The Mafia Don's Hated Bride

Melina "What... what did you just say?" "Are you deaf?" my father asks, his voice cold as steel. He doesn't even glance up from the documents sprawled across his desk. "You're getting married next month." Married? Me? He has to be joking, but I can tell he isn't. He never jokes, never speaks to me unless necessary. My father, leader of the Bratva for as long as I've been alive, has ruled with an iron fist since long before I was born. He's the most feared don we've ever had, and I've spent my entire life proving myself to him, working relentlessly to be more than just his daughter, but his successor. The underboss of the Bratva. Breaking the chain of tradition that says women can't hold real power. And now... this? "I won't do it," I tell him firmly. For the first time since I stepped into his office, those cruel green eyes meet mine. "You don't have a choice." "I've worked too hard to be discarded like this." I try to hide the desperation in my voice but fail miserably. He stands, and I feel my body tremble, but I keep my expression guarded and firm. Even as he limps closer to me, even as he slaps me hard across the cheek and my head spins to the side, I stand my ground. Showing weakness is much worse than taking a few hits. I clench my jaw and fists, nails digging into my palms. "Who is he?" "The one man who can save us before the Mexicans attack... Dominic Salvatore." I stumble backwards. Dominic Salvatore. The capo of the New York Italian mafia, the deadliest man in all of New York, the one man who is said to be so cruel and wicked he bathes in blood. The torture god. That is the man my father is giving me to. I know things have been hard since he had one of his legs damaged. I know he's trying to protect his people. But selling me off to someone, forcing me into something I never asked for. A man I definitely don't want. So, in other words, I'm leaving one ruthless person for another who is rumored to be ten times worse. "After everything I've done..." I begin, my voice laced with malice and anger, but he cuts me off. His cold eyes flicker with mockery. "Everything you've done, you did because it was your duty. This is also your duty. You will marry him and you'll do it with a smile." My body begins to tremble, not from fear but from rage. Finally, I realize arguing with him will only earn me more hits and disapproval. I turn on my heel toward the door and walk out, slamming it in his face. I've never dreaded time before like I do today. It feels like a month came in the blink of an eye. I sit in the bride's room dressed in the most disgustingly beautiful white dress ever. I wanted to wear red. It would have matched my hair, made a statement, but of course father disapproved. I had no say in this sham. Mafias from all over the country are here, even the Mexicans. They had sworn that today there would be no war, in respect to the union my father has arranged. Throughout the waiting period, I hadn't heard a thing from the so-called torture god. Not that I wanted to. But the fact he hadn't bothered himself with an introduction infuriates me more. I glance at myself in the mirror. As per my father's demand, my hair is styled back in a sleek ponytail. The makeup was instructed to be as light as possible. Unlike my reaction to my hair, I have no problem with that. The ball gown is so big and long it's uncomfortable to be in, and the stones around the chest... I can't stop trying to pull them off. A bad habit. The female coordinator comes in with a big smile, like she just won the lottery or something. "Bride, please get ready. You'll be going in in a minute." Exactly a minute later, the door creaks open and I rise to meet my destiny. The hall is massive, the walls lined with dark wood and towering windows. The floor is polished marble, and the seats are filled with men and women who hold more power than anyone can dream of. Every step I take down the aisle feels more like a nightmare. I can hear the faint murmur in the crowd, their voices laced with curiosity and greed, their eyes watching me like a predator watches its prey, waiting for a crack, a form of weakness. I clutch the bouquet tighter but square my shoulders and lift my chin, not giving into their judgmental gazes that calculate, that see me as nothing more than my father's daughter. A bargaining chip. My eyes land on the altar, on him. Dominic Salvatore. The rumors don't do him justice. He's taller than I expected. Broad shoulders fill out the black suit he's wearing like armor, his presence feels like a sharp force, suffocating and magnetic at the same time. His face is hard and chiseled at all angles, his dark hair falls perfectly over his forehead. His eyes are grey and cold, eyes that have seen more death than life. He's handsome, I won't deny, but rather than amusing me, it irritates me. His gaze lands on me. There's no warmth or kindness, just calculating analysis as his eyes rake me from head to toe, as if measuring whether I'm worth it. A shiver runs down my spine, but I force myself to move, one foot in front of the other, keeping our gaze locked. Until I reach the altar, standing face-to-face with him. The silence in the room is suffocating, everyone watching, waiting to see how this match between the Bratva princess and Italian don will unfold. He doesn't smile, he doesn't offer his hand. There's no pretense of this being a marriage out of love or at least respect. He just watches me with those dead eyes. The priest begins the ceremony, but it blurs in the background, barely registering. My mind races between what's happening and the tipping rage that threatens to spill. I should be looking for a way to escape. But even I know there's no way out. Not now. Not ever. "I now pronounce you husband and wife." I feel suffocated, like I've just been stabbed in the heart. Every piece of freedom I had, gone, just like that. "You may kiss the bride," the priest declares. I don't expect him to do it, maybe brush his lips against my knuckles. Instead, he leans in, his lips inches from mine. He looks up and his eyes meet mine. They look darker, filled with something I can swear looks like hatred, but before I can fully understand, he presses his lips against mine. It's hard and unforgiving. It's not a kiss... it's a claim. A warning. Then I feel a sharp sting as his teeth sink into my bottom lip, hard enough to cause me to bleed. I gasp, tasting the metallic tang of it, and pull back, eyes wide and anger flaring. He doesn't flinch, doesn't apologize. Instead, he leans closer, his breath hot against my cheek. "Welcome to the famiglia, mia moglie," he whispers, his voice laced with venom clouding his Italian accent. I stare at him, trembling with fury. My lip throbs, the taste of blood lingering on my tongue. I want to explode, scream at him and lash out, but I don't. I refuse to let him know how much this is affecting me. I refuse to give him the satisfaction he wants. Instead, I wipe the blood off my lip with the back of my hand and stand tall. The room erupts into polite applause, but all I hear is the sound of my own heartbeat thundering in my ears. His lips curl slightly, but it's not a smile. It's something darker. And then it dawns on me. I just married a psychopath.