Ruthless: The Mafia Lord's Psychic Bride

“I'd kill for a sandwich,” Sylvia thought, her stomach growling. But she ignored it, keeping her head low as she scanned the marketplace for the easiest target to beg from—or, if it came to it, steal from. She sat cross-legged on the curb, a thin girl with messy hair and a sweater two sizes too small. The sleeves were ripped. Her jeans were torn at the knees. Pitiable? Yeah. Innocent-looking? Not even close. “Are you hungry?” "Jesus!" She flinched, jerking around to see a man crouched beside her. He wore a black cassock, a rosary tucked neatly into his belt. Silver hair framed a kind face, and in one hand he held a leather-bound Bible, in the other, a paper bag. Sylvia eyed him like he might explode. The priest extended the bag toward her, and the smell of roasted meat and fresh bread hit her hard. “Go ahead,” he said gently. “It’s yours.” Her fingers hovered over the bag, her hunger screaming. But she didn’t take it. Nothing on these streets came free. “Why?” she asked. “Because you look like you need it.” The priest smiled. “You don't have to be afraid. I try to help however I can. So help me God.” Still cautious, she reached out and snatched the bag, pulling it close. She tore off a chunk of bread and ate fast, but her eyes never left him. “What’s your name?” he asked. She chewed slowly, considering. “Sylvia,” she muttered. “Well, Sylvia,” the priest said kindly, “you shouldn’t be out here alone. This city can be cruel—especially for someone your age.” She didn’t answer. But something about the way he said it made her stomach twist. “How old are you?” “Twelve,” she lied. He tilted his head. “Where are your parents?” The question hit her like a slap. She dropped her gaze. “Gone.” His expression softened. “I’m sorry to hear that. But listen, you don’t have to stay out here. I could take you somewhere safe. Somewhere warm.” Her grip on the bag tightened. She’d heard that line before. The last time someone said “safe place,” she was eight. It was the orphanage. Her life there was worse than living in the streets. The food was bland, the rules were suffocating, and she didn’t feel like a human being. Just a case file waiting to be closed. It got worse when Marilyn—her closest friend—was adopted. Just like that, she was gone. Sylvia told herself it didn’t matter, but it did. Everything changed after that. Rachel and Dorcas, the oldest girls in the orphanage, turned on her. They used to just roll their eyes at her. Now, they had a new toy to break. They stole her blanket, knocked her bowl to the floor, laughed as she cleaned it up. Pinched her when no one was looking. Spread lies to the nuns. She told on them. Nobody cared. Sister Agnes, the only nun she had even a shred of hope in, just scolded her. "How do you expect to get adopted with behavior like this?" Sylvia had stood there, fists clenched, jaw tight, fighting back everything she wanted to scream. That was the day she stopped hoping. She wasn’t going to wait around for someone to “choose” her. So she ran. She planned it for weeks. Then one night, she was gone. And now this priest—this man with his soft eyes and gentle voice—was talking about a safe place? No way. “No!” she snapped, backing up fast. Her eyes burned with distrust. “You think I’m stupid?” The priest sighed. Shifted his weight. That’s when she heard it—a voice. But it wasn’t from his lips. °Poor child. I just want to help. Maybe give her some money and food . . . though Father Michael says I’m too trusting. What if this girl’s trouble too? What if something goes wrong again?° Sylvia blinked. It wasn’t her imagination. She’d heard that thought like it was spoken aloud—except it hadn’t been. His lips hadn’t moved. She looked at him closer. “What did you say?” she asked, her voice sharper than she intended. The priest frowned, though slightly. “I didn’t say anything.” “No . . . you said Father Michael thinks you’re too trusting,” Sylvia pressed. The man’s brow furrowed. “How do you know that?” Her heart raced. “You just told me,” she insisted. “I didn’t,” he replied, his voice low with confusion. But then his thoughts came again, unbidden and clear as a bell: °What is she talking about? Is this girl possessed? How else could she know my thoughts?° Sylvia flinched. She shook her head as if to clear it. This wasn’t possible. Was she losing her mind? The priest’s face darkened slightly, though his voice remained steady. “Who are you, really?” he asked, his eyes narrowing. His thoughts followed closely behind: °Lord, give me strength. This child is unnatural. Something foul must have taken hold of her.° Sylvia gasped, the fear in his thoughts cutting deeper than his words. She stumbled back, pressing the paper bag to her chest. “Thank you for the food,” she muttered, her voice trembling. “Wait—” the priest started, but Sylvia was already turning to leave. His thoughts grew louder, more frantic: °Is she a trick of the devil? Should I call someone? No . . . no. I need to pray for her soul. God, protect her . . . and me.° The rosary at his belt clinked as he reached for it, his lips moving in silent prayer. Sylvia didn’t wait to see what he would do. She bolted. She ran all the way into a narrow alley, the shadows swallowing her whole. Her chest heaved as she pressed herself against the cold brick wall, the paper bag still gripped tightly in her hands. “What’s wrong with me?” she whispered. Her ears rang with the priest’s thoughts—clear, distinct, impossible to ignore. She hadn’t heard his voice. She’d heard something deeper. Her knees buckled, and she slid to the ground, trembling. She sat in the darkness until her breathing slowed, but her thoughts raced on, denying her sleep. At daybreak, Sylvia sat on the edge of a crumbling sidewalk, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. The memory of the man’s voice—or whatever it was—played over and over in her mind. She stared at the crowd moving through the marketplace, her eyes scanning the faces of strangers. What was it she’d heard? His thoughts? That didn’t make sense. “Thoughts aren’t something you hear,” she muttered to herself. But she had. She was sure of it. A woman passed by with a baby crying in her arms, her face tired and strained. Sylvia closed her eyes, focusing on her. And then it happened. °If I could just get him to sleep for an hour, just one hour . . .° Sylvia’s eyes snapped open. It was there, faint but unmistakable, like a whisper she wasn’t supposed to hear. Her chest tightened, and her stomach flipped in excitement. It wasn’t just that man. She could hear people’s thoughts.