THE MAFIA'S NEW BRIDE

SMILING THROUGH IT

"You'll need this tonight," Marco said the next morning, sliding a small velvet box across the breakfast table without looking up from his phone.

Nora opened it, cautious, and found a bracelet inside, diamonds, understated but obviously expensive, the kind of thing that probably cost more than her father's entire debt combined.

"What's tonight?"

"A dinner. Business associates, a few investors, people whose opinion of this family matters." He finally looked up, eyes assessing her the same clinical way he had that very first day in this apartment. "You'll need to look the part."

"The part."

"My wife." He said it flat, like reading a job description. "Composed. Presentable. Don't discuss anything about your family's situation if asked. Smile when appropriate."

Nora closed the velvet box with a soft, deliberate click.

"Anything else, sir?" she asked, sharp enough that his eyes narrowed slightly.

"Nora—"

"I heard you." She stood, taking the box with her, refusing to let him see how much the whole exchange had stung. "Composed. Presentable. Smile when appropriate. Got it."

She didn't wait for his response.

The restaurant was the kind of place where the lighting was dimmed just enough to flatter everyone in it, low murmurs of conversation blending into the soft clink of expensive silverware. Nora wore the bracelet, the dress Della had insisted was appropriate, and a smile that felt increasingly like a mask pinned in place with sheer effort.

Elena was there, of course. Seated close, laughing easily with two older men Nora didn't recognize, one hand occasionally resting on the table near Marco's without ever quite touching him, close enough to suggest something, far enough to deny it if questioned.

"Mrs. Reyes." One of the men turned to her partway through the appetizers, a polite smile, but sharp eyes, assessing. "Marco tells us almost nothing about you. Very mysterious."

"Nothing much to say," Nora said carefully. "I'm just settling in."

"Settling in." He repeated it slowly, like turning a strange object over in his hands. "And what did you do before? Settling in from where, exactly?"

Nora felt the table's attention shift toward her, subtle but unmistakable, half a dozen pairs of eyes suddenly very interested in her answer.

"I worked," she said simply. "Helped my family."

"Ah." Something flickered across his face, not unkind exactly, but faintly amused, the way you'd be amused by something small and unexpectedly out of place. "How charming."

Elena's laugh was soft, musical, perfectly timed. "Isn't it? Marco's always had a soft spot for charity, in his own way."

The table laughed, light and easy, the kind of laugh designed to sound harmless while landing exactly where it was aimed.

Nora's face burned, but she kept her smile fixed, kept her spine straight, refused to let a single c***k show through. Composed. Presentable. Smile when appropriate. Right.

"I think what Elena means," said another woman further down the table, smiling very sweetly, "is that it's just so refreshing, seeing someone new in these circles. Someone real. You must find all of this so overwhelming."

"A bit," Nora admitted, keeping her voice even. "Though I'm sure I'll manage."

"I'm sure you will." Elena's smile widened, sharp and pretty. "You clearly know how to make the most of an opportunity, at least."

Something ugly twisted in Nora's stomach, the insult clear enough now that even the polite laughter around the table felt like it had teeth in it.

She looked at Marco, some small, desperate part of her, hoping he'd step in, say something, shut it down the way he'd shut Elena down so quickly and completely in that midnight sitting room.

He didn't.

He sat there, jaw tight, eyes fixed somewhere just past her shoulder, saying absolutely nothing at all.

He was letting this happen. The realization landed like a physical blow, worse somehow than anything Elena or the others had actually said.

"So, Nora." One of the investors leaned forward, refilling his wine with an easy, practiced motion. "What exactly do you bring to this marriage, if you don't mind my asking? Marco's always been careful about who he associates with. Business, personal, doesn't much matter to him. Everyone's always wondered what the exception would be."

The table went quiet, waiting, the question hanging there sharp and deliberate, clearly meant to expose exactly how little she had to offer compared to everyone else in the room.

Nora felt her throat tighten, humiliation crawling hot up the back of her neck.

Say something. Anything. Don't just sit here and let them pick you apart.

"I think," she said, her voice steadier than she felt, "That's a question for Marco, not me. He's the one who decided I was worth marrying."

A beat of silence. Then, unexpectedly, the older man at the head of the table actually laughed, real and surprised.

"Fair point," he said. "Well played."

But the moment had already cracked something open in her, and she felt it the whole rest of dinner. Every polite smile a little too sharp, every question a little too pointed, every glance from Elena dripping with quiet, satisfied victory.

Marco said nothing to defend her. Not once. Not through the entire meal.

The car ride home was silent, the same heavy silence as the wedding night, except now it carried something new underneath it, a betrayal Nora hadn't expected to feel this deeply, not from a man who'd never once pretended to love her.

"You could've said something," she said finally, staring straight ahead, refusing to look at him.

"About what?"

"About what?" She turned to face him now, disbelief sharpening her voice. "Marco, they spent the entire dinner picking me apart. Calling me a charity case. Practically asking me to justify my own existence at that table, and you just sat there."

"Getting involved would've made it worse."

"Worse than what? Worse than sitting there humiliated while my own husband says absolutely nothing?"

"Those people," he said, low, controlled, "matter to this business. Reacting emotionally in front of them—"

"Emotionally?" Her voice cracked, sharp and furious now. "You think defending your own wife counts as an emotional overreaction?"

He didn't answer. Just stared straight ahead, jaw tight, hands gripping the wheel a little harder than necessary.

"You know what, forget it." She turned back toward the window, blinking hard against the sudden sting of tears she refused to let fall in front of him. "I get it. I'm a decoration. I'm a debt paid off in a white dress, exactly like I thought. Don't worry, Marco. I won't expect anything different from you again."

The rest of the ride passed in silence.

She didn't see the way his hand tightened further on the wheel. Didn't see the flicker of something raw and conflicted crossing his face when he thought she wasn't looking.

She didn't see any of it, because she'd stopped looking for it entirely.

And when they finally arrived home, she was out of the car and through the front door before he'd even fully parked, moving fast toward her room, needing distance, needing walls between them before whatever was building in her chest finally broke wide open.

She didn't make it all the way there.

Camila was waiting just inside the entryway, pale, urgent, phone clutched tight in one shaking hand.

"Nora." Her voice was tight with something close to panic. "It's your father. Something's happened."