The Interview

Ivy followed the butler through a corridor lined with oil paintings, past doors that looked older than the building itself, until they reached a study with leather chairs and a roaring fireplace.

A single man sat inside, his back to her, facing the flames. He didn’t turn around.

“Sit,” the butler said.

Ivy did. The butler left and closed the door softly behind him. In the study, the silence stretched.

Then, finally, the man spoke. His voice was low, smooth, and controlled.

“You’ve lived in eight different cities in ten years. No record of parents. Multiple jobs. No formal education past high school.”

Ivy stiffened.

“You’re resourceful,” he continued. “Unpredictable. And hard to trace.”

He turned, and Ivy’s breath caught.

The man was young. Early thirties, maybe. He had dark hair, perfectly cut. Olive skin, a sharp jaw, and eyes like obsidian — cold and unreadable.

Lorenzo Martinelli.

Ivy had never met him before, but she’d seen his face on gossip sites a few times. The billionaire no one ever saw in person. The untouchable, dangerous man with alleged Mafia ties. And now, apparently, interviewing potential wives like they were candidates for a crown.

“Why did you come?” he asked.

Ivy met his gaze without blinking. “Curiosity. And five hundred bucks.”

He smiled — barely. “Honest. That’s rare,” he said. “I like that.”

Lorenzo stood, crossing the room with the confidence of someone used to having the world at his feet.

“I don’t want someone who wants me,” he said, stopping inches from her. “I want someone who can survive me.”

Ivy literally felt the heat of the fire on her face. Her pulse thudded in her ears.

“You don’t know me,” she said quietly.

“No,” he agreed. “But I will.”

He turned away again.

“Your attendance f*e will be handed to you once you step out of here. You’ll be contacted tomorrow.”

And just like that, the interview was over.

---------------

Outside, the wind had died down. Ivy stepped back into the black car, heart pounding. Her reward for participating in this crazy joke was already tucked inside her clutch. It looked like a fortune to her. 

She didn’t know what she’d just agreed to, but for the first time in years, the future didn’t look empty. It looked dangerous, and she wasn’t sure if that scared her… or thrilled her.

The next morning, Ivy stood at the gates of the Martinelli Estate, unsure if she should admire the towering wrought-iron design or be terrified of what waited beyond it. The sun had barely climbed above the horizon, casting long shadows on the gravel driveway. 

Her sneakers crunched against it as she shifted nervously from foot to foot. This was unlike anything she’d ever signed up for — and she’d signed up for a lot of crazy gigs.

She'd received a text message at 5 a.m. from the unknown number, telling her to report back at the Martinelli Estate. A sharply dressed man stepped out from the security booth. His suit looked like it cost more than her entire closet.

“Name?” he asked without looking up from his clipboard.

“Ivy. Ivy Wesley.”

He checked the list, nodded once, and pressed a button on the panel beside him. The gates opened with a slow, eerie groan. 

“Proceed down the driveway,” the man instructed Ivy gruffly. “The house is on the left. Do not stray from the path. Cameras are everywhere.”

She offered a tight smile and walked through the gates, her heart hammering like a war drum.

The estate was massive. It was the kind of place that screamed old money, Mafia whispers, and generations of secrets. The mansion came into view; a blend of Italian villa and modern fortress, with marble pillars, fountains, and manicured gardens that looked too pristine to be real. 

A line of women had already gathered near the front steps. All of them were dressed like they were attending a red carpet event: high heels, red lips, sleek hair. Ivy swallowed, suddenly very aware of her worn jeans and second-hand leather jacket. She was the only one who looked like she got there by bus.

“Who let the janitor in?” one of the girls snickered.

Ivy raised her eyebrows but said nothing. Let them laugh. They didn’t know her story. She had survived too much to be intimidated by lipstick and stilettos.

Before she could find a spot to stand, the front door opened with a theatrical sweep. A man in his late thirties stepped out, flanked by two other assistants. He looked like a TV producer: slicked-back hair, expensive shoes, and a tablet in hand.

“Ladies!” he clapped his hands, voice booming. “Welcome to the Martinelli Estate. My name is Victor. I’ll be leading today’s... interview process.”

“Interview?” one girl asked, adjusting her cleavage.

“Yes. Today is less of a party and more of an audition,” Victor said. “You’re not here to network. You’re not here to model. As you were informed last night, you are here to possibly become the legal wife of Mr. Lorenzo Martinelli.”

A ripple of murmurs ran through the group.

“Mr. Martinelli is the CEO of Martinelli Enterprises, which runs a chain of luxury restaurants across the country and a winery that produces the finest wines and champagne known to mankind,” Victor continued. “He is heir to a billion-dollar fortune — and yes, the rumors are true, he’s that Martinelli.”

Ivy swallowed hard but remained quiet. She couldn’t help but wonder why a wealthy, handsome man like Lorenzo Martinelli had resorted to this extreme method of finding a wife.

“I knew it,” a red-lipped girl whispered behind Ivy. “This is the Mafia guy audition.”

Victor smirked. “Yes, yes. I can see the confusion. But rest assured — this is a legitimate arrangement. Mr. Martinelli is being required by family tradition to marry within the next thirty days. Rather than go through a typical courtship, he’s decided to... speed things up.”

Ivy’s jaw clenched. Yes, she needed money, but she didn’t expect to end up on an episode of The Bachelor: Mafia Edition. Why on earth did she come back here?

Even before the question finished forming in her head, Ivy knew the answer. She'd come back here for more. Much more than five hundred dollars. 

“You’ll be interviewed individually,” Victor continued. “You’ll get a chance to speak with the man himself — briefly — and if you’re selected, there will be a final round with the family.”

“Is this even legal?” someone asked.

Victor’s grin widened. “Perfectly. All participants will sign another NDA at the end of this exercise. If chosen, you’ll sign a prenup and marriage contract. Payment is generous. Dismissal is discreet. Now... if any of you would prefer to leave, the gate is still open.”

Ivy glanced around. Three girls immediately stepped out of line and left. Another rolled her eyes and walked off, muttering about rich people and their crazy games.

Ivy stayed. She wasn’t here for love. She wasn’t even here for adventure. She was here because she needed a way out. A future. Maybe even a second chance.

She lifted her chin and muttered, “Let’s do this.”