Wedded To The Underworld

Reflection of a bride

Zia

Palermo, Sicily. Lucien Saint Estate.

By the time I arrived at the estate — a sprawling palace of cold marble and glittering chandeliers — it was nearly midnight. The driver didn’t even wait for the door to open properly before speeding away, leaving me alone under the looming shadow of the mansion.

The mirror didn’t lie.

It never did.

I stood motionless, my eyes locked onto my reflection in the gilded glass. The white silk gown hugged me like frost— elegant, unforgiving. The lace traced my collarbones like delicate spiderwebs. My veil had been discarded hours ago, lying somewhere forgotten.

My thick, long hair— a deep chestnut-brown that shimmered auburn in the light— was set in soft waves that framed my face perfectly. My skin was smooth and warm-toned, my high cheekbones sculpturing my heart-shaped face. My large brown eyes, flecked with gold, were almond-shaped and framed by well-defined brows. I glanced at my full lips, void of a smile, and then back at my eyes.

My eyes betrayed me.

Wide. Glassy. Hollow.

I looked like a girl playing dress-up in a woman’s nightmare.

I had imagined this moment once, when I was younger—what it would feel like to stand in a wedding dress, to be chosen. Loved. But this… this wasn’t that dream.

I hadn’t been chosen. I’d been claimed.

I turned from the mirror, unable to look at myself any longer.

I turned from the mirror, my gaze slipping to the window, unable to look at myself any longer.

The sky outside was stained a bruised violet. The estate was still, and the silence from it was so loud.

This wasn’t what I'd imagined—not love, not even companionship. Just silence, and a marriage signed in ink and expectation.

And yet... I hadn’t refused.

I could’ve begged. Pleaded. I could’ve run.

But I didn’t.

Because I owe everything to Don Giovanni— Lucien's grandfather and patriarch of the Saints family.

He took me in when no one else would.

He gave me a roof. An education. A future. A family.

After my father— Don Giovanni's most loyal and trusted driver, died in the service of the Saints Family— Don Giovanni didn’t turn his back on me like the rest of the world had. He’d taken me into his estate, given me work as his personal nurse when his health began to decline. He’d spoken to me with kindness, treated me as more than just an employee’s daughter. Like I mattered.

So when he said, “Lucien needs a wife. A woman with sense. With loyalty. Someone I can trust,”

How could I say no?

Even if the cold-hearted heir to Sicily’s underworld hadn’t looked at me once during the ceremony.

The reception blurred into a haze of forced smiles and empty congratulations.

He hadn’t spoken a single word to me afterward—not during dinner, not during the first dance that I had to dance alone. He drank, he laughed with Rafael Cortez and his men, but he never looked at me.

Not even once.

I didn’t need anyone to explain why. I wasn’t blind.

Lucien Alessandro Saint didn’t want a wife. Especially not me.

I had no friends. Most of the faces here were unfamiliar to me. The one person I could talk to— Don Giovanni — had left after the vows. I was utterly alone.

Lucien had disappeared sometime during the reception. Later, I found out he had left early, without a word.

I waited until most guests were gone before coming to my new "home."

Lucien Saint's home was less a mansion and more a kingdom.

Perched high above the glittering skyline of the city, the Saint Estate sprawled across a private cliffside like a sleeping dragon — ancient, menacing, and incomparably beautiful.

Imported black marble veined with gold paved the driveway, polished so fiercely it mirrored the night sky above. Armed guards patrolled the perimeter, hidden just enough to maintain the illusion of luxury over brutality.

The main house towered with a brutal elegance — a masterpiece of glass, steel, and old stone, blending European aristocracy with a raw, modern edge. Giant arched windows overlooked manicured gardens designed to resemble a Roman labyrinth, while balconies wrapped around the upper floors like the arms of a fortress.

Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of rich leather, Cuban cigars, and something darker — the kind of danger that clung to men like Lucien. Chandeliers made of hand-cut diamonds dripped from ceilings high enough to drown in. Persian rugs older than most countries bled color onto the gleaming floors.

Every corner whispered of blood money.

And power.

Art that could bankrupt nations lined the hallways — stolen, bought, or "gifted" by men who owed their lives to the Saint's family. Sculptures from forbidden collections stood proudly in alcoves, silent witnesses to decades of sins.

How did I know?

My father had been the Saints’ family driver for over three decades before I was even born. My father was loyal to the family, yes, but we lived on the outside of this world—watching, serving. Never included. Never powerful.

So, when he died and Don Giovanni took me in at thirteen, I was smart. I observed and when I turned seventeen, I became his official care nurse. I was so happy. He trusted me— and Don Giovanni hardly trusts anyone. I may not have been born into a mafia family, but I could tell how they worked.

The Saint Empire's fingerprints were everywhere.

Clubs hiding drug trades and extortion in the dark VIP corners. Luxury hotels where politicians are lured into compromising arrangements. Casinos washing dirty money clean with every hand of blackjack. Restaurants and galleries that served as meeting grounds for unspoken deals. Shipping companies, construction firms, private banks — all legitimate on the surface, all rotting underneath with secrets and blood debts.

Lucien had been raised in the thick of it.

Born with a silver dagger in his hand, not a spoon.

This house wasn’t a home. It was a throne room.

And tonight — my wedding night — I would soon discover that queens were not cherished here.

They were crowned.

And then left to bleed.