Under the Mistletoe... with the Mafia King.

Chapter 15

By the time afternoon arrives, the mansion no longer feels like a sanctuary.

Morning passed in a blur of restless sleep, quiet hallways, and the constant awareness that nothing about this place existed by accident, and now as the sun climbs high enough to pour through the tall windows in pale gold sheets of light, I begin to notice the details I was too shaken to process before. The cameras tucked into corners I would never have looked twice at in my own apartment. The guards stationed at every entrance, not loitering or posturing, but standing with a discipline that makes it clear they are always watching, always listening. Even the silence itself feels different here, not peaceful, but controlled, curated, the kind that exists only when chaos is kept firmly on a leash.

Cassie walks beside me as we are escorted through one of the long marble corridors, her shoulder brushing mine every few steps as if she needs the physical reassurance that I am still real, still here, and I do the same without thinking, grounding myself in the familiar presence of my best friend while everything else feels like a carefully constructed illusion of safety.

Neither of us says much at first. There is too much to absorb, too many unspoken questions hanging heavy between us, and every turn reveals something new that makes my stomach tighten, whether it is the heavy steel doors tucked discreetly behind ornate wood paneling or the men who nod respectfully as we pass, eyes sharp, hands never far from where weapons are undoubtedly concealed.

“This place is insane,” Cassie finally murmurs under her breath, her voice barely audible over the soft echo of our footsteps. “It is like a palace and a bunker had a baby.”

I huff out a weak breath that almost qualifies as a laugh. “I keep waiting to wake up.”

“If this is a dream, it is a really messed up one,” she mutters, and I catch the flicker of unease in her eyes as she glances at one of the guards who has fallen into step a few feet behind us.

We are led into a large open room that overlooks the grounds, where long tables are arranged with precision, maps and documents spread across their polished surfaces. Several men are already gathered there, speaking in low voices, their attention snapping toward the doorway the moment we enter, and the shift in energy is immediate, like walking into the eye of a storm.

Micheal stands at the head of the room, his posture relaxed but commanding, one hand resting lightly on the back of a chair as he listens to a man speaking rapidly in Italian, his voice tight with urgency. He does not need to raise his voice to be heard. He does not need to gesture dramatically. The room bends around him naturally, attention orbiting him without question.

This is the first time I see him like this, not as the man who checked on me last night, or the stranger I kissed under a mistletoe, but as the Don, the center of something vast and dangerous and meticulously organized, and the realization settles into my chest with a slow, heavy weight.

Cassie’s fingers curl into the sleeve of my sweater, her grip tightening slightly. “Rhea,” she whispers, “this is real. This is really happening.”

I nod, unable to tear my eyes away from Micheal as he speaks now, his tone calm and authoritative as he gives instructions, names places, issues orders that send men moving with purpose. There is no hesitation, no argument, only obedience carried out with lethal efficiency.

“They are talking about people like they are chess pieces,” Cassie murmurs, her voice trembling despite her attempt to keep it light. “This is not just business. This is war.”

And she is right.

As we stand there, quietly observing, I begin to understand that the Mafia is not chaos or recklessness, but structure, hierarchy, loyalty enforced by fear and reward in equal measure. Every man here knows his role. Every action has a consequence. Every mistake costs more than money.

When Micheal finally notices us, his gaze softens just a fraction, enough that I can see the shift even if no one else can, and he excuses himself with a few curt words before crossing the room toward us.

“I did not mean for you to see this so soon,” he says quietly once he is standing in front of us, his voice low and careful. “But it is difficult to hide reality forever.”

“I think we would have noticed eventually,” Cassie replies, attempting a smile that does not quite reach her eyes. “Kind of hard to ignore armed men and battle plans.”

Micheal gives a small nod. “That is fair.”

I swallow hard, my heart beating faster. “Is this what it is always like,” I ask softly. “Constant threats. Constant planning.”

“More often than not,” he admits. “Power invites challenge. The moment you show strength, someone will test it.”

A chill runs through me as his words sink in. “And now we are part of that.”

He studies me carefully, his expression unreadable. “You are adjacent to it,” he corrects. “And that is precisely why I will not allow you to be unprotected.”

We are led away shortly after, guided through another wing of the mansion where the atmosphere shifts again, less overtly tense but no less controlled. We pass a training room where men spar with ruthless precision, the sound of bodies hitting mats echoing sharply, and a weapons room where glass cases display an array of firearms that make my skin prickle just looking at them.

Cassie stops short, staring. “They are preparing for everything,” she whispers. “They do not just react. They anticipate.”

“That is how they survive,” I reply quietly, my voice barely steady.

Later, as we sit in a quiet sitting room overlooking the grounds, the reality finally crashes over me in full force. This world is not something you stumble into and leave unchanged. It marks you, reshapes you, demands something in return for the protection it offers.

Cassie leans back against the couch, rubbing her face with both hands. “I used to think danger was late rent and bad dates,” she mutters. “Now I am watching men plan murders like they are scheduling meetings.”

I let out a shaky breath. “I do not know how to exist in this world.”

Cassie turns to me, her expression softer now, more serious. “You do not have to become them,” she says firmly. “But we need to be smart. We need to survive.”

As the afternoon sun dips lower, casting long shadows across the estate, I realize that this is only the beginning. We are standing at the edge of something vast and violent, and no matter how desperately I cling to the girl I was yesterday, she is already slipping away.

And somewhere in the depths of the mansion, plans are being made, enemies are being hunted, and my fate is being woven into a world that does not forgive weakness.

Whether I am ready or not.