Chapter 5: The Anger of the Lord of the Mafia

SANTINO'S POINT OF VIEW

I had been looking at my gold watch for what felt like an eternity. An exceptional piece, given to me by my father before his death. Today, it sounded like a bitter reminder of every second of humiliation that passed.

Alaya should have been here. My future wife. My virgin. My trophy. But she shone by her absence.

The whispers rose in the church like a black tide. The guests of the mafia, cartel leaders, crooked senators, and even members of the Italian royal family were starting to lose patience. I could hear their voices:

— "Where is the bride?"

— "Looks like she bailed out..."

— "Did Santino get stood up at the altar?"

I wanted to shoot them, one by one. But I kept my jaw clenched, my fists tight, and my gaze fixed on the entrance. I was waiting. A part of me refused to believe she would dare.

And then I saw her. Marisa. She stepped through the small side door of the church, her pale face and downcast eyes. She made a small, nervous gesture. My heart contracted. I politely excused the priest with a brief wave of my hand and descended the altar steps like a king temporarily abandoning his throne.

As soon as the door closed behind us, I knew. I felt it. The chaos.

— "She ran away..." Marisa whispered. Her voice trembled.

I froze, staring at her. The word took a second to traverse my brain. Ran away? My blood turned to acid.

I grabbed her arms and slammed her violently against the wall.

— "Repeat that. Repeat that, damn it!" I growled, my voice hoarse.

She gasped, unable to meet my gaze. I tightened my fingers around her throat, my veins swollen with rage. — "You were supposed to watch her! It was YOUR job!"

I felt her panic, her short breaths, her fear.

— "I... I... I'm sorry, she told me she wanted to... and... I thought she wouldn't do anything stupid!"

I drew my weapon with a swift motion. The cold muzzle of my Beretta 92 pressed against her forehead.

— "You thought?! We don't think, Marisa! We obey!" My voice cracked in the corridor like a thunderclap.

She was crying now. Her makeup was running, her hands trembling. But it didn't calm me. I was on fire. I was a bomb.

I slowly lowered my weapon. Not out of pity. But because killing Marisa so soon would be too easy. Plus, a gunshot in the church would trigger a panic alert among the guests. So, I let her go, and she slid down the wall, gasping for air.

I took a step back, my hands shaking, my heart pounding against my ribcage like a wild animal. The church was silent now, almost solemn. A wedding without a bride. A king abandoned.

I struck a crystal vase. It shattered against the floor into a thousand pieces. I knocked over a bench. Then two. The priest hurried out. I screamed.

— "Find her! Bring her back to me alive, damn it! Or I swear I'll kill you one by one, you bunch of useless fools!"

Marisa was already running toward the exit, without a word.

I stood there, alone in this senseless church. My jaws clenched. My hands stained with the scent of betrayal. I had been humiliated. By a girl I had chosen. Locked away. Prepared to be mine.

She had fled. On the day of our union.

ALAYA'S POINT OF VIEW

The truck's engine cut off, leaving a suspended silence in the air, almost unreal. The old lady stared at me for a moment, speechless. Her gaze moved from my torn dress to the dirt marks on my legs, then to my swollen ankle. I was in pain, terribly in pain, but I forced myself not to groan.

— "Get in," she finally whispered.

I climbed into the back of the vehicle, grimacing, gritting my teeth with every movement. The old woman closed the door, took the wheel, and started the engine again. I didn't ask any questions. I didn't even know where she was taking me, but at that moment, any place seemed preferable to the one I was fleeing.

The ride was short, barely ten minutes, and silent. My heart beat so loudly it almost drowned out the noise of the engine. When the truck stopped, she got out, slowly walked around the vehicle, and opened the door on my side.

— "Come, my daughter. Can you walk?"

— "I'll try," I said in a painful whisper.

I leaned on her. Her frail arms supported me as best they could, and together we entered a small, wooden house, modest but warm. The air was filled with the scent of jasmine and a recently extinguished wood fire. She made me sit in a soft armchair, with mismatched cushions, and hurried to the kitchen.

A few moments later, she returned with a steaming cup.

— "Drink this. It's ginger tea. It will soothe you a bit."

— "Thank you... thank you very much," I whispered, tears still brimming in my eyes.

I brought the cup to my lips. My hands trembled. She sat down on a chair across from me, watching me with a mixture of sweetness and suspicion. After a few minutes of silence, she finally spoke.

— "Now tell me… Why are you in a wedding dress, all alone on the road, and pursued like a criminal? What’s going on?"

I lowered my head, ashamed, exhausted, overwhelmed by everything I had experienced in a day. My voice trembled as I replied:

— "I ran away... I ran from my wedding. They wanted to force me to marry a man… a cruel man. His name is Santino Ricci."

The moment the name crossed my lips, the old woman turned pale. Her eyes widened as if I had just uttered a curse.

— "Santino?" she repeated, almost horrified. "You said… Santino Ricci?"

— "Yes..." I whispered. "Do you know him?"

She abruptly stood up, pacing the room. Her face had drained of all color.

— "My God… no… no, no. You have to leave. You must leave my house. If he ever learns that I helped you… he will kill me. He has no mercy. None."

— "Please..." I pleaded, tears streaming down my cheeks again. "I have nowhere to go… I swear I will leave tomorrow. I can't even walk properly. Look at my ankle…"

She looked at me intently. Her face hardened. She was torn between fear and compassion.

— "You don’t realize," she whispered. "Santino… he’s not like other men. He is the devil himself. He kills, destroys, burns without ever blinking. Do you think you’re the first woman to try to escape him? I've heard... terrifying stories."

I nodded. I understood her fear. I felt it in my own gut.

— "I understand..." I said in a broken voice. "I really understand. But just let me stay this night. Just one night to regain my strength. Tomorrow, I will leave. Even if I have to crawl."

She stared at me. I saw in her eyes the battle she was fighting inside. Then she sighed.

— "Very well. One night. But at dawn, you must disappear. I will tend to your ankle. But after that, I don’t want to see you here again."

— "Thank you... thank you," I murmured, breathless.

She went to a dresser and took out a clean cloth, a bottle of oil, and a basin. She disappeared for a few seconds, then returned with warm water. She knelt at my feet and began to gently treat my sprain.

— "It's not broken," she said after a moment. "But it's quite swollen. You took a bad misstep."

I groaned softly as she tightened the bandage.

— "Sorry, dear. I'm sorry I have to put you out tomorrow," she added, her voice emotional.

— "Don't worry," I replied. "I understand. I'm the one putting you in danger. I would do the same if I were you."

I watched her wrinkled hands carefully wrap my ankle, and for the first time, I fully realized the weight of the name I was fleeing. Santino. A simple word capable of chilling the blood, of tearing a firm "no" from those who, a second earlier, had offered refuge.

I had just discovered a terrifying truth: the man I had fled was not just cruel. He was feared. Dreaded. Everywhere.