Page 8 of Mafia Don's Secret Heir
“Have you made your decision?”
My grip tightens on the phone, my knuckles white. “I’ll marry you.”
There’s a pause, then the faint sound of him chuckling. “Good girl.”
My stomach churns at the words, and before I can stop myself, I snap, “Not because I want to. Because you’re forcing me.”
His laughter deepens, a rich, almost amused sound. “You might be surprised by what the future holds, sweet girl. Perhaps it won’t be as terrible as you think.”
“I doubt that,” I say, my voice cold.
He doesn’t respond to the jab, only says, “I’ll take care of the arrangements. You’ll hear from me soon.”
“Wha—”
The line goes dead before I can say another word.
Every second after the phone call drifts by in a haze, each moment feeling like sand slipping through my fingers. I vaguely recall going home, forcing myself to eat something—gas station takeout, because the grease feels indulgent, almost rebellious. I savor each salty, crispy bite like it’s some grand luxury, as though freedom itself is tucked into that crinkly paper bag.
After that, I somehow settle on a movie. It’s a silly flick I’ve seen a hundred times but feels like a comfort blanket right now. I curl up on the couch in my favorite oversized sweater, my legs tucked beneath me, a glass of cheap wine balanced precariouslyon the armrest. I laugh too loud at moments I’ve seen before, almost trying to forget the weight of what’s coming.
The absurdity of it all—the movie, the wine, the impromptu gas station feast—makes me want to cling to every second. It’s all mine, every small, mundane detail of this quiet night. Mine, until it isn’t anymore.
His last words echo in my mind, impossibly cryptic, like a lock I don’t have the key for. And though I try to lose myself in the warmth of familiarity, the knowledge of what’s ahead lingers, a shadow curling in the corners of my thoughts until I get to bed, and fall asleep.
I realize what he’s saying the next morning, just past ten, when a loud, harsh knock wakes me. I jolt upright, my pulse racing, the hazy remnants of sleep clinging to me. For a second, I forget where I am, my heart pounding like a caged animal. Then the knock comes again, brusque and relentless, dragging me fully into reality. I stumble out of bed, still in yesterday’s clothes, and yank the door open.
What greets me is nothing short of an ambush.
A small army of impeccably dressed men and women stands in the hallway, each holding clipboards, fabric swatches, and garment bags. The woman at the front—a cat-eyed brunette in a tailored suit—steps forward with a blindingly professional smile.
“Miss Russo,” she begins crisply, her tone the kind that brooks no argument. “We’re here to finalize the arrangements for your wedding.”
For a second, I just stare at her, uncomprehending. “You’re here to what?”
“The wedding,” she repeats, as if I’m the crazy one. She motions to her team, who start filing in without waiting for permission. “Mr. Salvatore has given us explicit instructions to ensure everything is perfect. From the venue to your gown, we’ll take care of it all.”
They swarm my tiny apartment like locusts. One man sets up a rack of designer dresses by the window; another flips open a portfolio of floral arrangements on my kitchen counter. The brunette is already listing cake options while someone else measures my living room as if considering the logistics of hosting a royal reception here.
My head spins. Their chatter is a relentless buzz in my ears.
“Stop,” I shout, my voice barely cutting through the chaos. “Stop!”
The room falls silent.
I take a deep breath, my hands curling into fists at my sides. “You need to leave. All of you.”
The brunette’s smile falters, her pen hovering mid-air. “Miss Russo, we have a very tight schedule?—”
“I don’t care about your schedule,” I snap. “If I’m being forced to marry Luca Salvatore, I’ll at least have a say in how it happens.”
Her brows arch, and I can practically see her mentally drafting her resignation letter. “Mr. Salvatore has given us very specific?—”
“I said,get out.”
The words echo in the room, and for a moment, no one moves. Then, one by one, they begin to gather their things, their movements stiff with disbelief. The brunette hesitates at the door, clearly unsure whether to call Luca herself or just quit on the spot.
“You can explain it to him,” I say, meeting her wide-eyed gaze. “Or I will.”
