly make someone so feared… and yet trusted by the government?

That night, Rosa came in earlier than usual, carrying a tray with herbal tea.

“For a calmer mind,” she said gently.

Alea gave a faint smile, but her eyes flicked to the pocket of Rosa’s apron. A key. Small. Dangling just enough to be seen. As Rosa turned to rearrange the vase of flowers, Alea had barely a second to act.

Click.

Alea snatched the key and slipped it into the folds of the couch cushion.

That night, under the cover of darkness, Alea crept silently through the mansion’s corridors, clutching the stolen key. Her breaths came shallow as she unlocked a door she knew wasn’t part of the main rooms. Damian’s study. She had seen him go in and out of it more than once, his face always drawn tight with tension.

The door creaked open. Darkness greeted her, along with the faint scent of old leather and cologne.

She flicked on a small lamp nearby. The light revealed rows of books and an aged desk. Behind the shelf, she found a small safe. Beneath it, stacks of old files—some already covered in dust. But what caught her eye most was a single deep-red folder, thick and worn at the edges.

Embossed on its front were two simple initials:

R.M.