Chapter1
1206 Words
Mafia's Nun: Sold to the Devil
by Diana D
**Genre: Dark Mafia Romance
Chapter 1: Oxygen
She knocked it straight out of my lungs.
And I don't lose control. Not for anything. Not for anyone.
But the first time I saw her — that was it. Done. Finished. Like something in my chest recognized her before my mind even caught up, and that recognition was the most unsettling thing I had felt in years.
I've never believed in that love at first sight nonsense. Always sounded like something weak men use to explain the stupid choices they make. I don't make stupid choices. I make calculated ones. Cold ones. The kind that don't come undone in the middle of a street because a woman is standing on cathedral steps with her hands folded and her lips moving in a quiet prayer.
And yet.
There I was.
She stood at the top of the steps, dressed in white like she didn't belong in the same world as the rest of us. Head slightly bowed, fingers woven together, lips forming words only God was supposed to hear. A veil framed her face, and the wind played with its edge like even the air wanted her attention.
A nun.
Of all things in this world — a nun.
I almost laughed at myself. The thought alone should have been enough to pull my attention away and put it back where it belonged..on the problem Marco had been circling for the past ten minutes.
Instead I stayed.
Watched longer than I should have.
Long enough to notice the small things. The way she shifted her weight slightly when she thought no one was looking. The way her lips softened into something private, like she was mid-conversation with someone only she could see. The way she carried herself.. unhurried, unworried, like the noise of the city simply did not apply to her.
It wasn't dramatic. There was nothing theatrical about it.
That's what made it worse.
It was quiet. Real. And I don't do real.
"vicenzo."
I didn't answer.
"Vicenzo
Still nothing.
A hand cut across my line of sight, fingers snapping once in front of my face.
I blinked. Slow. Deliberate. Annoyed.
"What." It wasn't a question.
Marco exhaled through his nose like I was the most exhausting person he'd ever had the misfortune of working for — which, to be fair, I probably was
"I've been talking to you for five minutes."
"Then you've wasted five minutes."
His jaw tightened. "We have a situation."
"We always have a situation."
"This one involves money."
That got my attention. Barely. I dragged my gaze away from the cathedral, from her, and looked at him properly for the first time since she'd appeared on those steps.
"Speak."
"Shipment got intercepted. South docks."
"By who?"
"We don't know yet."
That was a lie. Marco doesn't say
' we don't know' unless he already has a guess and doesn't like what it means.
I studied him for half a second. That was all I ever needed.
"Rossi."
He didn't answer.
Which was answer enough.
"Handle it," I said.
His brows came together. "That's it?"
"That's it."
"don—"
"I said handle it."
My tone dropped just enough to cut the conversation short. He knew better than to push when I sounded like that. Still, his eyes drifted past me toward the cathedral, and I watched the exact moment he understood what had been holding my attention.
A pause settled between us. Long enough to be uncomfortable.
Then — "You're joking."
I didn't respond.
"Tell me you're not standing here ignoring a problem worth a million dollars because of—" He stopped. Like the sentence didn't even make sense in his own mouth.
"Because of what?" I asked, calm as still water.
He stared at me like he was looking at a stranger wearing my face.
"Her," he said finally. A single word. Careful. Like it was a test.
"What about her?"
"She's a nun, Don."
"I can see that."
"So what exactly are you doing?"
Watching. Memorizing. Deciding.
But I didn't say any of that. I slipped my hands into my pockets, kept my face blank, and said simply — "Go fix the dock problem, Marco."
He didn't move for another second. Then two.
Then he muttered something under his breath that I chose not to hear, turned, and walked off with his phone already at his ear, his voice shifting into the clipped, direct tone he used when things needed to be done quickly.
Good.
That left me alone again.
Exactly how I wanted it.
My gaze went back to her just in time to watch her descend the cathedral steps — slow, unhurried, like she had no idea the world was constantly trying to drag people under. Like she was somehow outside of all of it. People moved past her on the pavement. Cars pushed through the street. The city carried on in its usual indifferent chaos.
And she walked through it like none of it touched her.
Untouched. Untainted.
Untouchable.
My jaw tightened at that word.
Nothing is untouchable. Not in my world. That's not arrogance — it's just the truth I've spent years proving over and over. And whether she knew it or not, she had just stepped into that world the moment she became something I couldn't stop looking at.
She paused halfway down the street.
Turned slightly, the way people do when they're searching for something without knowing what.
And for a second — just one — her eyes lifted. Not exactly to me. But close enough. Close enough that something in my chest shifted, sharp and unwelcome, like a warning I wasn't interested in heeding.
Then she looked away.
And kept walking.
Like I wasn't there. Like I didn't exist. Like she hadn't just pulled the air clean out of my lungs from across a crowded street.
I exhaled slowly and dragged one hand along my jaw.
Most people feel it when they're being watched. Even if they can't name it, they feel it — that shift in the air when something darker pays attention. A prickling at the back of the neck. A sudden awareness.
But her?
Nothing. No hesitation. No instinctive glance over her shoulder.
Just peace.
I stood there a moment longer, watching the space where she'd disappeared, and let something cold and certain settle into place inside me.
This wasn't a passing distraction.
This wasn't the kind of thing I'd forget by morning.
I pulled out my phone. Dialled. It rang once, twice.
"Find someone for me."
A pause on the other end. Then — "Name?"
I looked at the empty street.
"I don't have it yet."
Another pause. Careful this time. "Description?"
"White veil. Cathedral on Fifth." I let a breath out slow. "She'll be there again."
"You want a schedule?"
"I want everything."
Silence.
Then — "Understood."
I ended the call and slipped the phone back into my pocket.
And for the first time since she'd appeared on those steps, I smiled.
Not a kind one.
Not even close.
Because whatever this was — whatever she was — it wasn't going to end well.
For her.
Or for me.
- Writer
