The Untouchable Bride: The Dark Secret of the Don

Chapter 3

The east wing hallway smelled of pine and pure alcohol. A strong disinfectant that burned inside the nostrils. It was a cold hospital smell, not the home of a mafia boss.

Rocco's footsteps hit the white marble floor with a dry thud. I walked two steps behind the guard. The silence weighed on my shoulders. There were no expensive paintings on the walls. No plush rugs on the floor. Just dark doors, side by side, all strictly closed.

Rocco stopped. He unlocked a wooden double door at the end of the hallway.

"Go in," he said.

I went in. The door shut behind me. The key turned in the lock from the outside.

Clack.

The room was massive and freezing. The walls were white and bare. The double bed in the center had light-colored sheets, perfectly stretched, without a single crease. There wasn't a grain of dust on the dark furniture. The air conditioning blew a cold wind against my skin.

I went straight to the bathroom. Dante Russo's order still buzzed near my ear. Wash your hands.

I turned on the porcelain sink faucet. The water came out scalding. I grabbed the bar of unscented white soap. I scrubbed my hands. I scrubbed my fingers, my nails, my wrists. I scrubbed until the skin turned red and burned. The hot water went down the drain, washing away my father's imaginary dirt.

I took off the gray dress. It fell heavy onto the damp floor. I stepped into the shower. I let the water burn my shoulders and my neck. I closed my eyes. The confusion formed a hard knot in my stomach. I had arrived there ready for the attack. Ready for a stranger's rough hands, for the weight of a man on top of me, for the pain tearing through my intimacy. It was the fate of mafia daughters.

But there was nothing. Just the two-meter distance. Just Dante's empty stare and the order to clean myself.

I turned off the shower. I dried myself quickly with a stiff towel hanging near the glass.

The bedroom door suddenly unlocked. The latch clicked in the silence.

I walked out of the bathroom wrapped in the towel, holding the fabric tightly above my breasts.

An old woman stood in the middle of the room. She had white hair pulled back into a hard, tight bun. Her face was grooved with deep wrinkles. Her small black eyes evaluated me without emotion.

"I am Rosa," she said dryly. "The housekeeper."

She held folded clothes. She tossed the items onto the meticulously made bed.

"Wear this. Dinner is served in ten minutes. Don't be late. The Don does not tolerate lateness."

I walked to the bed. It wasn't red silk lingerie. It wasn't a short, tight dress. There was no lace, no sheer fabric, no cleavage made to please the hunger of an underworld boss.

It was a thick cotton set. Baggy pants and a long-sleeved, high-necked shirt in navy blue. It looked like hospital scrubs or an old pajama set. It smelled of neutral laundry detergent. It was ironed smooth, without a single crease.

"Where are the normal clothes?" I asked. My voice sounded hoarse from the smoke I swallowed in the office.

"These are the normal clothes in this house," Rosa replied. Her tone was sharp. "The Don doesn't like exposed skin. He doesn't like dust and he doesn't like visual distractions. Get dressed now."

She turned her back and left. The door was left slightly ajar.

I put on the heavy clothes. The clean cotton scratched my neck. I slipped on a pair of simple black flats Rosa had left on the floor. I didn't look like the bride of a Chicago boss. I looked like a sterile ghost.

I walked down the wide marble stairs following Rosa. My shoes made no noise.

The dining room was ridiculous. A rectangular solid wood table took up the entire hall. It had seating for twenty people. The chairs had high, dark backs. The smell of roasted meat filled the air, mixed with the faint odor of furniture polish.

Dante Russo was already there.

He sat at the north end of the table. His suit jacket was gone. He wore the black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His dark hair was slicked back. He didn't look at me when I stopped at the threshold.

Dante was reading a stack of papers resting next to his porcelain plate. He held a silver pen in his right hand.

"Come in," his voice echoed, deep and low.

He lifted his head. His black eyes hit me. They scanned the navy-blue pajamas from my covered neck down to the tips of my toes. He didn't smile. He neither approved nor disapproved. The mask was still there.

He lifted the pen and pointed to the opposite end of the table. The south end. Ten meters away.

"Sit," he ordered.

I walked across the long rug. Pulled out the wooden chair. The friction against the floor made a sharp noise. I sat facing him. The physical distance between us was an abyss of polished wood and empty glasses. It was hard to see the details of his face under the dim yellow light of the central chandelier.

A young, pale maid walked in quickly. She kept her head down. Placed a plate in front of Dante and another in front of me. Meat, boiled potatoes, and a glass of ice water. No wine. She ran out of the room in silence.

The sound of Dante's knife cutting meat began. Zipt. Zipt. He cut the pieces in a methodical rhythm. Chewed slowly. Read the papers at the same time.

I picked up my silverware. The weight of the cold metal grounded me. I put a piece of potato in my mouth. It tasted like wet cardboard. My stomach was completely closed shut from the terror of the last few hours.