The Reluctant Mafia Bride

Episode 16

Monday dragged me back to reality, ready or not. All weekend, I’d been on edge, waiting for some news about Mr. Scott’s death. Sirens, headlines, breaking news—something. But there had been nothing. Just silence, deafening in its own way.

When I stepped into the office, it felt like the walls were pressing in on me. My nerves were frayed, my stomach a tangled mess of knots. Each step I took toward my desk felt heavier than the last, weighed down by the vivid memory of that night. It played over and over in my head—a relentless loop of blood, shock, and the cold finality of Kirill’s actions.

Sliding into my chair, I forced my breathing to slow. Maybe, just maybe, I could make it through the day unnoticed. Keep my head down, do my work, and avoid any mention of Mr. Scott altogether.

But fate, as always, had other plans.

“Did you hear?” Sara’s voice broke through my fragile calm, low and dripping with excitement. I looked up to find her leaning over my desk, eyes bright with the thrill of gossip. “Mr. Scott was found dead in his home.”

The words hit me like a blow to the stomach. My blood ran cold, my heart lurching violently in my chest. Panic clawed at me, desperate to rise, but I forced it down. I couldn’t let it show. Not here. Not now.

Feigning surprise, I widened my eyes and furrowed my brow. “Oh my God,” I managed, keeping my voice steady. “What happened?”

Inside, I was unraveling. The image of Mr. Scott’s lifeless body with a bullet lodged in his head burned brightly in my mind. The sharp, chilling memory of Kirill’s calm precision as he ended the man’s life sent a shiver coursing through me. I clenched my fists under the desk to stop my hands from trembling.

“They haven’t said much yet,” Sara went on, clearly relishing the drama. “But it’s all over the news. Can you believe it? Just… dead. Like that.”

I nodded faintly, muttering some vague expression of sympathy. My hands busied themselves with shuffling papers on my desk—anything to keep them from betraying me. My heart was racing, my skin damp with cold sweat. Every instinct screamed at me to get out of there, to run. But I couldn’t. Not now. Not ever. Running would only raise questions I couldn’t afford to answer.

The weight of the truth pressed heavily on me, threatening to crush me under its enormity. I knew what happened. I saw what happened. But no one else could ever know. Not Sara. Not anyone.

I needed to be alone, to gather my thoughts and quiet the storm in my head. So, I made up a quick excuse to send Sara away. Thankfully, she didn’t push, simply nodding before wandering off to find another audience for her gossip.

With her gone, silence enveloped me, but it brought no relief. What was I even doing here? Mr. Scott had been my boss—my job. What would happen to me now that he was gone? Was I going to lose everything? The thought clawed at me, threatening to unravel what little composure I had left.

As if the universe was answering the question in my mind, the shrill ring of the office telephone shattered the silence. I jumped, my nerves already on edge, and hesitated before picking up the receiver.

“Dahlia speaking,” I said, my voice more clipped than I intended.

“Mrs. Stevens wants to see you in her office,” the voice on the other end said. It was the HR receptionist. No pleasantries, no explanation, just a summons. My heart sank.

The walk to the HR department felt like trudging through quicksand, my stomach twisting with every step. By the time I reached Mrs. Stevens’ office, I was sure I’d be sick.

“Come in,” she called when I knocked, her tone professional but neutral.

I stepped inside, forcing myself to stand straight even as my knees felt like they might give out. Mrs. Stevens sat behind her desk, her expression unreadable as she gestured for me to take a seat.

“First, let me formally inform you of Mr. Scott’s passing,” she began, her words precise, almost rehearsed. “I understand this must be a shock for everyone.”

Shock wasn’t the word I’d use, but I nodded anyway, keeping my face as blank as possible.

“Secondly,” she continued, folding her hands on her desk, “the company is now under new leadership. At this time, we don’t have all the details, but updates will be provided as they become available.”

New leadership. The words echoed in my mind, bringing a fresh wave of anxiety. What did that mean for me? For my job? I wanted to ask, but my throat felt too tight to speak.

“That’s all for now,” Mrs. Stevens said, dismissing me with a polite but firm nod.

I left her office feeling more lost than ever. The answers I’d hoped for had only led to more questions, and none of them came with a sense of certainty or safety. What was going to happen to me now?

As I approached my office, the sight stopped me dead in my tracks. A man was there, leaning casually against my desk as though he owned the place. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his black shirt fitting snugly enough to reveal an array of tattoos snaking up his neck and down to his wrists. They peeked out like shadows, their intricate designs lending him an air of danger I couldn’t ignore.

His sharp, assessing gaze locked onto mine as soon as I stepped into the doorway, freezing me in place. My pulse quickened, my body’s primal alarm system blaring a warning I couldn’t silence. This wasn’t someone here to ask about a spreadsheet or delivery error. This man was trouble.

"Miss Sinclair," he greeted, his voice low and deliberate. There was a faint accent in his words, just enough to make him sound more dangerous. He held a sleek black box tied with a blood-red ribbon in his hands, cradling it with a care that seemed at odds with his rugged exterior.

My throat felt dry. "Can I help you?" I asked, willing my voice to steady, though it wavered just enough to betray me.

He straightened and took a step closer, closing the space between us with an unnerving ease. The tension in the air grew heavier with each step, suffocating, relentless. He stopped just shy of my personal space and held out the box.

"This is for you," he said, his tone polite, almost cordial, but his eyes—those dark, unreadable eyes—carried an unspoken threat. "From my boss. The Pakhan."

That word sent a jolt through my chest like an electric shock. Pakhan. The title alone confirmed what I already feared: this was from Kirill Petrova.

My gaze darted between the man and the box, my stomach churning. "What’s in it?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. It was a ridiculous question—I didn’t actually want to know.

The corner of his mouth lifted in what might have been a smirk, though it carried no warmth. "You’ll find out soon enough," he said, his words dripping with finality. Without another word, he turned and strode out of the office, leaving me standing there, frozen and clutching the box as though it might bite.

My fingers gripped the ribbon, trembling slightly. The box felt heavier than it looked, like it carried the weight of my worst fears. I stared at it, half expecting it to explode in my hands. Was this a threat? A message? A prelude to something worse?

I shut the door behind me, trying to block out the outside world, and set the box down on my desk. It sat there like a dark omen, daring me to open it. For a moment, I considered walking away, leaving it untouched, but deep down, I knew that wasn’t an option. Ignoring something from Kirill Petrova seemed like a dangerous game, one I wasn’t brave—or foolish—enough to play.

Closing the door behind me, I let out a shaky breath and set the box on my desk, its presence feeling more sinister with every passing second. My eyes remained fixed on it as if it might move or reveal its secrets on its own. The room was silent except for the pounding of my heartbeat, loud and insistent in my ears.

I stared at the box for what felt like hours, my mind spinning with questions I didn’t want to answer. Curiosity clawed at me, relentless and insistent, but fear anchored me in place. What if this was a trap? A test? A warning?

Finally, unable to bear the tension any longer, I reached out. My hands trembled as I tugged at the blood-red ribbon, the silky thread slipping through my fingers like a harbinger of something darker. Each pull felt like it unraveled a piece of my resolve, but I pressed on. The lid lifted with unnerving ease, revealing a bed of black tissue paper, its delicate crinkles mocking the storm raging in my chest.

Nestled in the center was a single black dahlia flower. Just like my name. Its velvety petals were impossibly dark, a void so deep it seemed to swallow the light around it. For a moment, I couldn’t help but marvel at its haunting beauty. But admiration quickly gave way to dread. This wasn’t a gift; it was a message.

The sight of it sent a shiver down my spine. He knew. Kirill Petrova didn’t just know my name; he had chosen to send this flower as a chilling reminder of that fact. A stark, beautiful warning that I couldn’t ignore.

Beneath the flower lay a folded piece of paper, its edges sharp, the weight of its presence heavy in the air. My heart pounded as I unfolded it, each movement deliberate, as if bracing myself for a bomb.

The handwriting inside was elegant and precise, every stroke imbued with control.

Wear the dress. Le Bernardin. 8 p.m.

I read the words twice, then a third time, desperate to will them into something less ominous. But they refused to change. The instructions were clear, succinct, leaving no room for interpretation or disobedience.

At the bottom of the note was the name I already knew would be there. Bold, decisive, and final:

Petrova.