Page 2 of Arranged Mafia Marriage

I grab onto the door handle, my knuckles white with tension. The familiar streets of my neighborhood blur past the tinted windows, each turn taking me further from everything I know. My mind races, trying to make sense of this surreal situation. Who are these men? Where are they taking me? And how do they know my name?

I try the door handle again, but it’s still locked. Panic claws at my throat. “Where are you taking me?”

Again, no answer.

The city lights blur outside the window as we speed through the streets. I press my forehead against the cool glass, trying to calm my racing pulse. What’s happening? Who were those men trying to shoot me? Who are these men who claim to be protecting me?

The limo turns onto the highway, picking up speed. We’re leaving the city, and I have no idea where we’re going.

I close my eyes, fighting back tears. Just this morning, my biggest worry was choreographing a new routine for myadvanced dance class. Now, I’m being kidnapped by strangers after nearly being shot.

The men in the car are silent as they scan our surroundings. I curl into myself, making my body as small as possible.

Where are we going? What do they want with me? My thoughts cloud any reasoning part of my brain, making it hard to come up with a plan once we arrive at our destination.

The limousine pulls up to a luxurious hotel, its golden lights illuminating the night sky. My captors, or protectors, as they claim to be, usher me inside, their hands firm but not rough on my arms. We bypass the lobby, heading straight for the elevators. They crowd around me and glare, trapping my voice in my throat so that I can’t call out for help.

The ride up is silent but tense. I watch the floor numbers climb higher and higher until we reach the penthouse suite. One of the men swipes a keycard, and the door swings open to reveal a sprawling expanse of luxury that takes away my breath.

Plush cream-colored sofas and armchairs dot the room, their pristine fabric gleaming under the soft glow of crystal chandeliers. Polished marble floors reflect the warm light, creating an almost comforting atmosphere, but I know there’s no comfort to be found in the hands of these men.

I look around, taking in the incredible surroundings, but my attention quickly turns to a commanding figure by the far wall. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame his tall silhouette against the twinkling cityscape beyond, the lights of New York creating a halo effect around his broad shoulders.

As we step inside, the man turns, and I can’t stifle the small gasp that escapes my lips. He must be at least seven feet. Thecity lights cast shadows across his chiseled features, highlighting a strong jawline dusted with light stubble. Short blond hair, slightly tousled, crowns his head, and his eyes, a startling, piercing blue, dart toward me with an intensity that makes my heart skip a beat.

“Miss Morris,” he says, his deep voice making me shiver. “I’m glad to see you’ve arrived safely.”

I swallow hard, trying to find my voice as sweat prickles my hairline. “Who are you? What’s going on?”

He takes a step closer, and I notice the way his tailored suit hugs his muscular frame. A traitorous part of my brain admires how incredibly attractive he is, even in this surreal and potentially dangerous situation.

“Stop it, Felicity,” I mutter under my breath, giving my head a slight shake.

“I’m sorry?” the man asks, one eyebrow arching in curiosity.

Heat rises to my cheeks. “Nothing,” I say quickly, forcing myself to focus. “I just... I need answers. Please.”

The man nods, his firm expression softening slightly. “Of course. You must be confused and frightened. I assure you, we mean you no harm. My name is…”

Before he can finish, one of my escorts clears his throat. “Sir, perhaps we should secure the perimeter first? They could’ve followed us here.”

The blond man’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, but he nods. “You’re right. Miss Morris, please, make yourself comfortable. I promise we’ll explain everything shortly.”

As he turns to confer with the other men, I sink into one of the nearby sofas, its softness a needed contrast to the hard knot of fear and confusion in my stomach. I watch the group, their hushed voices hard to hear, and try to make sense of how my ordinary life has suddenly become so extraordinary.

“Leave us,” says the man, his voice deep and accented. Russian, I think.

The men who brought me here nod and exit, closing the door behind them. I’m alone with this stranger, and my heart races.

“Who are you?” I demand, proud that my voice doesn’t shake. “Why am I here?”

He steps closer, and I resist the urge to back away. “My name is Kiril Pimaslov,” he says. “And you’re here because your life is in danger, Felicity Morris. Or should I say, Felicity DeLucci?”

I frown. “DeLucci? That’s not my name.”

“It is. It’s your father’s name. Yourrealfather’s name.”

“What are you talking about? My father died before I was born. My mother told me…”

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