Sold To My Enemy, Married To The Mafia King

The first time Alessandro De Luca offered to buy my freedom, my father was the one who named the price. “Twelve million euros,” Father said, his voice trembling. “That is what I owe.” I stood outside his office, my hand frozen around the door handle. Twelve million euros? Our family had money. We had property, businesses, and a mansion overlooking one of Milan's most expensive streets. We had never needed to worry about the price of anything. At least, that was what I had believed. “And what do you have left to offer me, Vittorio?” a deep voice asked. I knew that voice. Every Moretti knew the name Alessandro De Luca. He was the man Father had warned me never to trust, the ruthless head of the family our own had despised for years. I should have walked away. Instead, I pushed the door open. Alessandro sat opposite my father, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit. His dark hair was neatly styled, and his cold eyes lifted to meet mine without the slightest hint of surprise. He looked as though he had expected me. “Valentina,” Father said sharply. “You should be upstairs.” “I think I've heard enough to know why you're hiding in here with our enemy.” Father's face tightened. Alessandro, however, leaned back in his chair. “Your father has been trying to solve a problem he should have brought to me months ago.” I laughed bitterly. “And you expect me to believe you're here to help?” “No,” he replied. “I expect you to listen before deciding what to believe.” His calmness irritated me more than an insult would have. I stepped farther into the office. “What does he owe you?” “Nothing. Not yet.” The answer stopped me. Alessandro placed a folder on the desk and turned it toward me. Inside were financial statements, overdue loan notices, and documents showing that several of our business accounts had been frozen. My stomach tightened. These weren't rumors or temporary difficulties. The Moretti shipping empire was in serious trouble. “How long has this been happening?” I asked my father. He looked away. “How long?” “Six months,” he admitted. For six months, Father had watched our family approach disaster while allowing me to believe everything was fine. I felt something inside me harden. “And you didn't think I deserved to know?” “I was trying to protect you.” “From the truth?” He had no answer. Alessandro watched our exchange in silence. I hated that he was witnessing this private humiliation, but I hated even more that he possessed information my own father had withheld. I turned toward him. “What do you want?” His expression remained unreadable. “You.” For a moment, I thought I had misunderstood him. “Excuse me?” “I will settle your father's outstanding debts, prevent the immediate collapse of his legitimate businesses, and ensure your family doesn't lose everything.” “And in exchange?” “You will marry me.” Silence filled the office. Then I laughed. I couldn't help it. The alternative was to scream. “You cannot be serious.” “I have never been more serious about anything.” “You expect me to marry you because my father made terrible business decisions?” “I expect you to consider an arrangement that benefits both families.” “Both families?” I repeated. “You want to marry a Moretti. Your relatives would rather see me buried than sitting at your dinner table.” “Some of them might.” He said it so casually that my laughter died. “And you don't care?” “I care about what happens to you.” The words unsettled me. There was no warmth in his expression, no tenderness that might have explained them. Yet he didn't look at me as though I were merely a convenient bargaining chip. He looked at me as if he knew something I didn't. I folded my arms. “Why me?” “Because I am offering you a choice.” “A choice?” I glanced at the financial documents. “You know my family is drowning in debt. You know my father is desperate. How is that a choice?” “Then negotiate better terms.” His answer caught me off guard. I had expected arrogance, perhaps even a threat. Instead, he was inviting me to challenge him. I wasn't foolish enough to mistake that for kindness. Still, I refused to let him believe he had already won. “Suppose I say no?” “Your father's creditors will continue pursuing their claims. The businesses may be sold, and your family will have to face the consequences of its debts.” “And you would do nothing?” “I would respect your decision.” I searched his face for a lie. “Why?” “Because I will not drag an unwilling woman to the altar.” For the first time since entering the room, I didn't know what to say. Alessandro De Luca was feared throughout Milan. Stories about his temper, his enemies, and the ruthless way he handled betrayal circulated through the city. Yet here he was, offering me a way out without threatening to force me into it. That didn't make him trustworthy. It made him harder to understand. I turned to my father. “Did you agree to this?” His silence answered me. “You agreed to sell your daughter.” “Valentina, please.” “No. Don't ask me to understand. You should have told me the truth before bringing him here.” “I was trying to save this family.” “By sacrificing me?” Father's eyes filled with regret, but regret could not undo what he had done. I walked toward the door. “Valentina,” Alessandro called. I stopped without turning around. “You have twenty-four hours to consider my offer.” “I don't need twenty-four hours to know I hate you.” “Hatred is not a decision.” I glanced over my shoulder. “Neither is desperation a good reason to get married.” For the first time, something almost resembling amusement crossed his face. “Then make your decision for a better reason.” I left before he could say anything else. I spent the next hour in my bedroom, staring at the city through the tall windows. My thoughts kept returning to the financial documents. Twelve million euros was not a debt that appeared overnight. Someone had made decisions that brought us here, and Father had allowed me to remain ignorant. But Alessandro's proposal troubled me for another reason. He could have demanded control of the remaining businesses. He could have purchased our debts through creditors and forced Father into an arrangement. Instead, he wanted to marry me. Why? My phone vibrated on the bed. An unknown number. I nearly ignored it, but a photograph appeared beneath the notification. It showed me leaving a café near my office two days earlier. I zoomed in. A black car was parked across the street. Its windows were tinted, making it impossible to see inside. Another message arrived. YOU SHOULD ASK YOUR FATHER WHAT YOUR MOTHER DISCOVERED BEFORE SHE DIED. My fingers went cold. My mother, Elena, had died when I was thirteen. Father always said it had been a tragic accident, and although I had questioned him when I was younger, he had refused to discuss it. I had learned to live with the unanswered questions. Now a stranger was telling me that her death had something to do with my family's financial troubles. I called the number. It was switched off. I stared at the photograph again, searching for anything that might identify the person who had taken it. Then I noticed the reflection in the café window. A man stood several metres behind me, his face turned toward the camera. I couldn't make out his features, but I was certain I hadn't seen him that day. Someone had been following me. For how long? I hurried to the bedroom door and locked it. My heart was beating too fast, and suddenly the mansion felt less like a home than a place where secrets had been carefully buried. I returned to the photograph and saved it. Whatever was happening, I needed answers. And I knew exactly where to begin. I found Father in the library that evening, standing beside the fireplace with a glass of untouched whisky in his hand. He looked older than he had that morning. “I received a message,” I said. His fingers tightened around the glass. “What message?” I showed him the photograph and the words beneath it. The color drained from his face. For several seconds, he said nothing. Then he placed the glass on the mantelpiece. “Delete it.” I stared at him. “What?” “Delete the message, Valentina.” “Someone is following me, and they're talking about Mama. You don't get to tell me to delete it without explaining why.” He crossed the room and lowered his voice. “You don't understand what you're getting involved in.” “Then explain it to me.” “I can't.” “Or you won't?” His eyes flickered toward the library door. That small movement frightened me more than his words. “Listen to me carefully,” he said. “If anyone asks you about your mother, you know nothing. Do you understand?” “No, I don't understand. Mama has been dead for twelve years. Why would anyone suddenly care about something she discovered?” Father gripped my shoulders. “Because some people will destroy anything that threatens them.” I pulled away. “Who?” He swallowed. “Rafael Conti.” The name meant little to me beyond a handful of business headlines and rumors about his connections to powerful people. “What does he have to do with Mama?” “Stay away from him.” “That isn't an answer.” “It is the only one I can give you.” I looked at the man who had raised me, searching for the father I remembered—the one who used to tell me that nothing could happen to our family as long as we stood together. I barely recognized him. “You've already made one decision about my future without asking me,” I said. “Don't make another by expecting me to remain ignorant.” I walked out of the library. For the first time, I understood that my father's financial collapse might be only one part of a much larger disaster. And somewhere in Milan, someone believed my mother's death was a secret worth killing to protect. At midnight, I sat on the edge of my bed and opened Alessandro's business card. I had kept it after our meeting, though I couldn't explain why. I could refuse his proposal and pretend that my life would return to normal. Or I could accept that normal had already disappeared. I didn't trust Alessandro De Luca. I didn't trust my father, either. But Alessandro knew something about the danger surrounding me. Whether he understood the whole truth or not, he was the only person who had openly acknowledged it. My phone vibrated again. This time, there was no photograph. Only seven words. YOUR MOTHER'S DEATH WAS NO ACCIDENT. I stared at the screen until the words blurred. Then I picked up Alessandro's card and dialed the number printed on it. He answered before the second ring. “I was wondering when you'd call,” he said. “I haven't agreed to marry you.” “I know.” “But I want the truth about my mother.” Silence settled between us. When Alessandro finally spoke, his voice had lost its earlier amusement. “Then come to my office tomorrow morning, Valentina.” “Will you tell me what you know?” “I'll tell you what I can prove.” It wasn't the promise I wanted. But it was the first honest answer anyone had given me all day. I ended the call and looked out at the lights of Milan. By morning, I would be standing in the office of the man I had been raised to hate, negotiating a marriage that could save my family—or destroy what remained of it. I had no idea whether Alessandro De Luca would become my greatest enemy or the only person I could trust. But I was going to discover the truth about my mother. And whoever had been following me had just made one very dangerous mistake. They had given me a reason to fight back.