THE MAFIA WIFE EXCHANGE

Chapter One: The Wedding Episode

Rose's POV

They tightened the corset so much I could barely breathe. The fabric bit into my ribs, the whalebone cutting into my skin, but I did not flinch. I just stared at myself in the mirror, my face impassive. I could not even get angry anymore. I had cried enough—crying until my eyes were swollen and my lips ached from holding in the sound. There were no tears left. Only resignation. Only quiet.

This was simply the life I was born into.

This was a Romano's duty.

My father stood at the other end of the long hallway, his figure framed in the gold-rimmed mirror behind me. My father didn't gaze at me with love or pride—just expectation. The kind of look that weighed on my shoulders heavier than any corset could.

Make sure her hair is perfect," he said to the seamstress. "The Volkovs don't overlook a single detail."

It already was perfect. My strawberry-blonde curls were pinned and sculpted into soft waves that fell over one shoulder, the ends shining in the light like liquid gold. My lips were a pale pink, my lashes brushed upward like feathers. I was exactly the way a mafia daughter was meant to look—delicate, attractive, and silent.

The seamstress moved back, her eyes admiringly fixed on her handiwork.

"You are beautiful, miss," she breathed.

I said nothing. Beauty was irrelevant. When your whole life had been mapped out for you already.

I had not even met the man I was to marry.

My husband. Nikolai Volkov.

My father explained to me that he was strong, loyal, and came from a family who ruled the Russian underworld. The Volkov Empire was ruthless, built on blood, money, and fear. A marriage between the Romanos and the Volkovs would make our families unbeatable. Or at least, that's what my father said.

All I could hear, though, was that I was the price of his safety.

A pawn to rescue his empire from fire.

Its doors were made of wood and were huge, with ancient Russian script etched onto them. I heard muffled noises through them—men's voices laughing, glasses clinking, the soft snap of guns being reloaded by guards who stood outside. Even at a wedding, the mafia did not let its guns sleep.

The seamstress handed me my bouquet—white roses bound in silk. I looked at them for a long while. They appeared fragile, innocent. I almost laughed at the irony.

When my father offered his arm, I took it. My fingers trembled against his coat, and he held tighter without a word.

"Don't forget what's on the line, myshka," he whispered as we headed for the door. "This marriage is not about love. It's about legacy."

Legacy. A word that always seemed to be a curse when coming from his lips.

The doors opened, and light poured into the hall like liquid gold. Incense and anticipation were thick in the air. All the powerful names in the Russian underworld were present—men with cutting eyes and sharper smiles, women adorned in jewels that probably cost more than my dowry.

And then I spotted him.

Nikolai Volkov.

He stood at the altar, tall and broad-shouldered, his black suit tailored within an inch of perfection. His hair was dark and neatly combed back, revealing the sharp lines of his jaw. His eyes—stormy grey and distant—met mine for a fleeting second. I’d imagined that moment for weeks, wondering what it would be like to meet the man who would own my future.

He smiled. A slow, subtle curve of his lips that didn't quite make it to his eyes. "Hello, beautiful," he whispered when I stood before him.

My heart missed a beat. I hadn't expected that. I didn't expect him to talk to me like that—like I was a woman, not a transaction.

"Hi," I stuttered, my voice small, almost swallowed by the soft melody of the orchestra.

The ceremony began. The priest spoke words of unity and loyalty, of God sanctifying the marriage bond. I didn't much listen to any of it. My gaze kept slipping to Nikolai's face, searching for hints of kindness, of warmth—anything real.

He was beautiful, excruciatingly so. The kind of beautiful that was dangerous because it made you forget the monster that might be hiding behind it.

When the priest said, "You may now kiss the bride," the crowd erupted in cheers. My father and his men fired rounds into the air—an old Russian tradition to mark unity. The sound echoed off the marble walls like thunder.

Nikolai turned to me, his hand wandering to my waist. It was warm, firm, and possessive. He raised my chin with the confidence of a man used to getting his own way, then leaned in.

His lips met mine—soft, cautious, nearly sweet. I tensed, expecting dominance or indifference, but patience was present instead. He kissed me softly, his breath mixing with mine, his fingers curling momentarily in my curls before withdrawing.

The crowd applauded, but I heard only the thudding of my own heart.

For the first time in months, I allowed myself a vulnerable thought: Maybe this won't be so bad.

Maybe, just maybe, he would fall in love with me.

After all, hadn't my mother loved my father?

Hadn't she believed that underneath all the blood and ambition, there was still room for something pure?

Nikolai’s arm curled around my waist again, guiding me toward our seats.

I smiled all evening, laughed, danced, played the role of the merry bride. But beneath every toast and every song, my chest was hollow.

When the music finally died, fireworks exploded over the Volkov estate—white and gold in the black Russian night. Everybody cheered, glasses held up, guns in the air.

I was on the balcony, watching it all happen. My husband stood a few feet away, already deep in discussion with his father and some of his men. I wasn't involved.

Of course, I wasn't.

Still… deep down, a spark of foolish hope refused to die. Maybe it was the kiss. Maybe it was the way he’d called me beautiful. But something in me whispered that this story wasn’t over.