A Marriage with the Mafia Prince

A L Y S S A Desperation makes people do crazy things. And here I am, sitting in the dark, watching my laptop screen flicker like it’s mocking me, the only light in my shoebox apartment. The walls feel closer every night, as if reminding me that this is no better than a cage. My neighbours fight through them, laugh through them, live through them, while I just sit here… scrolling through job listings like a machine that’s out of batteries. I’ve been at this for hours. My eyes sting, my back aches, and the longer I stare, the more every job starts blending into the same wall of disappointment. Requires five years of experience. Bachelor’s degree required, while I've only got certificates and diplomas. Life was tough, and I didn't have the privilege of going to university like I always wanted. The best I could do was online courses in business admin, graphic design and digital media, that kinda thing. Competitive pool of applicants. Yeah, I get it. I’m not enough. But I have to be. Because Mom’s hospital bills are due. Again. She's been in a coma since the accident. Drunk driver. He was sentenced to 10 years in prison, thankfully, but she hasn't woken up since the accident, and it's been 3 months already... They were due last week, actually, but I begged them for an extension. One more week, I said. One more chance. And the nurse on the phone... her voice was soft, almost kind, but not enough to hide the edge of finality when she told me they couldn’t keep Mom’s room forever. How do you respond to that? To someone reminding you that your mother’s life is tied to the amount of money you don’t have? I can’t think about it. Not the machines breathing for her. Not the doctors whispering words like “low chance” and “quality of life” when they think I’m not listening. One in a million, they say. That’s her chance of waking up. And the “merciful” thing would be to let her go. But I can’t. I can’t unplug her. She’s all I have left. She's the only one I've ever had. My stomach twists at the thought, and I press my fingers into my temples, like I can stop the panic from clawing its way up my throat. Think, Alyssa. There has to be something. Some miracle job, some open door I just haven’t noticed yet. And then... Ping. The sound makes me jump. My inbox lights up with a new message. I glance at it, expecting the usual junk: spam, discounts, someone trying to sell me another streaming service I can’t afford. But my eyes freeze on the subject line: Interview Invitation – Valentino Enterprises. My first thought: scam. It has to be. I never applied to Valentino Enterprises. Didn’t even think about applying. People like me don’t work for companies like that. They’re too… prestigious. Too untouchable. Still, I click. Because what else do I have to lose? The email is short. Dear Miss Hart, We are pleased to invite you for an interview at our main office tomorrow at 10 AM. Please confirm your attendance. Regards, Mrs. Valentino That’s it. No job description. No mention of my resume. Just a time, a place, and a signature. My skin prickles. Red flags are practically waving themselves in my face. This isn’t how interviews work. This isn’t how anything works. I should delete it. Pretend I never saw it. But then my eyes land on the stack of medical bills spilling across the kitchen table. The top envelope is already stamped in red: FINAL NOTICE. $8,830. My purse sits nearby, a receipt sticking out from the side; the refill for Mom’s meds. Just that one bag of pills cost more than I made in two weeks at the café. And suddenly my hand is trembling. Before I can talk myself out of it, I click Accept. … I don’t sleep that night. Not really. I toss, turn, and finally give up. I spend the dark hours researching Valentino Enterprises, as much as the internet will give me. Which isn’t much. No job listings. No employee reviews. No company i********: page bragging about their corporate culture. They’re private. Too private. But their name? Everywhere. Real estate, private investments, whispers of politics. And the family itself...? Vittorio and Luciana Valentino... names dropped in articles about wealth, philanthropy, and influence. Their faces pop up beside politicians and celebrities, all polished smiles and sharp edges. And they invited me. Me. I feel sick just thinking about it. When the alarm buzzes at 7 AM, I’m already dressed. I pull on the best outfit I own: black slacks, a white blouse, and a blazer I bought secondhand. It doesn’t quite fit my shoulders, but it’s the closest thing I have to “professional.” My hair is dark and bobbed at my jawline, a few strands curling against my cheek no matter how much I smooth them down. My eyes... green, tired and ringed with shadows, stare back at me in the mirror, daring me to believe I look like someone who belongs in a skyscraper. I debate makeup. A little concealer, maybe a touch of lip gloss and a brown liner. I don’t want to look desperate. Just… put together. Real. I breathe out, shakily and finally, when I feel I'm ready, step out the door. The subway ride is a blur, and I grip the pole so hard my knuckles ache, running through every possible scenario in my head. Maybe this is real. Maybe it’s a hidden elite firm that doesn’t post online. Maybe they want someone new, someone moldable. Or maybe it’s a front for something darker... and I’m walking into a trap. I tell myself I’m being dramatic. I tell myself that three thousand times before the train screeches to my stop. When I step out onto the street, my breath catches as I stare at the structure before me. Valentino Enterprises. The building towers above me, sleek glass and steel scraping the sky. It’s not the shady, backroom operation I half-expected. It’s corporate perfection. Too polished, too clean and too powerful. And I'm about to walk right into it...