Seduce the Mafia DADDY

Brianna’s POV The veil scratches my cheek like a whisper of warning. I stand at the altar, my hand trembling in Matteo De Luca’s grasp. The cathedral soars above us—vaulted ceilings, gold chandeliers dripping like icicles, fractured light scattered across the marble floor. But the beauty feels hollow, like a dream too polished to be real. Matteo’s jaw is tight, his lips pressed in a grim line. He barely looks at me. His tuxedo is flawless, but it fits him like a cage—too perfect, too cold. When the priest announces us husband and wife, Matteo slips the ring onto my finger with the detachment of a surgeon. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t speak. He presses a kiss to my cheek with all the passion of a corpse. I glance past him. Enzo. Matteo’s father. He’s sitting in the front pew, still and sharp as a blade. The infamous mafia king. He commands the space without moving, dressed in a charcoal suit that clings to his powerful frame like shadow. His arms are folded, his face unreadable, but his eyes are on me. Cold. Calculating. Unblinking. He hasn’t looked away since I walked down the aisle. And I feel it. His gaze carves down my skin like a scalpel. My chest rises too quickly. My pulse betrays me. But I meet his stare, lift my chin, and dare him to blink first. My skin burns under Enzo's scrutiny, but I lift my chin. Let him see me. Let him choke on my defiance. The reception is a blur of champagne and false smiles. Laughter echoes from the balconies where socialites drink to alliances they don’t understand. I feel like a relic on display, bride by title, prisoner by design. Later that night, the bridal chamber yawns open, all roses and silk sheets. Matteo untucks his shirt in silence, then turns his back. “You're not going to touch me?” I ask, voice trembling despite my attempt to sound sharp. He pauses at the door. “No.” “No?” My voice cracks. “Then why—” “Don't make this harder than it already is.” And then he's gone. I wait. Hours slip by like cold water. The candles burn low. The silence becomes a scream in my ears. I need something, anything, to numb it. I wrap a shawl over my shoulders and creep down the corridor, barefoot on marble. Somewhere in this godforsaken mansion, there must be a bottle of wine. Something aged, potent, and unapologetically toxic, like this family. I follow the sound of murmured voices. And then I see it. Matteo. Kissing a man. Passionately. Desperately. His hands are tangled in the stranger’s collar, the same hands that refused to even hold mine. And the man… I recognize him. Rafe. His bodyguard. Always too close. Always too silent. Always watching Matteo like he held the moon. The same lips that wouldn’t touch me are devouring someone else’s mouth like oxygen. A gasp slips out of me. Matteo jerks away from the kiss, eyes widening when he sees me. “Brianna—” I run. I don’t stop until I am back in that cursed bridal room, ripping off the veil and punching the satin pillows until feathers fill the air like snow. My marriage is a sham. And I am the pawn they used to play it. I am not surprised at all but the pain. The pain inside me simmers, swelling with betrayal, but not surprise. Not really. Because deep down, I always knew something was wrong. From the moment Enzo appeared at our foster home two years ago, with his black car and darker smile, things began to change. My foster parents Bishop and Lorraine had always been cold. Calculated. But after that visit, they became something else entirely. They paraded me at political dinners, refined my speech, told me to stop laughing so loud. “You’ll be a wife soon,” Lorraine had whispered, brushing my hair too tightly. “A powerful one. Don’t ruin this.” At the time, I thought it was about status. A way out. I didn’t know I was being packaged like a bride on auction. Months later, I was flown to Rome under the guise of a scholarship. The papers were signed before I understood the ink was binding. I met Matteo at a formal dinner in the old Palazzo Verdi, and he barely spoke. He sipped his wine like poison and excused himself early. Enzo watched the entire exchange like a hunter watching prey. Silent. Measuring. And then came the engagement announcement. I read it in a press clipping before I heard it from their mouths. That night, I asked Enzo why me. Why Matteo. His answer was simple, sharp as a knife. “You were born to be useful.” Useful? Not loved. Not cherished. Not chosen. I was leverage, an offering on the bloodied altar of mafia politics. And now, on the night of my wedding, I see just how deep the betrayal runs. Matteo never needed a wife. He needed a shield. Someone to hide behind. And Enzo? He wanted silence. An heir. A tie between families. A woman who wouldn’t ask questions. But they miscalculated. Because I do ask questions. And I am not going to be the pawn. They forced me into this house, but I will not be silent, or useful as Enzo wanted. Let’s see how long they last when the pawn learns to play the king. The door crashes open behind me. I spin around, breath caught in my throat, and there he is, Matteo. Dishevelled. Rage rippling beneath his too-perfect suit. His eyes are wild, not with guilt, but fear. His lips are still swollen. The scent of another man clings to him like cologne. He slams the door shut and stalks toward me. “You saw nothing,” he growls. My fists curl at my sides. “I saw enough.” He grabs my arm, tight, bruising. “You don’t get to speak.” “Let go of me,” I snap, trying to yank free. His grip tightens. His face inches from mine, breath hot and bitter. “If you say one word, Brianna, one word to anyone, I will slit your f*****g throat in your sleep.” The threat slithers down my spine like ice. I stare into his eyes, and I see it, how desperate he is. How trapped. But I won’t pity him. But I won’t push him, he might just proceed with his threat. These people are monsters. I won’t fear him either. “I will not rot in this place pretending, you’ve already underestimated me.” His jaw tics. But he lets go. “Your throat is mine!” He storms out without another word, slamming the door so hard the mirror trembles. I sink onto the edge of the bed, chest heaving. So, this is what I married. A coward. And if he thinks threats will keep me quiet, he’s about to learn something very important. Queens don’t bow to boys hiding in closets.