A Marriage with the Mafia Prince

Desperation makes people do crazy things.

Alyssa Hart doesn’t know yet just how far she’s willing to go. But she’s close, far too close, to finding out.

Her laptop screen flickers in the dark, the only source of light in her cramped apartment. The walls are thin, the air still, and outside, the city hums with life she’s not part of. Inside, she’s a statue—hunched over, silent, eyes dry from scrolling job listings for the fifth straight hour.

Each listing is a dead end. Everything worthwhile demands experience she doesn’t have, degrees she can’t afford. The low-wage jobs are worse—every one flooded with desperate people just like her.

Her shoulders ache from sitting so long. The back of her neck burns from tension. But still, she keeps clicking, refreshing, hoping.

The stress is a weight in her chest, dull and constant. Heavy like grief. Or guilt.

She leans back, closes her eyes, and tries to breathe. Just for a second.

But her mind won’t let her rest.

The hospital bills are due. Again.

She remembers the woman’s voice on the phone, soft, apologetic, but firm. “We’ve extended your payment window once already. We can’t hold your mother’s room forever.”

Her mother has been in a coma for months. A drunk driver. A rain-slicked road. And now, machines breathe for her. The doctors say there’s little hope. One in a million. That the kindest, most rational thing to do would be to pull the plug.

Alyssa’s stomach turns.

She presses her fingers to her temples, trying to hold in the rising panic. Think, Alyssa. There has to be something left. Some way out.

Then—

Ping.

The sound cuts through the silence.

An email. She glances at the subject line.

Interview Invitation – Valentino Enterprises

Her pulse skips.

That can’t be right.

She stares, blinking once, twice. Her fingers hover over the mouse. She never applied to Valentino Enterprises. Didn’t even consider it. They’re too elite. Too far removed from her world.

She clicks anyway.

Dear Miss Hart,

We are pleased to invite you for an interview at our main office tomorrow at 10 AM. Please confirm your attendance.

– Mrs. Valentino

That’s all. No mention of a role. No reference to her resume. Just a time, a place, and a name that makes her stomach twist.

Red flags. Everywhere.

She should delete it. Should shut the laptop and pretend she never saw it.

But her eyes drift to the stack of medical bills on the table. To the prescription receipt poking out of her purse—just one refill costs more than she made last month.

Her hands shake slightly as she clicks Accept.

.  .  .  .

The alarm buzzes at 7 AM, but Alyssa has already been awake for hours. She never really slept.

Instead, she spent the night reading everything she could find about Valentino Enterprises. It wasn’t much. The company keeps a low profile. No employee reviews. No job listings. No social media presence. But the name? It’s everywhere.

Mr. and Mrs. Valentino. Real estate. Private investments. Whispers of political ties. Their family is a fixture in the upper echelons of power. And someone like her has no business stepping into their orbit.

But she’s going anyway.

Because what choice does she have?

She pulls on the best outfit she owns. Black slacks. A white blouse. A blazer she found at a thrift store that doesn’t quite sit right on her shoulders. Her dark hair is smoothed down into soft waves, bobbed just under her jaw. Her green eyes stare back at her from the mirror, ringed with fatigue, but determined.

She leans close, debating more makeup. Decides against it. She wants to look real, not desperate.

She exhales and leaves the apartment, nerves twisted so tight they almost feel like steel.

The subway ride is a blur. Her thoughts run in loops. Maybe it’s some elite private firm. Maybe they don’t advertise online. Maybe it’s a front for human trafficking and she’s walking into a trap.

She tells herself she’s being dramatic.

Fifteen minutes later, she’s standing in front of a glass skyscraper that looks like it could belong to a tech giant, or a government. It’s sleek, silver, towering. Modern but imposing. She expected something darker. More clandestine.

This? This is power dressed in polish.

She hesitates before walking in, noting the security guards at the entrance. Suits, sunglasses, earpieces. Military posture. They don’t stop her. They barely glance her way.

Inside, the receptionist greets her without surprise.

“Miss Hart,” the woman says with a slight nod. “Welcome. They’re expecting you.”

Just they. No names. No roles.

The woman gestures toward a private elevator. Alyssa’s throat tightens. Her hands begin to sweat.

She wants to turn around. Wants to pretend she never clicked that email.

But then, her mother’s face. Pale. Silent. Still.

She steps into the elevator.

The ride is short. Too short. The doors slide open to a room that feels like a corporate throne room, glass walls, steel beams, and an atmosphere so cold it could freeze her in place.

Alyssa steps out slowly.

At the end of a long table, a man and a woman wait. They don’t need introductions. She knows exactly who they are.

Mr. and Mrs. Valentino.

He’s older, but sharp and handsome, black with grey hairs at his sides, a tailored suit, and eyes that could dissect you with a glance. She’s elegant, severe, composed in a way that makes Alyssa instinctively straighten her posture. The air around them hums with quiet tension, power settling over the room like a second atmosphere.

Alyssa swallows hard.

“Miss Hart,” Mr. Valentino says, his voice smooth, effortless. “Please, sit.”

She crosses the room and lowers herself into the chair across from them, her spine stiff, palms clammy against her thighs.

For a moment, no one speaks. Just the low crackle of something—power, expectation—filling the silence.

“I appreciate you coming on such short notice,” Mrs. Valentino says finally, her tone gracious but measured.

Alyssa offers a cautious nod. “Thank you for... the invitation. Though, I have to admit, the email didn’t really say what the position was.”

Mr. Valentino smiles faintly, like she’s said something expected. Mrs. Valentino, on the other hand, simply tilts her head.

“Yes,” the woman replies slowly. “We tend to avoid formal job postings when something... delicate is involved.”

Alyssa’s heart picks up. “Delicate?”

Mrs Valentino sighs softly. “Yes. This interview is not for a job... Not in the traditional sense,” Mrs. Valentino says, folding her hands on the table. Her voice is still calm, but there’s something clipped in her cadence now. “This is a role. A responsibility. One that requires a very specific kind of character.”

Alyssa blinks. “I don’t understand. I didn’t apply for anything—”

“You didn’t need to,” Mr. Valentino cuts in gently. “You’ve already been chosen. Vetted, in fact.”

A cold weight settles in her gut. She’s suddenly very aware of every breath she takes. “Chosen... for what?”

Another brief silence. Mrs. Valentino finally answers.

“We’d like you to marry our son.”

Alyssa pauses, the words failing to register in her mind.

"W-What?" She lets out in quiet disbelief.

“You heard correctly,” Mr. Valentino replies. He leans back, watching her closely. “This is not a job interview, Miss Hart. It’s a proposal.”

It feels like a test. Like some cruel joke.

“Why?” It’s the only word she can manage.

Mrs. Valentino smiles. Barely. “Because you need money. And we need a wife for our son.”

A chill crawls down her spine. “But... you don’t even know me.”

“We know enough,” Mr. Valentino says. “Your mother is sick. The bills are overwhelming. You’ve exhausted every option. But you haven’t given up. You refuse handouts. That makes you... suitable.”

Alyssa grips the armrests of her chair to steady herself.

“This isn’t real,” she whispers.

“It’s very real,” Mrs. Valentino says. “We’ll pay off all your mother’s medical expenses. In return, you will marry our son, Stephano.”

She wasn't expecting this, any of this...

Do they really want her to marry their son?

She forces her voice to hold steady. “And what happens after?”

Mr. Valentino doesn’t hesitate. “The contract lasts two years. You provide an heir. After that, you’re free.”

An heir.

She’s not a bride. She’s a vessel. A signed solution to a family’s legacy problem.

She should get up and walk out.

But she doesn’t.

Because her mother is dying.

And there is no one else coming to save her.

“I... I need time, to process... to think...” she says finally.

“Perhaps we can provide a little motivation...” Mrs. Valentino replies before she places her hands on the folder in front of her at slides it across the table to me...