I hate you Mr mafia

Chapter 3

The silence of the master suite was louder than any scream. Left alone in the sprawling, charcoal-silk expanse of Balthazar’s bedroom, Isadora finally collapsed under the weight of her reality. She slid off the velvet armchair and onto the cold marble floor, pulling her knees tightly against her chest as if she could physically hold the shattered pieces of her life together.

​A tremor started in her hands—still dusted with the faint, mocking residue of flour from La Luna de Azúcar—and quickly racked her entire body. The physical pain was a dull, throbbing ache at the base of her skull where the sedative had done its work, but the psychological terror was a suffocating, living thing. Every breath she drew felt heavy, coated in the scent of cedar, expensive leather, and the dangerous, clean aroma of the man who had stolen her.

​She stared at the massive floor-to-ceiling glass wall. Outside, the jagged peaks of the Sierra Nevada looked like black teeth biting into the moonlit sky. She was high up, trapped in a fortress carved into the very stone of Andalusia. If she ran, where would she go? The gates were guarded by men with assault rifles. If she screamed, only the mountain wind would answer.

​The sheer violation of it made her stomach heave. Hours ago, she was a normal nineteen-year-old girl, worried about the rising price of Madagascar vanilla and the squeak in her shop’s display case. Now, she was an "anchor." A political shield. A captive queen. Tears, hot and furious, finally scalded her cheeks. She wept for her quiet, beautiful life, for her parents' legacy that now sat dark and abandoned in a Granada alley, and for the terrifying certainty that Balthazar Valiente meant every single word he said. He hadn't just stolen her body; he had overwritten her existence.

​Two floors below, down a grand staircase lined with tapestries that had witnessed centuries of bloodshed, the atmosphere was entirely different. The "Salón de Oro" was no longer empty. Don Maximilian Valiente sat in his high-backed oak chair, the heavy gold ring of the Rey resting on the table before him like a dropped gauntlet. Beside him stood his brother, Faustus, and the matriarch of the family, Donna Catalina—Maximilian’s sister—a woman whose cold glare had frozen men in their tracks long before Balthazar was ever born.

​The heavy double doors swung open, and Balthazar walked in, his midnight-blue suit pristine, his expression an unreadable mask of stone. Caspian followed a few paces behind, a glass of amber whiskey already in his hand, his demeanor deliberately casual to mask the tension tightening his shoulders.

​"You have lost your mind," Donna Catalina spoke first, her voice a whip cracking in the silent room. She didn't rise from her chair, but her posture was rigid with aristocratic fury. "A baker, Balthazar? A girl who smells of yeast and cheap sugar? You dare insult the Council, your father, and the bloodline of this family by dragging a common street dog into our sanctuary?"

​Balthazar didn't flinch. He walked to the foot of the table, resting his large hands on the carved oak, leaning slightly forward. His icy grey eyes locked onto his aunt. "The 'street dog,' Aunt Catalina, is the woman who will ensure I take the crown without a knife in my back from the Italians or the Russians. Choose your words carefully when speaking of my future wife."

​"Wife!" Don Faustus slammed his fist onto the table, his face mottled with rage. "It is an insult! The Code of the Crown demands an alliance. The Colombo family in Milan has already offered their eldest daughter. The Romanov faction in Marbella is waiting for a contract. A marriage with either would secure our northern distribution routes for a generation. And you cast them aside for a nonentity? A nobody?"

​"She is exactly what I need because she is a nobody," Balthazar replied, his voice dropping into that dangerous, low gravelly rumble that made even the seasoned dons in the room shift uncomfortably. "An alliance with Milan means a Milanese spy in my bed. An alliance with Marbella means a Romanov dagger at my throat while I sleep. You wanted me tethered, Faustus. You argued that a man with nothing to lose cannot be trusted with the empire. I have given you an anchor. She has no family to manipulate us, no syndicates to back her, and no political ambition. Her loyalty will belong to me, and me alone."

​"Loyalty cannot be bred from a kidnapping, boy," Faustus spat, sneering. "She will hate you. She will look for any opportunity to poison your food or slip a razor across your throat."

​"Let her try," Balthazar said smoothly, a dark, fleeting smirk touching his lips. "It will keep life interesting."

​"Enough," Maximilian’s voice resonated through the room, cutting through the bickering like a thunderclap.

​The room fell completely silent. The old patriarch looked at his eldest son, his sharp, hawk-like eyes scanning Balthazar’s face, searching for any sign of weakness, any hint that this was a impulsive whim rather than a calculated maneuver. Maximilian leaned back, intertwining his fingers.

​"You did this to spite the Council," Maximilian stated, it wasn't a question. "You saw them trying to turn you into a puppet, and you cut the strings before they could even tie them."

​"I did what was necessary to protect the sovereignty of the Valiente name," Balthazar answered respectfully, though his posture remained unyielding. "If I marry into the secondary families, the crown is compromised from day one. I will rule as a absolute king, Father. Not as a chairman of a divided board."

​Donna Catalina stood up, the silk of her black gown rustling sharply. "And what of her upbringing? She knows nothing of our customs, nothing of the discretion required to run an empire of this scale. The media, the political circles we bribe—they will look at her and see a fraud. They will see your weakness, Balthazar. They will think the Valiente line has gone soft, marrying the help."

​"She is not the help," Caspian chimed in, taking a slow sip of his whiskey as he leaned against a marble pillar. "To be fair, Aunt Catalina, the girl has spine. When Balthazar took off his mask, she didn't beg for her life. She told him she had to bake croissants in the morning and called him a monster. Personally, I think she’s a breath of fresh air compared to the plastic princesses of Milan who faint at the sight of a broken fingernail."

​"Silence, Caspian," Catalina snapped, glare shifting to the younger brother. "This is not a game. The Russian syndicates are already probing our vulnerabilities in Marbella. If they sense dissent within the family, if they see the new Rey marrying a peasant out of sheer arrogance, they will strike."

​"Let them strike," Balthazar said, his voice turning into an icy blade. "My enforcers are bored. A few bodies in the Mediterranean will remind Marbella who owns the coast. I am naming her my Queen, and the wedding will proceed in three weeks. The Council will attend, they will bring their tributes, and they will bow to her. Anyone who refuses will be handled by Caspian."

​Caspian offered a mock salute with his whiskey glass. "With pleasure."

​Don Faustus looked at Maximilian, desperation entering his voice. "Maximilian, you cannot allow this. Overrule him. Use your veto as the reigning Rey. If he marries this girl, the Council will fracture. We cannot guarantee the loyalty of the northern borders."

​Maximilian remained silent for a long moment, his gaze shifting from Faustus, to his sister, and finally settling on Balthazar. The old man took a deep breath, the heavy gold ring on the table catching the light of the chandelier.

​"The Code states that the successor must choose a wife to solidify his foundation," Maximilian said slowly, his voice heavy with the weight of thirty years of rule. "It does not explicitly state that the wife must carry a noble name. It states she must be a woman of foundation. Balthazar has made his choice. If he fails to manage her, if she becomes a liability, the blood will be on his hands. But I will not overrule the man I just named as the next Rey."

​Faustus gasped, his face turning pale. "Maximilian—"

​"The matter is decided," Maximilian declared, standing up. The sheer aura of his authority deflated any further rebellion in the room. "The wedding will happen in three weeks. Catalina, you will oversee her transformation. If she is to wear the Valiente crown, she must look the part, regardless of where she came from. Teach her our laws, teach her our history, and ensure she does not embarrass this house."

​Catalina’s eyes narrowed into slits as she looked at Balthazar. "I will break her spirit before I put a dress on her, Balthazar. Do not complain to me when she is no longer the fiery little creature you stole from Granada."

​"You can try, Aunt Catalina," Balthazar replied, his voice entirely unbothered. "But I think you will find she is harder to break than you think."

​Back upstairs, Isadora had dragged herself to the glass wall, staring down at the sweeping courtyard below. She saw the sleek black SUV parked near the entrance, a stark reminder of the speed at which her life had been derailed. Her mind was a chaotic storm of escape plans, each one more unrealistic than the last. Jump from the balcony? The drop was a lethal fifty feet down into jagged rocks. Hide in a delivery vehicle? She didn't even know the schedule.

​A sharp, metallic click broke her out of her thoughts.

​The heavy oak doors swung open. Isadora bolted to her feet, her chest heaving, her hands instinctively curling into fists as she braced herself for Balthazar’s return.

​But it wasn't the giant in the midnight-blue suit who entered.

​An older woman stepped into the room, flanked by two formidable-looking maids in matching grey uniforms. The woman was dressed in a flawless, severe black gown, her silver-streaked hair pulled back into a bun so tight it pulled the skin of her cheekbones taut. Her dark eyes swept over Isadora with an expression of profound, unadulterated disgust.

​Isadora shrank back slightly, but she refused to lower her gaze. "Who are you?"

​Donna Catalina didn't answer immediately. She walked slowly into the center of the room, circling Isadora like a vulture examining a piece of carrion. She stopped a few feet away, her nose wrinkling slightly.

​"You smell of common labor," Catalina said, her voice dripping with aristocrat venom. "Look at your hands. Red, calloused, ruined by manual work. And your posture... you stand like a peasant waiting for a handout."

​"I am a baker," Isadora snapped, terror giving way to a sudden, defensive rage. She hated these people. She hated their wealth, their arrogance, and their casual cruelty. "I work for a living. I don't steal people from their homes because I'm too afraid to face my own problems."

​One of the maids stepped forward, her hand moving toward a concealed weapon beneath her apron, but Catalina held up a sharp, manicured hand, stopping her.

​"You have tongue, I see," Catalina murmured, her eyes narrowing. "Balthazar thinks it is fire. I think it is merely ignorance. Let me make one thing entirely clear to you, girl. You are not here because you are special. You are not here because my nephew loves you. You are a tool. A political shield used to deny the secondary families their rightful place at the table."

​The words, though cruel, confirmed what Balthazar had told her in the car. Isadora swallowed the lump in her throat. "If I'm just a tool, let me go. Tell him I ran away. Tell him I'm not worth the trouble."

​Catalina let out a cold, humorless laugh. "Nothing leaves this estate unless Balthazar allows it. You belong to him now, a captive bird in a cage of gold. But as long as you are in this house, you will not embarrass the Valiente name. Tomorrow, your training begins. You will learn how to walk, how to speak, how to eat, and how to hold your head like a queen of the underworld. If you resist, if you cry, or if you attempt to escape... I will make sure the consequences are felt by every single person you ever smiled at in Granada."

​Isadora’s heart seized. The threat to Elena, to her neighbors—it was the same lever Balthazar had used. These people were a hive of vipers, all using the same venom.

​"You're all monsters," Isadora whispered, her voice trembling as she backed away until her spine hit the cold glass wall.

​"We are rulers," Catalina corrected coldly, turning her back on Isadora. "And you will learn to obey us. Maids, strip her of those filthy clothes. Bathe her, dress her in something befitting this room, and lock the doors from the outside. She is not to leave this room until I summon her tomorrow morning."

​"Yes, Donna Catalina," the maids chanted in unison.

​As the older woman swept out of the room, the two maids advanced on Isadora. She wanted to fight, she wanted to scream and claw at their faces, but as she looked at their cold, emotionless eyes, a profound, crushing exhaustion washed over her. The pain in her head, the terror in her heart, and the sheer hopelessness of her situation finally broke through her defenses.

​She allowed them to lead her away, her body moving like a puppet on strings, while her mind retreated deep inside itself, clinging desperately to the faint, fading memory of the scent of fresh bread and the warm, golden sun of Granada.