A Marriage with the Mafia Prince

A L Y S S A

I don't sleep that night. Not really, at least, maybe we're looking at a maximum of 3 hours. I tossed, turned, and spent the dark hours researching Valentino Enterprises, as much as the internet will give me. Which isn't much.

No job listings. No employee reviews. No company Instagram page bragging about its corporate culture. They're private, way too private.

But their name? Everywhere.

Real estate, private investments, whispers of politics. And the family itself...? Vittorio and Luciana Valentino... names dropped in articles about wealth, philanthropy, influence. Their faces pop up beside politicians and celebrities, letting me know that the people I'm dealing with, must be extremely important.

When the alarm buzzes at 7 AM, I'm already dressed and good to go.

I pull on the best outfit I own: black slacks, a white blouse, and a blazer I bought secondhand. It doesn't quite fit my shoulders, but it's the closest thing I have to "professional." My hair is dark, wavy and bobbed at my jawline, a few strands curling against my cheek no matter how much I smooth them down. My eyes are green, tired and ringed with shadows I've tried my best to cover with concealer. I stare back at my reflection in the mirror, daring me to believe I look like someone who belongs in a skyscraper. And maybe that's the sort of delusion I need to get through this interview.

I breathe out, shakily and finally, when I feel I'm ready, step out the door.

The subway ride is a blur, and I grip the pole so hard my knuckles ache, running through every possible scenario in my head. Maybe this is real. Maybe it's a hidden elite firm that doesn't post online. Maybe they want someone new, someone moldable, and it really is just a normal interview.

I tell myself I'm being dramatic and overthinking. I tell myself that three thousand times before the train screeches to my stop, just as I step out onto the street and make my way towards the powerful structure before me.

Valentino Enterprises.

The building towers above me, sleek glass and steel scraping the sky, and I have to admit, it's far better than what I expected. It's corporate perfection. And I'm about to walk right into it...

My stomach knots as I approach the entrance. The guards outside look like Secret Service, having on black suits, sunglasses and earpieces. Their hands are clasped neatly in front of them, and their posture screams authority; they don't even blink when I pass.

Inside, the air is much cooler and sharper. The receptionist greets me without surprise, as though she's been waiting all morning just for me.

"Miss Hart," she says, her voice light with a bright smile on her face. "Welcome. They're expecting you."

Just they. No names or titles, and the lack of information makes my heart race with anxiety.

"The 47th floor. The pass code is 473211." She says, then gestures to a private elevator, and my throat immediately tightens, my palms becoming damp. I want to turn around, to walk out the glass doors and back into anonymity.

But then I think of Mom.

Her pale face against hospital sheets, machines breathing for her, just barely staying alive. Every day, I imagine what it'll be like when she finally does wake up again. And that's all the motivation I need to keep going.

And so I step into the elevator, putting in the code she gave and watching as the doors close.

It moves too fast for me, making my stomach lurch and my ears pop from all the anxiety, and before I can even take a calming breath, the doors slide open.

The top floor is... Intimidating, cold and completely unwelcoming. All glass and steel and silence, like I've stepped into a throne room, where you don't speak unless you're told.

I step out slowly, and at he end of a long conference table sit two people I don't need introductions for. It's them, the people I've been reading about...

Mr and Mrs Valentino.

Power hangs around them, heavy in the air and making me feel small in my own skin. Mr Valentino appears somewhere in his early 50s, with a head full of dark slicked slicked-back hair, his suit perfectly cut, his grey eyes sharp enough to cut me in half. Mrs Valentino is no less intimidating. She is stunning, effortlessly elegant yet severe. But there's a coldness around her that makes my shoulders tense as I look at her. She has beautiful curly brown hair stopping just at her shoulders, and she's dressed in a fitted black dress.

I stand still, glancing between the two of them and swallowing hard.

"Miss Hart," Mr Valentino says, his voice deep and smooth. "Please, come, sit."

And I do. Because what else can I do?

My legs move before my brain catches up. I cross the room and lower myself into the chair across from them, feeling my spine stiffen, my palms clammy against my thighs. I feel small in this room, in their presence, like a mouse sitting in front of two lions. I take my seat across from them, and I shift nervously before clearing my throat and focusing on them.

"Mr and Mrs Valentino... good morning..." I let out, trying my best to hide my anxiety.

Finally, Mrs Valentino speaks, her voice gracious and polite. "Good morning. I appreciate you coming on such short notice."

I force a nod, my throat dry. "Thank you for... the invitation. Though, I have to admit, the email didn't really say what the position was."

Mr Valentino gives the faintest smile, like he's heard this exact line before, like my confusion is part of some script. Mrs Valentino doesn't smile. She just tilts her head, studying me like a specimen under glass.

"Yes," she says slowly. "We tend to avoid formal job postings when something... delicate is involved."

Delicate? My heart jumps at the word. "Delicate?" I echo before I can stop myself.

She sighs, not irritated exactly, but as if she expected me to stumble over the puzzle. "Yes. This interview is not for a job. Not in the traditional sense." She folds her hands neatly on the table, her movements calm, controlled. Every gesture is purposeful. "This is a role. A responsibility. One that requires a very specific kind of character."

My stomach twists. "I don't understand. I didn't apply for anything-..."

"You didn't need to," Mr Valentino cuts in, gentle but firm, like a teacher correcting a child. "You've already been chosen. Vetted, in fact."

The words sink in like stones. Chosen? Vetted? By who? For what? I feel cold all over, like I've just stepped into a trap I didn't see coming.

"Chosen... for what?" My voice shakes, no matter how hard I try to steady it. There's a pause. They exchange a glance I can't read. And then Mrs Valentino speaks.

"We'd like you to marry our son."

My heart sinks to my feet, and my mind blanks. The words don't make sense. Did she really just say...