Married To The Mafia Devil

Chapter 2

(Alessia PoV)

Flashback

I was sixteen when I first realized how much of my life had been carefully guarded. My father made sure I never felt the harshness of the outside world. He built me a safety net where his eyes were always watching, not out of distrust, but of something heavier—something I never understood back then. I never knew that there was a dark side he was protecting me from.

I remember a night in particular. My father had just come home from a meeting. His jacket remained well ironed, but his eyes looked like storms. He sat down at the dining table across from me while I played with my sketchbook.

“Did you eat already, Alessia?” he asked, his voice was always gentler with me than with anyone else.

“I waited,” I said, smiling. “Dinner is not the same without you.”

He exhaled and smiled, relaxed. And for a moment I thought the world was safe simply because he was sitting across from me.

We ate in silence for a while, interrupted only by the sound of our forks on the plate. Then, like always, he asked, “What did you paint today?”

My face lit up. “A river dad. But not a real one. The river starts from the sky, like it’s falling straight from the stars. And the water… it’s not blue. It's silver papa like your hair.”

My father chuckled softly, shaking his head. “One day, you’ll show the world your paintings, and they will forget reality for a moment.”

“One day,” I whispered, though at the time I wasn’t sure I believed it. My painting was my safe space, not something I thought could belong to anyone else.

That was my life then. Painting, my father’s quiet love, and the beginning of something tender with Ethan.

Oh Ethan.

The first time I saw him, I was painting on the back porch. He walked by with his friends, laughing at something I couldn’t hear. His laugh warm and open, the kind that didn’t belong to boys spoilt and arrogant boys. It sounded gentle and kind.

He slowed when he saw me and tilted his head. “What are you drawing?”

I looked up, startled. No one ever asked about my drawings, except from my father.

“A dream,” I said honestly, because that was what it was.

He squinted at the canvas and then grinned. “Looks like a field of fireflies.”

“They’re not fireflies,” I corrected, smiling despite myself. “They’re stars. Stars that fell from the sky and decided not to go back.”

He blinked at me, then laughed. “That’s… actually kind of amazing.”

From then on, Ethan found excuses to linger. Everytime he passed by my porch, he pretends that he's forgotten something nearby, and asks about my painting.

When we finally started dating, I told Papa about him during dinner.

“He’s just… nice,” I said carefully, afraid Papa would frown. The way he did whenever boys looked at me too long. “He asks about my paintings and he listens to me.”

Papa looked at me for a long time, “And do you like this boy?”

I hesitated, my cheeks went red. “I… think so.”

Something flashed his eyes. It wasn’t anger, but wasn’t ease either. He leaned back, and set his fork down slowly.

“Alessia,” he said softly, “the world is not as kind as it seems in your paintings. People are not always who they pretend to be.”

“I know,” I said quickly, but i didn’t, not really. I never knew that he was preparing me for something. “But he’s different daddy. You’ll see.”

He didn’t answer. He just reached across the table, and placed his palm over mine. His hands felt warm and steady, but heavy. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”

I promised, and that was enough for him. At least, he made it seem like it was.

Ethan became my first secret, the only thing I didn’t tell Papa in full detail. I told him just enough—Ethan made me laugh, he liked my paintings and that sometimes he walked me home. What I didn't tell him was how my heart skipped when Ethan brushed my hand, or how he whispers in my ears.

“Alessia,” Ethan said one evening leaning close. “You’re… different.”

I laughed nervously. “Different? How?”

“You see things the rest of us don’t. It's like you’re living in a painting and the rest of us are just out there in the world.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. So I smiled, letting the silence fill the space.

However, even in those golden days, I sometimes caught Papa looking at me like he wanted to say something, like he had a secret he was hiding.

“Papa?” I asked one night as we sat by the fire. He was reading the paper, his glasses hanging loosely on his nose.

“Yes, Alessia?”

“Why do you always look at me like… like you’re afraid I’ll disappear?”

The paper crinkled as he folded it. He took a long breath, then shook his head with a small smile. “Because you’re my treasure, Alessia. And treasures must be protected.”

I accepted that then. I didn’t know it was a warning, whispered in plain sight. To me, nothing bad could ever crawl into our home.

The Moretti estate wasn’t a palace, but it was my home, my sanctuary. Our garden bloomed with wild poppies and lavender tangled together in a messy, fragrant chaos and I’d sit there with my sketchbook balanced on my knees and a spare pencil stuck inbetween my ears. Sometimes covered in paint. Painting or drawing something new until the buzzing bees distracted me.

The garden was mine. A place where my father let my heart beat to its own rhythm rather than constantly watching me. But he couldn't help himself.

“Alessia,” he would call from the balcony, his voice both stern and soft, “don’t sit out too long so you won't get a sun burn.”

I’d look up, shading my eyes, to see his tall figure looking down on me. He never smiled too wide, but his eyes lit up with love when he looked at me.

“I’ll come in soon!” I would shout back but we both knew that soon could mean hours and he'd let me be. That was his way of loving me. A love woven from quiet indulgence and unspoken rules.

Sometimes, Ethan would slip into the garden like he belonged there even though he didn't. One time he leaned over peering at my sketchpad with mock seriousness. “That flower looks like it’s about to cry,” he teased, pointing at my uneven daisy.

“It’s called impressionism,” I argued, hugging the sketchbook to my chest. “You can't understand.”

“Impressionism?” He grinned, flashing his dimples. “Looks more like you fell asleep with the pencil on the page.”

I laughed so hard that I smudged my pencil ink cross my cheek. Ethan reached out instinctively to wipe it away. I froze, caught by the brush of his thumb against my skin.

Neither of us said anything after that—not for a long while.

My father tolerated Ethan presence, nothing more. He didn't really like him, but to me, Ethan was my life. My father would sometimes watch us from the distance, with something unreadable in his expression.

“You trust him too easily,” he once murmured when Ethan left.

“Because he’s kind,” I replied.

“Kindness can change.”

I frowned at him, “Not Ethan. He’ll never change.”

Father looked at me with that heaviness again, the kind that casted shadows across his features. “You remind me too much of your mother,” he whispered, almost to himself.

I wanted to ask what he meant. But he never told me. And I never pushed. Those were the days when everything was soft. When I believed that life would only expand outward and never collapse.

But memory is cruel.

Because now, every time I revisit that warmth, I see the cracks I ignored. My father’s silences. His watchful eyes. The way he sometimes held me tighter than necessary, as though bracing himself for a loss only he foresaw.

And Ethan… my Ethan. I remember the way his hand lingered against mine. The way his voice broke the night he promised he’d always protect me—a promise he couldn’t keep.

The flash of lightning in the storm dragged me back. I was no longer the girl I used to be—safe, naïve, full of dreams—all I saw right now was the woman stumbling through the rain in her wedding dress.

I closed my eyes, and I couldn't feel the brush in my hand, hear my father humming a tune I didn’t recognize in the kitchen and even taste the honey tea Ethan brought me when I painted too long and forgot to eat.

I thought my life would remain love and art, instead, it became cages, chains and choices. My world ended when my father was taken away. That was when my carefully guarded life came crushing down around me.