HIS MAFIA BRIDE

Chapter One – The Ordinary Morning

The first sound I heard that morning was the kettle whistling.

It wasn’t the alarm on my phone, not the birds outside, not even the soft hum of the refrigerator—it was the kettle, shrill and steady, followed by the uneven thump of Uncle Ron’s footsteps across the kitchen tiles.

I groaned and rolled over, my hair sticking to my cheek. Sunlight slipped through the curtains in thin stripes, landing across the heap of clothes on my chair. I’d meant to fold them last night, but practice had stretched too long, and by the time I showered, I’d just collapsed into bed.

For a few seconds, I stayed under the covers, listening to the house breathe. The kettle. The creak of the floor under his weight. The faint scrape as he dragged out a chair. All of it was familiar, safe. My world always began like this—quiet, ordinary.

“Lia!” his voice carried down the hall. “You’re going to be late again.”

I pushed the blanket off with a sigh. “I’m up!” My voice cracked, which made me wince. Not the best way for a music student to start her day.

By the time I shuffled into the kitchen, my uncle was already setting down two mugs. One had coffee, dark and steaming. The other had milk, warmed just the way I liked. His limp was obvious today. His right leg dragged slightly when he moved, a soft scrape on the tile with each step. He hated when I noticed, so I kept my eyes down as I slid into the chair.

“Morning,” I mumbled, wrapping my hands around the mug. The warmth felt good against my skin.

He studied me from across the table, his brow furrowing. “Did you even sleep?”

“A little,” I said.

“Define a little.”

“Like… four hours.”

His sigh was the kind that filled the whole kitchen. “You’ll burn yourself out before the competition even gets here.”

I grinned and shrugged. “Better to burn out than mess up on stage.”

“Not funny,” he muttered, but his mouth twitched like he wanted to smile.

Breakfast was simple—toast, eggs, and the leftover fruit he insisted I eat even when I complained. As I chewed, I caught the faintest wince on his face when he shifted his weight. His hand brushed his leg without thinking. The limp was worse when the weather was cold, but he never talked about it. Whenever I asked, he always gave the same answer: “Old injury. Don’t worry about it.”

So I didn’t. At least, not out loud.

By the time I left for school, the sky was bright, the air crisp. Uncle Ron stood at the door, arms crossed like a guard. He always walked me to the bus stop, even though it was only a block away.

“Text me when you get there,” he said.

“I always do.”

“And if you’re going to that café later—”

“—I’ll let you know.” I finished for him, laughing. “You’re worse than a helicopter parent.”

He didn’t laugh back. His eyes, soft but sharp, studied the street like he was expecting shadows to crawl out of it. Only when the bus pulled up did he finally pat my shoulder and step back.

“Go on, Lia. Make me proud today.”

I climbed onto the bus, waving at him through the window. His figure grew smaller as the bus pulled away, but I noticed he stayed there until the bus turned the corner.

He always did.

Music school was alive the second I stepped in. The hallways echoed with voices, instruments tuning, the occasional burst of laughter or frustrated groan. My friends were already by the lockers.

“Lia!” Sara waved, bouncing on her toes. Her curls were wild as always, and her violin case hung awkwardly from her shoulder. “Tell me you finished your piece for the competition.”

I grinned. “Almost.”

“Almost?” groaned Mateo, leaning against the lockers with his arms crossed. “You live at that piano. How can you be ‘almost’ done?”

“Perfection takes time,” I teased.

They groaned in unison, which only made me laugh harder. This was my world—Sara’s endless questions, Mateo’s sarcasm, the clutter of sheet music spilling from bags. We were all stressed, but together it felt lighter.

Classes passed in a blur of notes and scales. My fingers ached, but in a good way. Every time I hit the keys, I felt closer to something I couldn’t explain, like the music wasn’t just mine—it was part of me, stitched into my blood.

By the last bell, my stomach growled. Sara and Mateo made plans to grab lunch somewhere loud and busy, but I excused myself.

“I’ll be at the café,” I said, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “You know where to find me.”

They groaned again, but smiled. “Don’t practice too hard!”

The café near the school was small, tucked between a bookstore and a laundromat. I loved it because no one ever bothered me there. The barista knew me by name, and the corner table by the window had an outlet where I could plug in my keyboard if I wanted.

That afternoon, the place was half-empty. A couple whispered at a table near the front. A man typed furiously on his laptop. The air smelled of coffee beans and cinnamon.

I ordered my usual—a latte, extra foam—and slipped into my corner. I spread out my sheet music, adjusted the stand, and let my fingers fall into the melody I’d been chasing for weeks.

Soft, haunting, familiar.

Too familiar.

Every time I played it, something stirred in the back of my mind, like an old dream I couldn’t catch. But I pushed it away, letting the notes fill the space.

It was only after a while that I felt it—eyes.

At first, I ignored it. People stared sometimes when you played in public. But when I looked up, the man at the counter was watching me too closely. He turned away fast, pretending to check his phone.

I frowned and went back to my music.

A few minutes later, I noticed someone else outside the window. A figure passed once. Then again. The same man, I was sure of it. He slowed, glancing in as though searching for something. For someone.

My fingers faltered on the keys. The wrong note hung in the air, sharp and broken.

Something wasn’t right.

I closed my music folder, slipped my phone from my pocket, and dialed the number I knew by heart.

Uncle Ron picked up on the first ring. “Lia?”

“I’m fine,” I whispered, though my heart beat too fast. “I just—there’s someone. I feel… weird. Can you come get me?”

For a moment, silence. Then his voice, sharp and urgent: “Stay where you are. Don’t move. I’m on my way.”

The line went dead.

I stared at my reflection in the dark window, my hands trembling on the phone.

That was when I realized I wasn’t alone at the table anymore.

The chair across from me scraped against the floor.

I blinked, startled, and looked up.

A man I didn’t recognize had slid into the seat across my table. He wasn’t holding coffee, no book, no laptop—just himself, leaning back like he owned the corner. His jacket was too heavy for the weather, and his eyes… his eyes didn’t leave me.

“Sorry,” I said quickly, forcing a smile. “This seat’s taken.”

He didn’t move. Instead, his mouth curled, almost polite but not really. “You play beautifully.”

“Thanks,” I said, my fingers tightening around the edge of my music sheet. Compliments weren’t unusual, but the way he said it—it wasn’t admiration. It was assessment. Like I was a test he was watching too closely.

I glanced toward the front. The man with the laptop was still typing. The couple was gone. The barista was distracted, steaming milk, not looking this way.

And the man at the counter? He was still watching me. Pretending not to, but I caught his eyes in the reflection of the café glass.

Something wasn’t right.

I shifted in my seat, sliding my phone closer to me. My heart beat fast, too fast. I thought about calling Uncle Ron again, but I could almost hear his voice in my head: Stay where you are. Don’t move.

So I stayed.

The stranger leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Competition piece?” he asked, nodding at the sheets.

“Yes,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “Excuse me, I need to practice.”

He smiled like he knew a joke I didn’t. Then he said, softer: “You shouldn’t be here alone, Liana.”

My blood turned to ice.

I froze, staring at him. My name. He had said my name.

“I—” The word broke in my throat.

Before I could stand, his hand shot across the table and closed around my wrist. Firm, cold, unshaking.

“Let me go!” My voice was louder than I meant, panicked. Heads should have turned, but the café felt suddenly far away, muffled.

Another figure moved into my vision—the man from the counter, stepping closer, blocking the space between me and the door. His expression was flat, unreadable.

My phone slipped from my grip, falling onto the floor with a sharp crack. The screen lit up. Uncle Ron’s name glowed, calling me back.

I tried to reach, but the stranger’s grip tightened. His smile was gone now. His eyes were steel.

The man at the door glanced outside, then back at me. “We don’t have much time.”

I opened my mouth to scream, but a hand pressed against my shoulder, forcing me down. The café noises blurred, my pulse louder than anything else.

Through the glass, I thought I saw headlights. A car pulling up.

Uncle Ron.

But by the time he reached the café, I was already gone.