MARRIED TO THE MAFIA

The Scandal

Luca

My phone started vibrating, waking me up in a haze. 

I blink against the morning light, groaning as I reach blindly for the device on my nightstand. The screen is flooded with missed calls, fifteen from my father, three from Tony, and one from a number I don’t recognize. That alone is enough to set my teeth on edge. My father never calls unless the world is on fire, and even then, he would expect me to put it out.

My thumb taps the first message on my phone and the headline explodes across the screen in all caps, bold and damning.

“MAFIA HEIR LUCA DELUCA SPOTTED LEAVING HOTEL WITH POLITICIAN’S WIFE, INTIMATE PHOTOS SURFACE”

I sit up straight, the silk sheets pooling around my waist as I scan the article. Photo after photo, grainy yet unmistakable. My jaw clenches. The woman is barely visible, wrapped in a coat and sunglasses, but I’m not as lucky. My face is crystal clear. My name dragged through every gossip blog and major tabloid within a matter of hours.

The door to my penthouse swings open without a knock. Tony steps in, holding his iPad like it’s a crime scene file.

“I assume you have seen it?”

“Hard to miss,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair as I get out of bed and stride toward the closet. “How bad is it?”

“Worse than you think. It’s all over Europe already. The acquisition board is blowing up my phone.”

“Fucking hell.” I grab a button down and start dressing. My mind is racing. This can’t spiral. I won’t let it. “I’ll fix it.”

“Fix it?” Tony raises a brow. “This isn’t like those bar fights or speeding tickets. This is an affair scandal. She’s the wife of the Deputy Prime Minister, Luca.”

“I said I will fix it.”

Tony exhales. He knows better than to argue when my voice drops to that deadly quiet. “You’ve got 48 hours before the investors start pulling out.”

“I only need twelve.” I say with finality. 

By the time I slide into the back seat of my black Bentley, the plan is already forming.

Damage control is all about perception.

I need to shift the narrative. From scandal to redemption. From reckless playboy to misunderstood romantic. The only way to kill a story like this… is to bury it beneath something bigger.

A wedding.

To a woman the world would never associate with scandal. Someone clean. Innocent. Wholesome.

And I knew exactly who fit the bill.

Lila.

I had seen her countless times at that hole in the wall jazz bar downtown. She was always in the background polite, soft spoken, never flirted, never lingered. The type of woman who blushed instead of smirked. She didn’t belong in my world. And that’s exactly what made her perfect for me.

The car pulls up outside the club, and I step out, ignoring the flicker of recognition from the valet as I push through the door.

Inside, it’s dimly lit, the scent of coffee and aged whiskey clinging to the air. I take my usual seat at the back booth, the one facing the entrance.

And then I see her, Lila.

She is carrying a tray with practiced ease, her dark hair tied back in a low ponytail, lips pressed together in concentration as she serves an older couple by the bar. Her figure is delicate but strong, wrapped in a simple black uniform that does nothing to hide the elegance of her frame.

Her legs, long and toned, catch my attention as they always do, but it’s her eyes that hold me when she finally notices me and walks over.

“Mr. Deluca,” she says, stopping by my table, her voice like the first quiet note in a storm. “What can I get you? the usual?”

“No.” I meet her gaze. “Sit. I need to speak with you.”

She freezes for a second. “I…I’m working.”

“It’s important.”

She hesitates, glancing over her shoulder toward the manager, then back at me. After a breath, she slides into the seat across from me.

“I need you to marry me.” I say as soon as she settles across from me. 

She blinks. Just once. Her entire body goes still and I can see the shock in her face. 

“I’m sorry?” she whispers.

I lean forward, folding my hands on the table. “You heard me. I need to marry you. And I’m willing to pay any amount, you just name it.”

“Is this some kind of joke?” she asks, her voice trembling slightly.

“No joke. I’m involved in a very public scandal. You’ve probably seen it.”

Her lips part as understanding begins to settle in. “The hotel photos...”

“Exactly.” I tap my fingers once against the polished wood. “I need a clean image. A woman who represents stability, morality, innocence. You fit the profile. Marrying you would shift the narrative entirely.”

She stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. “You don’t even know me.”

“I know enough. I know you’re putting yourself through night shifts to pay for your mother’s treatment. Stage four cancer, right?”

Her breath catches.

I continue. “You’ve been trying to get her into that private clinic in Milan. They turned you away because of the waiting list and the cost.”

“You had someone dig into me?” Her voice is sharp now.

“I don’t waste time with guessing games, Lila.”

She stands abruptly. “You think you can just walk in here, throw money at me, and I’ll say yes?”

I rise, towering over her. “I think you’re a smart woman, and smart women don’t let pride cost them everything.”

Then softly, she says, “Why me?”

“Because you're not like them. You're not trying to climb social ladders or get your face in tabloids. You keep your head down. People believe in women like you.”

“I’m not a pawn in your PR game.”

“No. You’re my salvation,” I say evenly. “And I’m offering you yours in return. Full coverage of your mother’s treatment, a new life, a home, and security beyond anything you’ve ever imagined.”

She swallows hard. “Do I have a choice?”

“Of course. You can walk away. But this offer won’t wait forever. I need an answer by morning. After that…” I glance around the bar, already imagining which other girl might fit the narrative. “I’ll have to find someone else.”

Her lips tighten. “You really think this means nothing to me?”

“I think your mother’s life means more,” I reply without flinching. “Think about it. And next time, don’t waste your time wondering who I am. You should be asking what I’m capable of.”

I drop a thick envelope on the table. My card. A deposit. A glimpse of what saying yes could look like.

Then I walk out.

If she’s half as smart as I think she is, she’ll call before sunrise.

And if she doesn’t?

She was never the girl I thought she was.

But in my line of work, I flourish on my instincts, I know how to read people, and Lila was desperate. She was definitely going to call me. 

It was just a matter of when.