Falling For Her Mafia Captor

Violet's Pov

I had always dreamed of being a princess.

Today, I was dressed like one.

I twirled in front of the full-length mirror, watching my ball gown shimmer under the chandelier lights. 

I looked every inch a royalty — the kind of life Papa had made sure I had.

 It felt surreal but not as much as turning 20 years old today.

I had planned this night for months from the floral arrangements to the champagnes I had imported from Italy. 

 I told myself it would be epic. 

I was all smiles that evening until —Papa — Roberto Fernandez was not the affectionate kind.He wasn't wicked or remotely cruel. 

But he'd always been a ghost in my life — present yet distant.

 Like a shadow I could never catch. 

Papa rarely read me bedtime stories. 

There were no morning hugs, not even the father-daughter outings my friends would go on with their fathers. 

But there were expensive gifts on every birthday and brief appearances at school events. 

Even when he was present, his eyes seemed to be somewhere else.

I was disappointed.

But I was used to it.

However, tonight was going to be different because papa promised to give me all the time in the world.

“I will be there for you, mi ,” he had said, kissing the top of my head last night. 

“I swear it.” I was doubtful but I wanted to believe him.

I wanted to give him a chance.

 And I did.

I turned away from the mirror and left my bedroom, making my way downstairs. 

The party was in full swing. Laughter and music echoed in every corner of the grand hall. 

Elegant guests — men in crisp suits, women in sparkling gowns, danced together beneath the soft chandelier lights.

 Waiters weaved through the crowd, offering champagne flutes and hors d'oeuvres.

It was everything I had imagined. 

As I admired the sight before me, I scammed the room, searching for papa.

When I had nearly given up, my eyes locked on him.

He was standing near the grand staircase in deep conversation with a man I didn't recognize. 

The man was taller, older, with silver-streaked hair, and sharp green eyes.

 Papa kept an unreadable face but I could read the tension in his posture, a rigidness I had learned to recognize over the years. 

Papa was… uneasy.

I lifted my gown slightly so I wouldn't trip and took a step forward.

 “Papa!”

 I called out, hoping, praying he would look at me and give me that warm, rare smile he sometimes did when no one else was around. He turned his head slightly and my eyes lit up. 

Over here, Papa!Papa's gaze landed on me but he barely acknowledged me. 

His brows furrowed in mild irritation before he refocused on the man standing beside him.

What the —“Papa.” It came as a whisper.

He wouldn't hear me.

If he did, he refused to listen.

Disappointment formed a weight in my chest as I took another step closer. 

“Papa, c — can we talk? 

Even for a moment?” 

This time, he turned fully to me but he didn't say those words I wanted to hear.

 Instead, his eyes darkened and I could clearly read the emotions in them — Rage. 

Rage and something else I couldn't place.

 “Not now, Violet,” he said in a brusque tone.

 “Go enjoy your party.” I panicked. 

“But papa —”“I said not now!” 

He repeated and without sparing me another , he walked out the door. 

Straight to his office.

The door shut behind him with a quiet and final click.

“It's over".

“He didn't keep his promise.”

“Why'd you get your hopes up again, Violet? It's been the same every year.

”I stood there, my fists curling at my sides.

 Tears filled my eyes threatening to fall but I blinked them away immediately.

 I couldn't be seen crying on my own birthday.

“Lo side to, Violet.” 

A soft voice called behind me.

I turned to see Elena, our housemaid and the closest thing I had to family. 

She gave me a sympathetic look and took my hand.

“He's always like this,” I muttered, my voice betraying me. 

“Why did I even expect tonight to be different?

”She sighed".

"Signor Roberto is still your father, Violet, and every daughter hopes their father will show up for them."

 “Sure.” 

She squeezed my hand briefly before disappearing into the sea of guests. 

Now, it was just me in the hallway, surrounded by the echo of music and laughter and my own beating heart.

My eye drifted to the large portrait hanging on the wall — the one I had stared at countless times as a child.

 It was the only image I had of mama.

She was a beautiful woman with kind green eyes and long brown hair, sitting beside papa, who in even a picture, looked serious. 

And there I was, a baby in her arms.I reached out and traced the outline of her face with my fingers. 

I never knew her. 

I was told she had died when I was young, too young to remember.

Papa never spoke of her and then a few times I had asked, he had brushed it off. 

“I wish you were here.”

 I whispered.

I didn't get an answer but I heard a gunshot.

The music in the hall was too loud. 

I bet no one else heard it go off.

But I did.

Another gunshot rang out and my legs moved before my brain did. 

I rushed forward, pushing the door open.

I froze midway when I saw him —Papa, slumped in his office chair, crimson pooling across his crisp white shirt, his blue eyes meeting mine in a blankless, lifeless stare.

A gasp tore from my throat before I could stop myself.

Papa!

Standing across from him was the silver-haired man from earlier. 

He turned to the sound of the door and our eyes met.

 For a moment, neither of us moved.

Then, he smiled and raised his gun.