The Mafia Alpha's Forced Bride

A hand slams hard against my butt, squeezing roughly. I jerk forward, slapping the hand away before I even process what's happening. Irritated laughter erupts behind me—drunken, careless, and unapologetic. I grit my teeth, refusing to look back. They don't even have the decency to respect a young woman. Balancing the tray of beers carefully, I place the bottles down harder than necessary on their table. One of them whistles, another chuckles, and I turn away before my temper gets the best of me. Not worth it. Not when I need the money. I carry the empty tray back into the cramped kitchen, the smell of stale grease and burnt meat clinging to the air. My boss doesn't even look at me when I walk in. He simply gestures to three overflowing trash bags sitting near the back door. "Take those out," he grunts. Then he drops my pay for the day onto the counter. Just coins. And a little cash. Before I can even complain, he storms past me, shrugging into his coat and muttering under his breath. The door slams behind him. I stare at the meager pile in my palm, counting slowly, hoping—praying—that maybe he added a little extra for the double shift I covered today. Nothing. Same miserable pay. "What a stingy old man," I mutter under my breath. Still, I pocket the money carefully. Every dollar matters. Especially when rent is breathing down my neck. With a frustrated sigh, I grab the first trash bag and haul it outside. The night air hits my face, cold and damp. The alley behind the bar is dimly lit, the single streetlamp flickering weakly like it's seconds away from giving up. I toss the first bag into the dumpster, then go back for the second. By the time I return for the last one, I notice it's already torn at the bottom. Thick, reddish water drips from the hole, leaving a slimy trail behind me. Meat water. I grimace, holding the bag farther from my body. I'm not in the mood to deal with this. So I drag it quickly across the pavement, ignoring the mess, and lift it into the dumpster. As I do, the bag shifts awkwardly, splashing some of the liquid onto my grey top. "No, no, no…" I glance down in horror. A dark stain spreads across the fabric. That's my only good top. The only one without patches or holes. I curse under my breath, rubbing at the stain, but it only smears worse. Great. Just great. That's when I hear voices. Low. Aggressive. Like two people arguing. I freeze. Over time, I've learned to mind my business. Especially in situations like this. It's almost midnight, and I'm alone behind a bar, inches from a dark alley. I'm a young, defenseless girl. I could wind up dead. Or worse. I should go back inside. I should walk away. But curiosity tugs at me, stubborn and reckless. With one last frustrated swipe at my shirt, I step toward the alley, my legs slow and shaky. A newspaper crinkles under my foot. Suddenly, a cat hisses, darting past my leg. I nearly scream, clamping my hand over my mouth at the last second. My heart races. God, I'm going to give myself a heart attack. I swallow hard and continue forward, turning the corner carefully. Two men stand under a faulty, blinking streetlamp. Both dressed in black suits. And they aren't arguing. They're fighting. Not like a drunken street brawl. This is brutal. One man swings first, his fist cutting through the air, but the taller one dodges effortlessly. He moves with terrifying precision, grabbing the shorter man's wrist and twisting it sharply. A crack echoes. The shorter man cries out, but the taller one doesn't stop. He drives his knee into the man's stomach, sending him stumbling backward. Blood splatters onto the pavement like paint. The shorter man lunges again, desperation in his movements, pulling something from his jacket. A knife. My breath catches. The blade flashes under the flickering light. But the taller man doesn't panic. He steps forward. Fast. Too fast. He grabs the man's wrist mid-swing, slamming it against the wall. The knife clatters to the ground. Then he drives his fist into the man's jaw. Once. Twice. Three times. The sound of skin against bone fills the alley. The shorter man weakens, his knees buckling. But the taller one isn't finished. He grabs him by the collar and slams him onto the pavement. Hard. The impact echoes. The man groans weakly, blood pooling beneath his head. The taller man kneels beside him. I catch a glimpse of tattoos lining his knuckles as he pulls his fist back. Crack. The punch lands. Again. And again. And again. Each hit more brutal than the last. The man's grunts grow weaker, fading into silence. His head snaps sideways, his body going limp. Still. Dead. My stomach drops. A gasp escapes me before I can stop it. The taller man's head snaps up instantly. His gaze lands in my direction. Fear floods my body. I stumble backward, pressing myself against the wall behind the corner. My heart pounds violently. He didn't see me. I was too fast. Right? Right? I clamp my mouth shut, forcing myself to breathe quietly as footsteps echo toward me. Slow. Measured. Getting closer. Closer. I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing myself. This is it. He's going to find me. The footsteps stop. Silence stretches. Seconds feel like hours. Then— The footsteps move again. But this time, they're receding. He's leaving. I don't wait. The moment the sound fades, I bolt. My legs pump as fast as they can carry me. I don't look back. I don't slow down. I run until my lungs burn and my chest aches. Only when I reach my rundown apartment building on the ghetto side of New York do I stop. My heart slowly steadies. I'm safe. I escaped. I'm not going to die. The adrenaline drains from my body, leaving exhaustion in its wake. My hands tremble as I unlock the door and step inside. The apartment is small. Barely furnished. But it's mine. I kick off my shoes and collapse onto the creaky mattress. My body feels heavy. My eyes drift shut. And within seconds… I'm asleep.