Page 15 of Fatal Sloth

"We can help each other then. We’ll get married, I'll take over as Don, and you'll be free from whatever it is that seems to make you afraid to say no to marrying me because I know you don't really want to. Once everything settles, we can either coexist or get divorced. If we divorce, you can move anywhere you want, anywhere at all."

He seems to prefer the idea of divorce over coexisting. Although the notion of a loveless marriage is less than ideal, divorce is not an option for me. Well, maybe it will be with my newfound freedom.

I confess that I, too, was kept in the dark about the wedding plans until today, so this is as much of a shock to me as it is to him. But he doesn't seem convinced by my confession, and I don't want to continue pleading my innocence to him.

“You won't worry about where I am or who I’m with, okay? In front of everyone, including both of our fathers, we'll be the happiest newlyweds. Nobody can know the truth of our arrangement; it will only screw things up for both of us. I don't need any more crap from him about settling down, and I really don't need to hear anything from you when I come home.”

What a jerk! If this proposal weren’t a lifeline to break free from the predetermined path I've been raised to follow, I would run. But it beats the alternative of going back in there and facing my father and facing his fury at home. A marriage without love or the possibility of ever being in love is something I never thought of. I always thought that after being around each other long enough, we’d fall in love eventually.

Despite how messed up this whole situation is, I take a few calming breaths to steady my racing heart and put on a brave face. Agreeing to this marriage feels like an escape from my father's controlling grip. Sebastiano offers the refuge I didn't realize I needed; he offers us both a way out. This is both terrifying and strangely liberating.

“Just remember what I said. Got it, Wife?”

“Got it, Husband.” This definitely isn't the fairytale engagement I dreamed of––agreeing to marry a kind of scary but still very handsome man in a bathroom, of all places—a future don, to be exact.

“What happens now?” I ask hesitantly, still unsure of how this day wholly unraveled at the seams so quickly.

“We go announce our engagement,” comes his response, void of all emotion.

10

Sebastiano

My head is still spinning as I try to process the plot twist to brunch.

This wasn’t the outcome I had anticipated, but the idea that I had just secured my title and would be one step closer to leading la Familia made the decision straightforward. The grand plan was all that really mattered to me.

Fuck, something about the way Peter was manhandling Mia didn't sit right with me. The look in her eyes spoke volumes. I’m not exactly sure what Peter fucking Russo would have done to her if she left without an engagement, but I know it wouldn't have been good.

While I have a reputation to fuck 'em' and dump 'em,' I would never hit a woman or allow one to be hit. Call it double standards, if you will, but that is where I stand. At least when I fuck them, it ends with us both being satisfied.

I've heard of Mia Russo somewhere in passing, but I can't put my finger on who was yapping about her. Maybe some random bullshit at a bar or a passing comment from one of my father's ass-kissers. Nevertheless, the image I have of her is crystal clear––a goody-two-shoes ballerina who probably went to some fancy-ass art school. The kind of chick who'd make any parent proud, the epitome of grace and discipline.

And here I am, the antithesis of everything she represents. I'm not one for dancing on tiptoes or attending fancy-ass galas. My world revolves around deals in smoky back rooms, not pirouettes on stage. But that's the thing about arranged marriages––they rarely consider compatibility or chemistry. It's all about optics, alliances, and power.

So, Mia becomes the pawn in my father's grand game of chess––a strategic move to solidify our family's standing in the underworld. She'll be the trophy wife, the perfect accessory to my role as the future don.

But deep down, beneath the facade of indifference, there's a resentment brewing within me. The thought of being shackled to someone I don't love, someone who doesn't understand the first fucking thing about me, fills me with a mixture of anger and resentment. Yet, I bury those feelings beneath layers of bravado. After all, this is the life I was born into, the path I'm expected to follow.

I’ll dance to the tune of my father’s deal. Because in this world, sometimes you have to spend a little to gain a lot, even if it leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

Now that Mia and I have a deal between us, we leave the bathroom and head back to the office, each step feeling like I'm trudging through quicksand. It's time to spill the news—a marriage shoved down my throat like some punishment for sins I didn't commit. And there she stands, by my side, her hand slipping into mine like we're some fairytale couple.

As I swing open the door, the cold reality of our situation hits me. It's a bitter reminder of the imploding truth we're facing, and all I can do is grit my teeth and bear it, playing the part of the don I'm supposed to be.

My eyes lock onto Dad's as soon as we enter the room, and I give him a curt nod, a silent signal confirming our deal as if our handholding wasn't telling enough.

"That's my boy," Dad exclaims, clapping me on the back with a force that makes me wince inwardly. "I knew you two would hit it off." His words land like a punch to the gut, and I swallow back the bile rising in my throat, forcing a tight-lipped smile to mask my true feelings.

"Mia, you are a vision of beauty, truly a perfect match for my son," he continues, his words dripping with satisfaction. Each word spoken is like a slap in the face, a cruel reminder of the shackles binding me to this fucked-up charade.

I bitterly square my shoulders and roll my eyes at his enthusiasm, suppressing the urge to tell him where he can shove his approval. Instead, I offer a tight-lipped smile and a nod, acknowledging his words without truly accepting them.

In his perception, Mia embodies flawlessness. She's tall, a bit too skinny for my taste, but she’s got a hot body. Every curve of her figure screams sex appeal, drawing attention like a magnet. Her hair's this cascade of gold, framing her face like a halo. And her eyes—deep blue pools that could drown a man with their innocence, but they hide a load of secrets.

But my old man's picture-perfect image of Mia is a load of bullshit compared to what I saw last night. Behind that innocent facade is a woman who isn't afraid to dive into her desires. She strutted around in that barely-there dress, owning every inch of the dance floor, making out with strangers like me. It was like it was some kind of game. Yeah, I might be a hypocrite, but I'm not pretending to be some moral saint.

The Plastic Bride of Chucky squeals in delight, way too fucking loud, when I give my nod. Seeing this trainwreck makes me realize this outcome could have been worse. Thank God Dad has better taste in women, especially with disasters like her running the streets of Chicago.

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