Training the Bride
643 Words
The morning air in the Franklin estate was still, almost too still—like the calm before a thunderstorm. Emilia Jones stood stiffly in the grand hall, her arms crossed as a stern-looking woman in her mid-forties circled her like a hawk eyeing its prey.
“Posture, Miss Jones,” the woman snapped.
“I’m standing,” Emilia replied through clenched teeth.
“You’re slouching. Like a rebellious teenager, not a bride-to-be of a mafia king.”
Emilia rolled her eyes but straightened her back.
The woman—Sofia—was Damian’s appointed "etiquette instructor." Elegant, cold, and painfully polished, she carried a clipboard like it was a weapon.
Damian had given Emilia no choice but to attend. “You need to understand our world,” he’d said.
“It’s not just about wearing diamonds and drinking vintage wine. It’s about knowing where power breathes—and how not to get crushed beneath it.”
So here Emilia was, in a silk blouse she hated, balancing on high heels in a room that smelled like imported wood and quiet menace.
“Lesson one,” Sofia said. “Never show emotion unless it’s calculated. In our world, warmth is currency. You give it too easily, and people rob you blind.”
Emilia muttered under her breath, “Sounds charming.”
Sofia’s gaze sharpened. “What did you say?”
“I said I’m listening.”
“Good.” Sofia nodded once, then added, “Tomorrow, we begin weapons etiquette.”
“Weapons etiquette?”
“You’ll be expected to know how to carry, conceal, and hold a firearm with elegance. The Don’s bride must be capable, not just ornamental.”
Emilia swallowed. The word *bride* still rang like an insult.
But her pride wouldn’t let her back down. She would learn. She would master this world—if only so she’d never be at someone’s mercy again.
***
Later that evening, she collapsed onto her bed, heels off, blouse wrinkled, muscles sore. She barely had time to breathe before a knock came at the door.
It was Damian.
“You survived,” he said, leaning against the doorframe with a smug expression.
“Barely.”
He stepped inside uninvited. “Sofia’s methods are... refined. She taught my cousin’s wife. That woman once slapped a Sicilian prince at a gala and still managed to earn a standing ovation.”
Emilia sighed. “Are all your parties like something out of a Bond film?”
Damian chuckled, walking closer. “Only the fun ones.”
He sat on the edge of her desk, watching her.
She folded her arms. “What?”
“You didn’t give up. That matters.”
“I won’t make it easy for you to break me.”
“I’m not trying to break you, Emilia.” He paused. “I’m trying to make sure no one else ever does.”
She blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. For a moment, she saw past the cold, calculating Don. She saw the man who, in his own twisted way, wanted her to survive.
“Tomorrow,” he said, standing up, “you’ll train with Theo. Combat basics.”
“I already know how to punch someone.”
“Then he’ll teach you how to make it hurt.”
Before she could respond, he was gone, leaving her in silence.
***
By the end of the week, Emilia had learned the proper way to sip wine without looking intimidated, how to dodge a knife strike, how to read mafia code language at banquets, and how to hide a gun under a cocktail dress.
She also learned that most of the staff were spies.
That trust was currency.
And that power in the mafia wasn’t loud—it was quiet, calculated, and ruthless.
And slowly, she was becoming all those things.
- Writer
