Page 22 of Married to the Mafia Devil

“I'm here to help you get ready,” she says, stepping inside as I move back, still trying to shake off the remnants of fear. My gaze then falls on the dress laid out for me.

It seems almost ethereal in the soft glow of the morning light. It’s crafted from layers of fine, diaphanous chiffon that float around the form, each movement creating a delicate dance of shadows and light. The bodice, form-fitting and made from the softest silk, is adorned with an intricate pattern of lace.

Each stitch of lace is a delicate whisper of history, resembling the fine, ornate details on the binding of a rare first edition. Along the neckline, small pearls are sewn meticulously, reminiscent of the dewdrops that might grace the roses in a garden. The sleeves are sheer, reaching just to my elbows, edged with the same vintage lace, giving it a timeless elegance that feels both romantic and sophisticated.

The skirt cascades down in a gentle A-line, the chiffon parting in places to reveal an underlayer of silk that shimmers. Around the waist, a simple silk belt cinches in, detailed modestly with a small bow at the back.

The train, not overly long but enchanting in its simplicity, trails behind gently, its edges embroidered with threads that catch the light.

For a moment, I can only stare at it, the reality of what today signifies settling in with a weight that's both terrifying and strangely comforting.

“This is it, then,” I whisper to myself, more a confirmation than a question. Marcella notices my gaze and nods, a sympathetic tilt to her lips. “This is actually happening.”

She doesn't push or pry; she simply offers a soft, “Let's get you ready, dear.” She helps me into the dress, her hands skilled and gentle as she works. The fabric fits perfectly, as if it were made just for me. Maybe it was.

As she does my hair and makeup, I find a semblance of peace in the ritual, a momentary escape from the whirlwind of emotions threatening to overwhelm me.

When she's finished, I hardly recognize the woman staring back at me in the mirror. There's a strength in the eyes I see, a determination that wasn't there before. I can do this.

Her message alert chimes. Glancing at her phone, she ushers me forward with a newfound urgency. “He’s waiting for you downstairs. It’s time.”

I'm about to marry a man I barely know, to enter a world fraught with danger, all to protect the sister I love more than anything. And yet, as I descend the staircase, the dress whispering around my feet, I can't help but feel that, despite the circumstances, I'm somehow where I'm meant to be.

I think back to last night. He spanked me, he made me come. It was as if he knew exactly how to treat my body, even if I didn’t. He’s inside my head, my soul, my being. I can’t let him stay. He’s clearly the kind of man who has to be in control of every situation. He would never listen to my opinion.

He listened last night, a voice in my head whispers. Stopped when you told him to, said you had the power. Remember?

I find him waiting for me in the conservatory, the room bathed in the soft morning light, its glass walls offering a panoramic view of the sprawling grounds that border the river. The beauty of it all does little to ease the knot of anxiety in my stomach.

He looks up from his book as I enter, his expression unreadable. For a moment, we just look at each other, and I'm acutely aware of the wedding dress hugging my frame, a constant reminder of the surreal turn my life has taken recently.

“Isn’t it bad luck to see me in this before the wedding?” I ask.

“There is no such thing as luck,” he replies.

“Well, you’re a ray of sunshine in the mornings, aren’t you?”

“How are you feeling?”

“Stressed,” I admit. “I can’t believe this is happening.” My heart races, panic nibbling at the edges of my resolve. The reality of marrying Matteo, of binding myself to him under such extraordinary circumstances, presses down on me.

He steps closer, a frown creasing his brow as if he can read the tumultuous thoughts swirling in my mind. “I don't want to force you into a life that you wouldn’t choose freely,” he says, his words a balm to the chaos within me. “I know you can handle this. I see the strength within you.”

The tension in my shoulders eases slightly. “I'll do you a deal,” he continues, his gaze holding mine. “Marry me for six weeks. If you’re not feeling better about yourself by then, we end it. I clear your debts, give you enough to fulfill your dream. What is your dream?”

His question catches me off guard, a reminder of the life I had envisioned for myself before everything spiraled out of control. “To go to college,” I say, the words laden with the weight of dreams deferred. “To study counseling. Try to help people like my sister.”

“No problem,” he responds without hesitation, a faint smile touching his lips. “If you end things and Petrovitch is still alive, you will have guards to keep you safe until he is dealt with. What do you say?”

The proposal, so starkly practical yet underscored with an understanding of my fears and desires, leaves me reeling. Six weeks to find a semblance of normalcy, of safety, in the eye of the storm that's become my life.

“You’re really going to let me choose?”

“I swear,” he promises, and there's a solemnity in his vow that tugs at something deep within me. “You commit to the marriage, to my command. Let me show you who you can be.”

I nod, a silent agreement sealing our fates. “Okay,” I whisper, a mixture of resignation and relief coursing through me. “Six weeks. That I can do.”

EIGHT

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