The Reluctant Mafia Bride

Dahlia’s Pov Standing in front of the imposing skyscraper where I worked, I took a slow, steadying breath, my gaze traveling up the glass-and-steel facade of Alistair & Co. I adjusted the dark blue knee-length dress that hugged my curves, feeling the fabric beneath my fingers, grounding myself. At five-foot-four, the towering structure seemed even more immense, and I felt small beneath its weight. My honey-brown eyes reflected a flicker of apprehension, something I hadn’t anticipated when I first landed this job. My black curls, normally full of bounce, felt heavy, matching my mood as they framed my face. Inside, everything gleamed—marble floors, polished metal fixtures, and the hushed murmur of busy professionals striding purposefully from meeting to meeting. Alistair & Co. was a high-stakes financial firm, a giant in the industry. And I was one of the many assistants working in its ranks, trying to prove my worth. Unfortunately, that meant dealing with my boss, Mr. Scott—a man whose presence felt like a cold shadow. Mr. Scott was, on paper, an accomplished executive—the Chief Operating Officer at just 45, his family’s name embedded in the very walls of this building. But to those who worked closest to him, he was an insufferable tyrant. Condescending, dismissive, and, worst of all, sexist to the core. I’d been his assistant for only two weeks, but every interaction with him left a bitter taste. He seemed to take pleasure in belittling me, in finding excuses to brush up against me with those “accidental” touches that made my skin crawl. Reporting him seemed futile, a waste of time that would only lead to more frustration. Mr. Scott was entrenched in the company, his family’s influence woven deep into the very fabric of Alistair & Co. He was the COO, and no amount of complaints could touch him. I’d heard the whispers from the women who had come before me—how they had been silenced, their accusations buried by HR, dismissed as misunderstandings, or worse, brushed off as the price of working for a man of his stature. The firm’s reputation was its most valuable asset, and they weren’t about to let someone like him tarnish it. The board and the higher-ups knew what he was like, but as long as profits were high and the name Alistair & Co. remained untarnished, it was business as usual. I had spent countless nights wrestling with the thought of resigning. I imagined walking out the door, leaving the oppressive weight of his harassment behind. But the reality was, I couldn’t. Not yet. I needed this job, this paycheck. The city was expensive, and my student loans weren’t going to disappear on their own. I had bills to pay, and no other prospects on the horizon. So, I swallowed my unease every morning, forced a smile, and told myself I could get through just one more day. One more day in this glass tower of power and privilege, where everyone pretended that things were perfect—where I pretended too. As I stepped into the lobby, the soft click of my heels against the marble floor echoed in the otherwise quiet space. The reception desk was immaculate, the polished wood gleaming under the bright lights. The front desk personnel barely looked up from their computers as I passed, their eyes flicking toward me for a second before returning to their screens. A polite nod, a half-smile—something I had perfected after two weeks here. I didn’t want to be noticed too much, not by them, not by anyone. I wasn’t part of their world. Not really. The air smelled faintly of polished wood, a mix of expensive cologne and fresh coffee drifting from the break room. It was the signature scent of success, the kind of thing you could bottle and sell as “luxury.” Nothing unusual, nothing out of place. This was Alistair & Co.—clean, pristine, and cold. I walked toward the elevator, the soft hum of the doors sliding shut behind me offering a fleeting moment of solitude. The small space, the muted lights, the feeling of being suspended between floors—it was the only time of day I felt truly alone, even if it was just for a few seconds. I closed my eyes for a brief moment, trying to center myself. The ride to the fifth floor was quick, the elevator gliding smoothly upward as I mentally prepared myself for another round with Mr. Scott. When the doors slid open, I stepped out into the corridor, the soft click of my heels echoing against the marble floor. I walked past the rows of glass-walled offices, arriving at my small, cramped workspace, where the clutter of papers and half-empty coffee cups seemed to reflect my mental state. I dropped my bag on the edge of the desk and quickly grabbed my notepad. My heart beat a little faster as I made my way to Mr. Scott’s office at the end of the hall. I knocked gently on his door, the sound barely audible above the quiet hum of the office. “Come in,” his voice called, muffled through the thick wood. I pushed the door open and entered. He was seated behind his massive mahogany desk, its surface littered with paperwork, a half-drunk mug of something that smelled like bitter coffee sitting by his elbow. Mr. Scott was a man of contradictions—his wide, round face was marked by a permanent flush, likely from too many years of too much indulgence. His eyes, a dull shade of gray, were almost always hidden behind thick-rimmed glasses that did little to soften the harshness of his gaze. A deep wrinkle ran across his forehead, but his expression was usually one of disapproval, even when he wasn't actively berating someone. His cheeks sagged slightly, and his double chin made him look perpetually bored, as though everything around him was an inconvenience. Today, he wore a charcoal gray suit, the fabric a little too tight around his midsection, revealing that he wasn’t as fit as someone in his position ought to be. The shirt underneath was slightly wrinkled, and the tie, a dark red number with faint stripes, hung loosely around his thick neck. “Good morning, Mr. Scott,” I said, forcing a smile as I stood at the threshold of his office. He barely looked up from the papers in front of him, his fingers absentmindedly tapping the edge of his desk. “Get me a cup of coffee,” he ordered in a tone that barely masked his irritation. I clenched my jaw, my grip tightening around my notepad, but I bit back any protest. A deep breath steadied my nerves. “Yes, sir,” I replied, my voice flat, and I turned to leave. I turned on my heel and walked out of the office, the weight of his command hanging over me like a shadow. As I made my way to the break room, I took a deep breath, trying to calm the steady pulse of annoyance that beat in my chest. Another day, I reminded myself. Just another day. The day dragged on in its usual rhythm, Mr. Scott barking orders at me with his signature rude, dismissive tone. He hadn’t touched me inappropriately, not once today, and for that, I was thankful. In fact, he seemed distracted or should I say paranoid. He had drank countless cups of coffee and he had been shifty all day. I couldn’t help but feel a little lighter at the thought that, for the first time in days, I wasn’t walking on eggshells around him. But I knew better than to think that would last. Even the smallest distraction seemed to have the power to shift his mood, and when he was in one of his darker moods, nothing I did was ever enough. Still, today was a welcome reprieve, and I clung to the hope that I could make it through without enduring any of his usual harassment. As the clock ticked toward the end of the day, I started preparing to leave. It was a ritual now—one of the last to leave the office, because Mr. Scott always managed to find some last-minute task to keep me tethered to my desk. Tonight, it was a financial report on Petrova Security. I had no idea who they were, but the report was straightforward enough. Numbers, data, analysis—it was all the same. I could get through it in a couple of hours if I focused. I finished the report, double-checking the calculations and making sure everything aligned. I glanced at my watch—almost nine p.m. The office was nearly deserted now, the hum of the fluorescent lights the only noise filling the silence. I stood up with a groan, stretching my stiff muscles before grabbing my bag and the report, praying silently that there would be no mistakes Mr. Scott could latch onto. If there were, I knew he’d keep me here even longer, his displeasure lingering like a dark cloud. When I reached his office, I was surprised to see the door slightly ajar. It was an unusual sight—he was typically a stickler for privacy, always making sure the door was shut behind him. I hesitated, my heart skipping a beat. The soft murmur of voices drifted from the crack, and curiosity tugged at me. I leaned in slightly, just enough to peer through the gap. What I saw made my stomach drop in fear.