Married To The Devil I Hate

I stare into the ornate, gold rimmed mirror, but the girl looking back at me feels like a complete stranger. The white silk of the wedding dress clings to my curves, heavy and suffocating. It is covered in intricate lace and sparkling beads that probably cost more than a normal person makes in a lifetime. It is a masterpiece of design, a dream dress for any normal bride. For me, it is nothing more than a beautiful burial shroud. I reach up, my shaking fingers lightly touching the elaborate curls of hair. The stylist spent three hours pinning it up, spraying it into a rigid masterpiece that feels heavy on my scalp. My eyes stare back at me, wide and hollow. They lack the spark they used to have before this nightmare began. At twenty one years old, I should be finishing college, hanging out with friends, and figuring out what I want to do with my life. Instead, I am standing in my childhood bedroom, waiting to be marched off to the slaughter. This whole f*****g thing is a joke. A sick, twisted joke played by men who care more about power than they do about their own blood. My father, Vincenzo Romano, lost the war. It is as simple and brutal as that. For the past two years, the streets of Chicago have been running red with blood. The Romano family and the De Santis family have been tearing each other to pieces, fighting over territory, shipping ports, and foolish pride. I grew up in the mafia, so I am not naive to the violence. I grew up hearing whispered conversations behind closed doors, seeing men with guns in holsters standing at our gates, and pretending not to notice when a family associate suddenly disappeared. But this war was different. It was loud. It was devastating. We were losing men every single day. My father’s empire was crumbling right before his eyes. He was cornered, desperate, and running out of money and soldiers. To prevent the complete destruction of our family line, he waved the white flag. He begged for a peace treaty. The enemy agreed, but they demanded a price. A steep one. Me. I let out a shaky breath and grab the edge of the vanity table until my knuckles turn white. I am the peace offering. The sacrificial lamb handed over to calm the beast. Today, I am being forced to marry Luca De Santis, the undisputed boss of the De Santis family, known to everyone in the underworld as the “Devil of Chicago.” A shiver violently rips down my spine just thinking about his name. I have never met him, but I have heard the stories. Everyone has heard the stories. At thirty years old, he has built a reputation that makes grown men piss their pants. They say he has no heart. They say he kills without a second of hesitation and that he enjoys the sound of his enemies begging for mercy. He is a ruthless, cold-blooded monster. And in less than two hours, he is going to be my husband. "Sophia?" The soft, hesitant voice breaks through my dark thoughts. I turn toward the doorway and see my younger sister, Elena, standing there. She is only eighteen, but right now, she looks like a frightened child. Her dark hair is curled perfectly, and she is wearing a pale pink bridesmaid dress that makes her look so innocent. She is the total opposite of the darkness swallowing our family. "Hey, El," I say, forcing a weak smile onto my lips. I let go of the vanity and smooth down the front of my white dress. "How do I look?" Elena steps into the room, her eyes welling up with tears. She doesn't answer my question. Instead, she rushes across the plush carpet and throws her arms around my waist, burying her face in my shoulder. I hug her back instantly, holding her tight, resting my chin on top of her head. "You don't have to do this," Elena whispers, her voice cracking with a sob. "We can run away, Sophia. We can sneak out the back right now. I packed a bag. We can go to the airport and just disappear. Please." My heart breaks in half. I close my eyes, fighting back my own tears. God, I want to run. I want to grab her hand, sprint out the back door, and never look back at this toxic, ruined family. But I know how the mafia works. I know how my father works, and more importantly, I know how the De Santis family works. "We wouldn't make it past the front gates, Elena," I say softly, pulling back just enough to wipe a tear from her cheek. "And even if we did, they would hunt us down. Luca De Santis doesn't let things go. He would find us, and then he would kill us both. Or worse, he'd kill you to punish me." "It's not fair!" she cries out, her small hands balling into fists. "Dad is a coward! He started this stupid war, and now he is making you pay for his mistakes. He is throwing you to the wolves!" "I know," I say, my voice hardening. The anger flares up in my chest, hot and bitter. "But this is the only way to keep you safe. If I don't marry him today, the peace treaty is broken. Luca will burn this house to the ground, and he will slaughter everyone inside. I won't let him hurt you. I can do this, El. I'm strong enough." Before Elena can argue, the heavy oak door of my bedroom swings open violently. It crashes against the wall, making us both jump. My father walks in. Wearing a perfectly tailored black tuxedo. His hair is greying at the temples, and his face is hardened by years of crime and stress. He doesn't look at me with love, or pity, or even guilt. He looks at me like a business transaction that is finally about to close. "Tears?" my father sneers, his dark eyes snapping toward Elena. "Stop your crying, Elena. You're ruining your makeup. Go downstairs and get in the car. Now." Elena shrinks back, terrified of his booming voice. She gives my hand one last desperate squeeze before keeping her head down and hurrying out of the room. Once we are alone, my father closes the door and turns his cold gaze back to me. He looks me up and down, taking in the white dress, the perfectly styled hair, and my trembling hands. "You look acceptable," he grunts, walking over to the small wet bar in the corner of my room and pouring himself a glass of whiskey. "The De Santis family expects perfection today. Don't embarrass me, Sophia." I stare at him, feeling pure, unfiltered hatred boiling in my veins. "Embarrass you?" I echo, my voice shaking with rage. "You are selling me to a monster to save your own pathetic life, and you're worried about me embarrassing you?" My father's eyes flash with danger. He sets the glass down hard on the counter, the liquid splashing over the rim. In three long strides, he is standing right in front of me. He grabs my chin in his rough, calloused hand, his grip tight enough to bruise. "Listen to me, you ungrateful little b***h," he hisses, leaning in close so I can smell the sharp stench of alcohol on his breath. "You are alive right now because I kept a roof over your head. You eat food paid for by my money. You wear clothes bought with my blood. This family is everything, and you owe me this debt. You will walk down that aisle, you will smile for the cameras, and you will say 'I do' to Luca De Santis. You will spread your legs for him tonight, and you will make sure he stays happy. Because if he decides he doesn't want you, the treaty is dead, and we all die. Do you understand me?" I glare up at him, refusing to show him my fear. "I hate you," I whisper venomously. "You're no father. You're just a coward hiding behind your own daughter." He raises his hand and backhands me across the face. The slap echoes loudly in the quiet room. My head snaps to the side, and a sharp stinging pain erupts across my cheek. I stumble back a step, tasting the metallic tang of blood in my mouth where my teeth caught the inside of my lip. "Fix your face," he says coldly, straightening his tuxedo jacket as if nothing happened. "The cars are waiting downstairs. Five minutes, Sophia. Don't make me come back up here." He turns on his heel and marches out of the room, leaving the door wide open. I stand there for a moment, my chest heaving as I try to catch my breath. A single tear escapes my eye, but I angrily wipe it away, smearing a tiny bit of my foundation. I walk back over to the mirror and look at my reflection. My cheek is a little red, but the makeup hides the worst of it. I grab a tissue and carefully dab the tiny drop of blood from my lip. I am not going to cry. I refuse to give my father the satisfaction, and I absolutely refuse to let Luca De Santis see me weak. If I am going to walk into the devil's den, I am going to do it with my head held high. I pick up my delicate lace veil and secure it into my hair, letting the sheer white fabric fall over my face, hiding my eyes from the world. I grab the large bouquet of white roses off my bed. The stems are wrapped in tight silk ribbon, and I grip them so hard my hands ache. Taking one last look around the room I grew up in, I know I will never see it again. My life here is over. My freedom is gone. I step out into the hallway and begin the long, agonizing walk down the grand staircase. The house is eerily quiet. All the guards and staff have already left for the church. Outside the massive front doors, a long stretch of black limousines is waiting in the driveway, engines purring, surrounded by men holding assault rifles under their suits. I climb into the back of the lead car, sitting stiffly on the leather seats. The door shuts with a heavy thud, sealing me inside. The driver doesn't say a word as he puts the car in drive and pulls out of the massive iron gates of the Romano estate. I stare out the tinted window as we drive through the busy streets of Chicago. The city looks the same as it always does. People are walking their dogs, drinking coffee, and laughing with their friends on the sidewalks. They have absolutely no idea that a mafia princess is being driven to her doom right past them. The sky is a dull, cloudy gray, perfectly matching the dread sitting like a lead weight in my stomach. The drive feels like it takes hours, but at the same time, it is over far too quickly. The limousine slowly pulls up to the front of the massive, gothic Catholic church in the heart of the city. The area is completely locked down. There are dozens of black SUVs parked illegally along the street, and terrifying men in dark suits are standing on every corner, their eyes scanning the crowds for any sign of a threat. This isn't just a wedding; it's a ceasefire meeting between two of the deadliest crime families in the country. The driver opens my door, and I step out into the chilly air. The wind whips at my white dress, tangling around my legs. My father is waiting at the bottom of the stone steps. He holds out his arm to me, his face set in a stony, public mask of pride. I want to spit on him, but I force myself to loop my arm through his. "Smile," he mutters under his breath. I ignore him. We walk up the stone steps together. Two massive wooden doors stand between me and the rest of my life. I can hear the dull hum of organ music playing inside. My heart is hammering against my ribs so hard and fast I feel like I might pass out. I take a deep, trembling breath, trying to force oxygen into my panicked lungs. This is it. There is no turning back now. The two guards standing by the entrance grab the heavy iron handles and pull the wooden doors open. A sea of people turns to look at me. Hundreds of mobsters, politicians, and socialites stare at the girl who was bought and paid for with a peace treaty. The church is stunning, decorated with thousands of white flowers and lit by flickering candles, but I don't care about any of it. My eyes lock onto the altar at the end of the incredibly long aisle. Standing there is a man in a perfectly tailored black suit. Even from this distance, he radiates a terrifying, suffocating aura of power and violence. He is tall, broad-shouldered, and completely rigid. As I take my first step down the aisle, the man slowly turns his head to look at me. Through the sheer fabric of my veil, my dull brown eyes meet his. Black hair. And eyes so piercingly blue they look like chips of frozen ice. Luca De Santis. The Devil of Chicago. He doesn't smile. He doesn't look happy, or relieved, or even victorious. He just stares at me with a dark, predatory intensity that makes my blood run completely cold. He watches me walk toward him like a wolf watching a lamb step directly into its cage. I hate him. God, I hate him already. And as I grip my father's arm and continue the slow march toward my new husband, I know my life as Sophia Romano is over. The real war hasn't ended today. It is just beginning.