The don's unwanted wife

ALESSA'S POV White lace costs $40,000. Funny. It feels like a shroud. I keep my eyes on the marble floor of St. Patrick’s Cathedral as I walk toward him. One step. Two. My father’s hand on my arm is shaking. He thinks I don’t notice. I do. I notice everything when I’m terrified. “Alessa,” my father whispers. “You don’t have to—” “Yes, I do.” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. It sounds like glass. Cold. Brittle. “You made the deal, Papà. I’m just the payment.” The Conti family pews are empty except for my cousin Chiara. The Rossi side is packed. Soldiers in $5,000 suits. Wives dripping in diamonds and blood money. And at the altar, Damiano Rossi. The Don. My husband, in five minutes. He doesn’t look at me. He stares straight ahead, jaw locked like he’s waiting for a firing squad. Maybe he is. Maybe I’m the bullet. The priest clears his throat. “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…” I don’t hear the rest. I’m counting. Seven exits. Twelve armed men. One door behind the confessional that leads to 51st Street. Escape routes. Papà always said a Conti should know their exits. Too bad he never taught me how to avoid walking into the trap in the first place. “Alessa Conti, do you take this man…” My name. Not Rossi. They won’t even give me that. I lift my chin. Damiano finally looks at me. God help me. His eyes are black. Not brown. Not dark. Black, like a room with no windows. There’s no hate in them. That would be easier. There’s nothing. “I do,” I say. The word tastes like ash. “Damiano Rossi, do you take this woman…” A muscle ticks in his jaw. The entire church goes silent. For one second, I think he’ll say no. I think he’ll burn this deal to the ground and let the war happen. Then: “I do.” It’s not a vow. It’s a sentence. He slides a ring onto my finger. Platinum. Heavy. Cold. It doesn’t fit. He doesn’t kiss me. No one claps. --- The reception is at The Plaza. Five hundred guests, three hundred guns, and a five-tier cake no one will eat. I’m moved through it like a doll. Dance. Smile. Thank you for coming. Yes, I’m so happy. Lies. All of it. Damiano doesn’t touch me. Doesn’t look at me. He conducts business from the head table, nodding at men who come to whisper in his ear. Each one glances at me after. The Don’s unwanted wife. I can hear it in their eyes. At 11:47 PM, a hand closes around my elbow. “Time to go, Mrs. Rossi.” His voice is worse up close. Low. Gravel and sin. It scrapes down my spine. He doesn’t wait for me to answer. He walks, and I’m forced to follow or be dragged. The car is silent. The drive to his estate is silent. The house is a fortress — gates, guards, cameras. He takes me straight upstairs. Past rooms. Past doors. To the end of the hall. The master bedroom. He opens the door and gestures me inside like he’s holding it for a stranger. I step in. It smells like him. Cedar. Whiskey. Danger. The door clicks shut behind me. I turn. He’s by the bed already. He hasn’t taken off his jacket. Hasn’t loosened his tie. He looks like he’s about to go to a meeting, not a wedding night. Good. Because I’m about to be sick. “Sit,” he says. It’s not a request. I don’t sit. “If you’re going to—” “I’m not going to touch you.” He cuts me off, finally looking disgusted. “Do I look like I bed trash?” Trash. The word hits, but I don’t flinch. Conti women don’t flinch. “Then why am I here?” My voice shakes. I hate it. He walks to the nightstand. Opens the drawer. Pulls out a manila envelope and something small. Metal. He tosses both onto the white duvet. The envelope slides. The metal doesn’t. A bullet. One single bullet. 9mm. It gleams under the bedroom light. “Your father killed my mother,” Damiano says. His voice is empty again. “Twenty years ago, he put a bullet in her. I promised him his bloodline ends with you.” My heart stops. Then it sprints. “That’s why you married me?” “That’s why I married you.” He nods to the bed. “Those are divorce papers. Sign them. Take the bullet. And do it yourself.” The room tilts. “Excuse me?” “You heard me.” He steps closer. I smell the whiskey on him now. “Or don’t sign. Run. I’ll find you when I have proof your father ordered the hit. And I’ll do it for you.” He’s telling me to kill myself. On my wedding night. My father traded me to a monster. I look at the bullet. Then at him. Then at the door. Seven exits in the church. How many in this house? I walk to the bed. My legs are numb. I pick up the bullet. It’s warm from his hand. I expect him to gloat. To smile. He doesn’t. He just watches. Like I’m a bug he’s waiting to see die. I close my fist around the bullet. The metal bites into my palm. “Is this how you get rid of all your wives, Mr. Rossi?” I whisper. “Or am I special?” Something flashes in his eyes. Too fast to name. “You’re nothing,” he says. “You’re a Conti. That’s all you’ll ever be to me.” Nothing. Alessa Conti, aged 26, art history graduate, daughter, trash, nothing. I drop the divorce papers on the floor. I don’t look at them. Then I walk past him. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t stop me. I open the bedroom door. “Alessa.” I stop. Don’t turn. “If you walk out that door, you’re dead to your family. Dead to me. You won’t survive a week.” I think about Papà’s shaking hand. About Chiara alone in the pews. About 20 years of war. I think about the bullet in my fist. Then I think about my voice. The one he hasn’t heard yet. The one he thinks he already silenced. I step over the threshold. And I don’t look back. The last thing I hear is him, quiet: “Run fast, little Conti.”