A Marriage with the Mafia Prince

A L Y S S A

I have never stared at myself in a mirror this long, not even on mornings when exhaustion made its home on my face, or nights when I have cried hard enough to scare myself, because this time feels different... way different...

The bathroom is small, barely wide enough to stretch my arms out, and the single yellow bulb above the mirror is enough to light up the room. As I stare at my reflection, I see every question I have not answered sitting plainly on my face, the tension in my jaw, the way my lips keep pressing together as if holding back words I am afraid to say out loud, the uncertainty in my eyes that refuses to settle, no matter how long I look.

I am dressed better than I have been in years, not glamorous or expensive, the way women like Mrs Valentino carry themselves, but still decent and intentional in a quieter way. I wear a long black dress I forgot I owned until this afternoon, it's soft fabric that falls smoothly against my body without clinging too tightly and simple enough that it does not feel like a costume. My hair frames my face neatly, washed and styled with more effort than I usually allow myself, and my makeup is light, just enough to make me look awake, functional, like someone who belongs in rooms far bigger than my apartment.

I look fine.

Inside, I feel hollow and overstretched, like I have been pulled in too many directions at once, and something is bound to tear.

As I leave the bathroom and make my way into the living room, I glance at the digital clock on the TV stand. 5:47.

Thirteen minutes.

I smooth my dress again, even though there is nothing wrong with it, then walk further into the living room, where Carmen has been pacing since the moment I came out of the bathroom, moving back and forth across the floor with restless energy, her arms folding and unfolding, her foot tapping hard enough to make the lamp tremble slightly.

Then she comes to a stop the moment she sees me, her mouth falling open as she stares me down from head to toe.

"Wow, Alyssa," she says, breathless, taking a few steps closer to me.

I lift an eyebrow, attempting humour even though my throat feels tight. "That good or that bad?"

She continues to look me up and down slowly. "That is 'a you are about to walk into a very dangerous fairy tale' kind of good."

I let out a quiet breath that almost turns into a laugh, but it fades when I realise she is not smiling.

"You sure about this?" she asks, her voice lower now, and the truth comes easily to me.

"No," I mumble.

"Then do not go." She tries to plead, her eyebrows knotted worriedly.

I shake my head, trying not to think the worst of what might happen to me tonight. "I have to."

"You do not," she insists, stepping closer, frustration flashing across her face. "You can still say no. We can figure something else out. We always do."

I look down at my hands, at the way my fingers are pressed together too tightly. "If it were just me, I would walk away. I would not hesitate. But it is not just me." I say, and it seems that's enough for her to understand.

Her expression softens, worry breaking through her anger, but she still shakes her head. "Just promise me you will be careful. Promise me you will call me every hour."

"I cannot call you every hour." I huff.

"Then every two," she says without missing a moment. "And if I do not hear from you by midnight, I am calling the police and showing up at that place myself."

A small laugh escapes me. "You would actually do that."

"I would," she replies simply, then turns toward the window and pulls back the blinds. "And right on time."

I join her, my stomach twisting the second I see the black car waiting at the curb, polished and silent, expensive and completely out of place on this street.

Carmen grabs my hand, squeezing hard. "Text me when you get there."

"I will," I say just as I pull her in for a tight hug.

"I mean it." She tells me, mumbles against my shoulder.

"So do I," I answer just before pulling away and beginning to make my way towards the door.

I do not tell her how badly my legs are shaking, or how much I want to lock the door and pretend none of this is real. I just nod, draw in a breath, and step outside before I can change my mind.

By the time I reach outside, the driver is already waiting, tall and formal in a dark suit, his expression neutral.

"Miss Hart?" he asks politely as I get closer to him.

"That's me," I answer quietly, and he nods before moving to open the door, and after a brief pause, I climb into the back seat, the interior quiet and immaculate, smelling faintly of leather and cologne.

The door closes, and locks, and the car begins pulling away from the curb.

I watch the city slide past through the window, familiar streets giving way to wider roads, streetlights thinning out, buildings replaced by hedges and gates and stretches of quiet. It feels unreal, like I am being carried farther and farther from the life I know with every passing minute.

After close to 25 minutes, we drive down a long bare road lined with rows of green hedges, and at the edge of the road, there is a set of large black gates. As we approach, they open for us, and once I look out the window, I feel my breath leave my lungs.

The driveway curves through gardens and fountains illuminated by warm lights, statues rising from greenery like silent watchers, and then... the mansion appears. It's a pure white, lit up by golden lights that glow softly as dusk settles. Massive, elegant and surreal.

The car stops at the front of the mansion, and the driver steps out to open my door. As my heels touch the stone, I look up at the place where my life is about to change.

"They are waiting for you inside, Miss Hart," the driver says, and I nod and step forward.

I guess it's finally game time...