The mafia's arranged bride

3.Alana

This had to be the most formal wedding I'd ever attended. The only thing is, it's mine.

The absurdity of it sat heavy in my chest as I stood there in that suffocating dress, my hands still folded in front of me like some obedient doll.

The moderator's voice had become white noise somewhere around the part about "lawful union" and "binding agreement." I watched the dust motes floating in the shafts of light coming through the courtroom's high windows, watched them dance and swirl like they had all the freedom in the world. Lucky them.

I was basically on autopilot throughout the whole thing, and it lasted no more than an hour. Sign here. Nod there. Repeat after me. My hand moved when it was supposed to, my lips formed words I didn't mean, my body performed all the right movements while my mind was somewhere else entirely.

Somewhere with Zina, probably. My baby sister, with her wild curls and wilder dreams. The one person in this world who actually mattered to me.

Then I was whisked away inside some bougie vehicle, a Mercedes, black and gleaming, the kind that screamed money and power and everything I'd learned to hate about my father's world. The door closed behind me with an expensive thunk, sealing me inside this leather-and-wood prison. The interior smelled like expensive cologne and a new car, suffocating in its luxury.

Zina wasn't allowed to attend, and I miss her so much.

The ache of her absence was physical, a hollow space in my chest where her presence should have been. Papa had made that decision with his usual casual cruelty over breakfast three days ago.

"It's not appropriate," he'd said, not even looking up from his newspaper. "She's too young to understand the significance.

" Too young, or too likely to cry, to make a scene, to remind everyone that this was a tragedy dressed up as a celebration? I'd wanted to scream at him, to flip the table, to refuse everything until he relented.

But then he'd made his offer, and I'd taken it like the desperate fool I was.

That made me promise my cooperation during the wedding in exchange for Zina's safety and education.

Full scholarship to that arts academy in Florence she'd been dreaming about. Protection from the family business, from the arrangements that had just swallowed me whole. A chance at a real life, a normal life, the kind I'd never have now. And I know he's probably the worst person to get into a contract with, but there's no choice at this point. Papa was a man who dealt in leverage and control, who saw his daughters as assets to be traded. But sometimes he kept his word, I hope it's so this time.

My husband got into the vehicle beside me, and the whole atmosphere shifted.

The door opened and he slid in with an easy grace that made me irrationally angry. How dare he be comfortable? How dare he settle into the seat like this was just another day, just another drive?

The cologne smell intensified, something woodsy and expensive that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent. I felt the weight of him beside me, too close in the confined space, his presence taking up more room than his body actually occupied.

And he looked out slowly, the trees moving past us, or we moving past it.

I watched his profile from the corner of my eye, careful not to turn my head, not to give him the satisfaction of my full attention. Sharp jaw, dark hair styled with just enough carelessness to look effortless, the kind of handsome that knew it was handsome. His eyes tracked the landscape with the bored detachment of someone who'd seen it all before, who'd never had to fight for anything in his life.

The Palermo countryside blurred past the tinted windows, olive groves and stone walls, the Mediterranean in the distance, all of it beautiful and meaningless.

At this point, I really, I really don't care which it is.

The philosophical question of motion and perspective seemed laughable now. Was I moving through the world, or was the world moving past me? Did it matter when I had no control over the direction either way? The wedding bands on my finger, his family's crest engraved into the gold, felt like shackles. Beautiful, expensive shackles.

"Is this veil thingy a traditional stuff or something?" I heard his voice.

The new husband is talking to me.

The shock of it jolted me out of my spiraling thoughts. His voice cut through the silence of the car, casual and almost amused, like we were acquaintances making small talk instead of strangers legally bound together for life. I'd been so lost in my own misery that I'd totally forgotten we had to communicate, and yeah, my veil is still on.

The lace still covered my face, a barrier between me and this new reality. I could feel it clinging to my skin, warmed by my breath, and seeing the world through its white filter. For a moment, I considered leaving it on, hiding behind it forever. But that was childish, and if Papa had taught me anything, it was that showing weakness only made things worse.

I quietly slipped it off and faced the window.

My fingers fumbled slightly with the delicate pins the stylist had secured so carefully this morning. The veil came away and I set it in my lap, the lace pooling like sea foam against the white of my dress. And then I turned deliberately away from him, away from those eyes I could feel on me now, assessing, judging.

My view of the trees is clearer. The olive branches were heavy with fruit, silver-green leaves catching the afternoon sun. Workers dotted the groves in the distance, their lives simple and their own. Lucky them too.

I liked his voice; I also hated it at the same time.

The contradiction twisted in my gut, unwelcome and confusing. I liked the voice because it's a nice voice, baritone, casual, stress-free, and calm. The kind of voice that probably talked its way out of trouble, that charmed and persuaded and got whatever it wanted.

There was a richness to it, a warmth that felt dangerous, like honey hiding poison. It was the voice of someone who'd never been told no, never been denied anything, never had to beg for scraps of freedom like I had.

But I didn't like the owner, so I didn't like the voice.

Call it anything, but that's my girl math. It made perfect sense to me, even if it was illogical. Even if the voice itself had done nothing wrong except belong to him. To Matteo Williams Salvatore, second son turned heir, attorney turned mob boss, womanizer turned my husband.

I found out a day before the wedding I was getting married to the second son of the Salvatore family, Matteo Williams Salvatore.

Twenty-four hours. That's all the warning I'd gotten. Papa just brushed past it at dinner, as usual, spearing a piece of lamb like he was commenting on the weather. "The Salvatore boy, Matteo. Civil ceremony Friday, church wedding next month." And then he'd returned to his meal while my world tilted sideways, while my fork clattered to my plate and my sister grabbed my hand under the table.

The moment dinner ended, I'd fled to my room and I had Googled literally the man's entire existence.

My laptop screen had glowed in the darkness as I scrolled and scrolled and scrolled, each new image making my stomach sink further. Matteo Salvatore wasn't hard to find, he was everywhere. Society pages, legal journals, gossip blogs, i********: accounts that tracked Palermo's elite. The search results went on for pages.

He is a womanizer; flirty and nasty.

That much was immediately, painfully obvious. There were lots of women hanging on his shoulders and arms in the pictures. Blondes, brunettes, redheads, he apparently had no type except beautiful and available.

Nightclub photos where he had his arm around some model's waist, his smile lazy and satisfied. Beach photos where he was shirtless and surrounded by girls in bikinis, looking like he was holding court. Gala photos where he had a different woman on his arm each time, dressed in designer gowns that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.

And the captions, God, the captions. "Palermo's Most Eligible Bachelor Strikes Again." "Salvatore Heir Celebrates Victory with Mystery Blonde." "Attorney by Day, Playboy by Night: Inside Matteo Salvatore's Wild Lifestyle."

The articles detailed his conquests with barely disguised glee, the daughter of a shipping magnate, a Brazilian model, an up-and-coming actress, a rival family's cousin that nearly started a war. They called him charming, dangerous, irresistible. They said he loved the chase but never the catch, that he got bored easily, that he'd never been in a relationship longer than three months.

One blog post had really stuck with me, written by some society columnist with too much time and too much access: "Matteo Salvatore treats women like cases; fascinating in the moment, quickly forgotten once won. Sources close to the family say he's never brought the same girl to two events. When asked about settling down, he reportedly laughed and said, 'Why would I limit myself to one wine when I can taste the whole cellar?'"

Oh.

That's what I am now. Not even a wine from the cellar, I was the wine he'd been forced to drink, whether he wanted to or not. The irony was almost funny. Almost. The legendary playboy, finally caught and caged, stuck with a wife he'd never chosen and probably didn't even find attractive yet since he hadn't seen my face properly.

I stared harder out the window, willing my expression to stay neutral, to not betray the sick feeling churning in my stomach. The Mercedes purred along the coastal road, carrying us toward whatever gilded prison passed for our new home, carrying us toward a future I didn't want with a man I already resented.

And beside me, he sat in easy silence, probably thinking about all the women he'd have to f**k later thus month. I didn't expect loyalty at all. Men are never loyal.

Welcome to marriage, I thought bitterly. Neither of us wanted this, but at least I'd gotten Zina's freedom out of it.

What had he gotten except a wife whose face he hadn't even cared to see until now?