The Mafia's Forced Bride

Chapter 3

Father’s name: Rinov Moreau

With trembling fingers, Alea opened the contents of the folder. A telegram. Wiretap transcripts. Photographs from 2003. In one of the photos, her father stood next to a man in a black robe, shaking hands with someone whose face had been blurred. There was a note underneath:

“Suspected of selling biological weapons intel to international organizations. Status: double informant.”

Alea immediately stepped back. The world seemed to crumble in an instant.

"I told you not to touch that file." Damian’s voice echoed behind her, startling her.

Alea spun around. Damian stood in the doorway—not angry, but clearly uneasy. "You... you knew all this? You hid who my father really is?!"

Damian looked at her deeply, then spoke quietly. "I didn’t hide anything from you. I was just protecting you from the truth... the truth that your father may have been the reason my mother died."

Alea froze. Her mouth opened, but no words came out.

Damian stepped closer. "I married you because the government asked me to protect you. But I still agreed—when I had every right to refuse—because I wanted to uncover the truth. And now... you have to be ready to hear it too."

"So all this time, you were just... watching me? Like some lab experiment?" Alea’s voice cracked, but she stayed standing.

Damian closed the office door behind him. The room now held only them—and the bloody documents that tore open old wounds inside Alea. "If I wanted to make you a puppet, I could’ve done it much easier," he said calmly. "But I want answers. And you... you’re the key."

Alea stared at him, her eyes filled with hatred and curiosity. “What kind of answers... that even the government couldn’t find?”

Damian glanced at the photo of Alea’s father now lying on the wooden table. "Your father wasn’t just an informant," he whispered. "He also leaked the names of Indonesian undercover agents planted abroad. Including... my mother, who worked in East Germany twenty years ago."

Alea stiffened again. She had never known her father’s job, except that he often traveled for “important matters.” "My father would never... He was a philosophy professor," she said in almost a whisper.

"A philosophy professor who lived for three years with no official identity in Berlin in 2004," Damian retorted sharply. "Do you know how many lives were lost that year because of the agent leaks? Seventeen," he stated bluntly.

Alea felt nauseous. But she wasn’t the kind of girl who would easily believe a man in an expensive suit wrapped in mystery. "Then why marry me? If you really hate my father?"

Damian came closer again. His gaze pierced, but his voice was calm. "Because you’re the only person who could draw your father out of hiding."

Alea gasped. "You used me as bait?!" she shouted. "Damn it, Damian. I’m not a tool! I’m a human being! I didn’t even know anything about your past with him!"

Damian didn’t flinch. "If you’re human, then prove you’re stronger than the dark history of your family."

Alea ran out of the office, breath ragged. She didn’t know if the tears falling were from rage... or heartbreak. As she shut her bedroom door, she stared at the large mirror across her bed. For the first time, she didn’t see a regular college student. She saw someone standing in the middle of a web of conspiracies—carrying inherited scars and blood on paper.

Damian might think she was just a pawn. But she would make sure she became the queen... on her own terms—even without Damian’s help.

It had been five days since the confrontation that night. Since then, Alea hadn’t spoken to Damian. She had locked herself in her room, refusing meals. Even Rosa couldn’t coax a word out of her.

But tonight, everything shifted. Damian stood at her door—no guards, no threats, and none of his deadly glares. "I know you haven’t eaten in two days," he said softly.

Alea didn’t even turn. She was still seated by the window, staring into the sorrowful darkness outside. "You care?"

"I care... about the mission," he answered. Damian stepped inside and set a tray of food on a small table. His voice dropped lower. "And sometimes... I hate that I care more than I should about you."

Alea finally looked at him. Their eyes met. For a brief moment, everything fell silent. “Don’t do that,” Alea whispered.

“Do what?”

“Talk like you’re the one hurt… when I’m the one trapped in this sham of a marriage,” she said, ending with a bitter curse.

Damian let out a short laugh. It was low, almost bitter. "I didn’t marry you to trap you. But I won’t deny... your presence has ruined all my plans." He sat in the chair across from her. His gaze no longer cold or calculated—but tired. Human. "Who do you think I am, Alea? A heartless mafia boss? Everyone sees me as a monster. And I believed it, too... until you came into my life and messed everything up."

Alea said nothing, confused. Her emotional walls started to crack, but her heart kept pounding. "You know why I let you curse at me, rebel, even try to escape this mansion?" Damian asked, pressing.

"Because you like torturing me, right?" Alea shot back.

Damian exhaled. "Because you’re the only one who’s never feared me. And I... hate it and crave it all at once." He stood, walked closer, then knelt in front of her. Their faces were just inches apart. "Stop making me want you, Alea. Because if I truly fall for you... there will be no way out for either of us."

Alea’s heart pounded faster. Was it anger... or something deeper? But before she could reply, Damian stood and left the room—leaving behind the scent of his cologne... and emotions Alea couldn’t name.

That night, Alea couldn’t sleep for the first time. Damian’s words echoed in her head: "If I truly fall for you... there will be no way out for either of us." She didn’t know whether to fear that statement—or be drawn to it.

But one thing was clear—Damian had too many secrets. And if she was going to fall deeper into his world, Alea had to uncover them all... including his haunting past.

***

The next morning, she pretended to comply with every order. Breakfast. Polite chat with Rosa. Even asking for permission to walk in the garden inside the mansion complex. All of it was just a strategy to find a way out of this beautiful prison. Because when Damian left for "organizational business," and Rosa exited the lounge leaving the door ajar, Alea sneaked into Damian’s study—this time, silently and without hesitation.

She scanned the bookshelves, opened drawers, until she found a small teak box—tightly locked. Not far from it, nestled between old books, she found a silver key.

Click.

The box opened.

Inside was a letter, a necklace with a black pendant, and an old photo that had begun to fade. Alea took it with trembling hands.

A woman in a simple dress. Early twenties, maybe. Long black hair, a sweet smile, but eyes sharp as knives. Beside her stood Damian—much younger, without the scar on his cheek, smiling in a way Alea had never seen.

On the back of the photo, there was a message: “To Damian. Thank you for saving me... and destroying me. – M.”

Alea stared at the letter M for a long time.

M. Who was she? A former lover? An ex-wife? Someone Damian abandoned? Or... a love that never got its ending?