THE DON'S FORCED BRIDE

My name is Sofia Giuliani. And in exactly seven days, that name will no longer belong to me. The grandfather clock in the Giuliani study struck one in the morning. Each chime fell heavy and cold onto the marble floor, onto the Persian rug, onto my bare skin. I had been standing in the doorway for almost a minute before anyone acknowledged me. The study was always my father's favorite room. It was built to intimidate. Dark walnut paneling that swallowed the light, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with books no one had ever read, and a massive mahogany desk that cost more than most people's cars. The air always smelled the same, leather polish, expensive sandalwood, and the peaty, sharp scent of his single malt whiskey. Tonight, it smelled like a cage. He sat behind that desk like a king on his throne. My father, Julian Giuliani, was fifty-three but looked ten years younger when he wanted to. Tonight he was in full armor. A perfectly tailored navy blue suit, a crisp white shirt with French cuffs held together by onyx cufflinks, a black silk tie knotted with surgical precision. His dark hair was slicked back, his beard trimmed to a shadow. He didn't look like a father. He looked like a CEO about to announce a hostile takeover. Behind him, to his right, stood my mother. Evelina Giuliani was still beautiful at forty-five in a way that made other women hate her. She was wearing her signature champagne silk robe, the one with delicate ivory lace at the cuffs and hem that trailed to the floor. Her blonde hair was pinned up in a soft, elegant twist. Her makeup was flawless even at 1 AM. But her hands, her hands gave her away. They were clasped tightly in front of her, her manicured nails digging into her skin, her knuckles white as bone. She wouldn't look at me. I was the only one not dressed for war. I was wearing a simple white nightgown. It was sleeveless, made of soft cotton and lace, with a little drawstring at the front. It was modest, almost childish. My long, thick black hair was still damp and tangled down my back from the shower I'd taken after my night swim. My feet were bare and freezing against the hardwood. I felt naked. I felt eighteen and stupid and utterly powerless. "Sofia," my father said finally, without looking up. He swirled the whiskey in his crystal tumbler. The ice clinked against the glass. That sound has haunted me my whole life. "You summoned me, Father?" He took a slow sip. Then he looked at me. His eyes were the same stormy blue as mine, but his were cold. Mine were always too soft, too expressive. He hated that about me. "Come in. Close the door." I did. The heavy door clicked shut behind me and the sound felt final, like a coffin lid. "You're eighteen now." It wasn't a question. It was a verdict. "Yes," I whispered. My throat was dry. "Do you know what that means in our world? In this family?" I shook my head, even though a sick feeling was already coiling in my stomach. "It means you are old enough to fulfill your duty," he said. He set his glass down with a soft thud. "In one week, you will be married." The words didn't register at first. They were so absurd, so completely out of the world I thought I lived in. I let out a small, disbelieving laugh. "Married? What are you talking about?" "I am talking about your future. The future I have secured for you." He opened a leather folder on his desk and slid a single sheet of paper towards me, though I was too far to read it. A contract. "The wedding is in seven days. The preparations have already begun. The church, the dress, the press." "To whom?" My voice was suddenly loud in the quiet room. My heart was hammering so hard I could see my own pulse in my throat. He said the name like he was savoring it. Like it was a fine wine. "Luca Gonzalez." My knees buckled. I had to grip the back of the leather armchair in front of his desk to stay standing. Luca Gonzalez. No. No, not him. Everyone in New York knew the name Luca Gonzalez, even if they had never seen his face. The whispers at my father's business dinners, the sudden silence when a black Maybach rolled past our estate, the way my father's own business partners would lower their voices when they said,"The Don_." Luca Gonzalez wasn't a man. He was a myth. A monster in a Tom Ford suit. Thirty-six years old, worth billions, owner of half the city and all of its shadows. He was famous for never smiling, for never losing, for never forgiving. The man who had built an empire out of blood and made it look like luxury. "M-Mr. Gonzalez?" I stammered, my lips trembling. "The... the mafia lord?" My mother's sharp intake of breath was audible. "Mind your tongue," my father snapped. "You will address him as Mr. Gonzalez, not the Mafia lord until you are permitted to call him husband." Husband. The word made me want to vomit. "Mr. Gonzalez's willingness to marry you is an honor for our family," he continued, his voice taking on that smooth, persuasive tone he used with clients he was about to ruin. "An alliance that will secure the Giuliani name for the next fifty years. You should be grateful." Grateful. He was selling me to a man twice my age, a man whose name was used to scare not only children but also adults, and he wanted me to be grateful. "He's so much older than me," I whispered, tears finally spilling over, hot and fast down my cheeks. "Father, please. I'm only eighteen. He's eighteen years older than me. I've only seen him three times in my life. At the Moretti gala, and—" "Age isn't an issue," he cut me off coldly. "Stop acting like a child. Many women would kill for this opportunity. He is handsome, wealthy, powerful. What more could you want?" "I want to choose!" I cried. The fear broke and turned into something hot and angry. "I want to go to college! I want to swim! You promised me I could apply for the Columbia scholarship!" "Swim?" He laughed, a short, cruel sound. "Medals don't protect a family. Money does. Power does. Luca Gonzalez does." "He's terrifying!" I screamed. "Everyone is afraid of him! You are afraid of him! I've seen the way you look at him!" The study went silent. My father's face darkened. The charming businessman's mask slipped, and I saw the man underneath. The man my mother had been afraid of for twenty-five years. "He is terrifying because he has to be," he said in a low, dangerous voice. "That is what it takes to be a Don. To rule. And once you marry him, Sofia, you will learn to be a proper wife. You will learn to be quiet. Obedient. Useful." "You mean a slave?" The words tore out of me before I could stop them. "So he doesn't want a wife, he wants a slave? Someone who will do as he says and never talk back?" "Shut up!" The roar was deafening. It bounced off the bookshelves. And then he moved. I didn't see his hand. I just felt it. A brutal, open-palmed slap that snapped my head to the side with such force that my hair whipped across my face. White-hot pain exploded across my left cheek and lip. I gasped, tasting copper. I stumbled back, clutching my face, my eyes wide with shock. He had never hit me. Not like this. Not ever. My hand came away with a smear of dark red. His heavy gold signet ring, the one with the Giuliani crest, had split my lip. My mother made a strangled sound and rushed forward. "Julian! Enough!" "Don't you dare coddle her!" he shouted at her. "This is exactly why a woman needs an iron-fisted husband! Look at her! Look at this disrespect! This is your fault, Evelina. You raised her to be soft!" He pointed a fisted finger at me. "You think you have a choice? You think this is a discussion? They weren't asking me, Sofia. Mr. Gonzalez was not asking for your hand. He was informing me that he would take it. And when Luca Gonzalez informs you of something, you say thank you." The truth hit me harder than the slap. He hadn't arranged this. He had been ordered. Even my father, with all his money and his suits and his big desk, was just a servant to this man. My mother knelt beside me, her beautiful silk robe pooling around us on the floor. Her hands, smelling of jasmine lotion, trembled as she pressed a tissue onto my bleeding lip. "Father, please," I begged, looking up at him through tears that made his figure blur. "I don't want to marry him. Anyone else. Please, anyone else, just not him. You said it yourself, he's cruel, he's cold-blooded. Those are not rumors, Father." "Anyone else?" he scoffed. "Who? A college boy with no future? You are a Giuliani. You don't get to marry for love. You marry for the family." "You want me to be like Mom?" I sobbed, turning to her. "Is that what you want? To break me until I don't speak? It took you years to teach her obedience, right? That's what you said!" My mother's eyes filled with tears. For a second, I saw all of her pain, all of her twenty-five years of silent dinners and forced smiles, reflected back to me. "Sofia, go back to your room," she whispered, her voice breaking. She tried to wipe the blood from my chin. "Do you think I should go through with it?" I grabbed her lace sleeve. "Mom, tell me. Do you think I should marry him?" She closed her eyes. A single tear rolled down her perfectly powdered cheek. "Your father has made up his mind," she said. It was the only truth she was allowed to tell. That was it. That was my life. Decided over whiskey at one in the morning while I bled on the rug in my nightgown. "Go to your room!" my father thundered again, straightening his suit jacket as if he had just finished a difficult negotiation. "Don't come out until I call you! And you will be ready in one week. Your aunt will bring the dress." I didn't run. I walked. Every step up the grand, sweeping staircase was agony. My bare feet left faint, damp prints on the marble. My white nightgown was stained with a tiny spot of red. My older brother, Angelo, was waiting at the top of the stairs in the shadows. Angelo Giuliani, sixteen years old, already in my father's image with his expensive polo shirt and his worried frown. He saw my face. "Sofia? Jesus, what happened?" He reached for me. I flinched away from him. I couldn't stand to be touched by any man in this house. I ran into my room and locked my bedroom door. I slid down to the floor, my back against it, my knees pulled to my chest, and I finally broke. I sobbed until my throat was raw, until my shoulders shook, until the blood and tears mixed on my face. I sobbed for the girl I had been yesterday, who thought she had a chance to be more than a bargaining chip. On my desk, under the soft glow of my lamp, my multiple swimming medals caught the light. My future, my escape plan, my proof that I was something more than just pretty and obedient. I picked up the frame and held it to my chest. In a week, I won't be Sofia Giuliani, the girl who wanted to go to Columbia, the girl who wanted to swim for her country. In a week, I will be Sofia Gonzalez. And I was terrified that I would never feel safe in my own skin ever again.