Chapter 5

The next few days were a blur of excitement for Marco.

With some rare free time on his hands, he indulged himself, hopping from one bar to the next, surrounded by beautiful women and taking his pick of whoever he desired. It was the kind of life he enjoyed—free from responsibility, with no strings attached.

But the fun didn’t last long. A message from his Nonno arrived, summoning him to the Donato mansion immediately.

With little choice, Marco climbed into the back of his car, and Gino drove him toward the estate.

Sleek black cars flanked them, one at the front and one at the back, escorting them through the winding roads leading to his grandfather’s expensive property.

The sun had barely risen, casting a soft glow over the mansion’s grand facade as they pulled up to the entrance.

The cars came to a halt, and Gino exited first, opening the door for Marco.

Without a word, Marco stepped out, straightening his jacket as he approached the mansion.

A maid stood by the door, her posture respectful.

"Good morning, Marco," she greeted politely, bowing slightly. "Please, come to Elder Donato's room."

Marco raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

He knew exactly why she’d directed him there.

A knot of unease formed in his stomach, but he pushed it down. Whatever awaited him, he had no choice but to face it.

They walked through the grand halls, and Marco couldn’t shake the slight tinge of dread creeping over him.

When they reached the room, the first person he saw was his grandfather—seated in a wheelchair, grey hair framing his stern face.

The old man wasn’t pleased, that much was obvious.

Gino immediately bowed his head in respect, aware of the authority the elder Donato held. As the mafia capo, the grandfather commanded the utmost respect from everyone.

Marco mirrored Gino’s bow, but his was slight, a show of boldness wrapped in formal politeness.

The old man’s eyes narrowed.

With a curt wave of his hand, he signaled Gino to leave. Gino did so without hesitation, and the room seemed to shrink under the tension of the impending conversation.

"Sit," the grandfather commanded.

Marco chuckled, taking a seat across from him, masking his discomfort with forced confidence. "I thought you were going to scold me for something, Nonno," he said with a smirk, as if this were a casual meeting.

The old man’s lips tightened, showing a clear sign of displeasure. "I know you landed in Ashwood City earlier than you mentioned," he said, his voice cold and measured.

Marco felt a slight shock but hid it well. He kept his expression composed.

"Not that it bothers me, but I have something better to talk about," the grandfather continued.

Marco leaned back, curious now. "Oh?"

The grandfather’s eyes gleamed with the authority of a man used to having his commands followed without question. "I’ve arranged a bride for you."

Marco laughed out loud, disbelief written all over his face. "Is that a joke, Nonno?"

The elder Donato didn’t crack a smile. His expression was hard, stern, and completely unamused.

Marco quickly realized his grandfather wasn’t joking.

"The bride is from the Flynn family," the old man said. "A very kind woman."

Marco’s brow furrowed, recognition flashing in his mind. "Flynn?" He knew the history well enough.

The Flynn and Donato families had deep ties, the kind of connection steeped in generations of loyalty.

The Flynn family, with their patriarch, Nonno Flynn, had run The Legion mafia organization.

Their bond with the Donatos was as old as it was powerful.

"Yes," the grandfather confirmed. "Flynn. I promised my old friend, Roberto Flynn, that his first granddaughter would marry my first grandson. It’s time to fulfill that promise."

Marco’s interest faded in an instant. He leaned forward, shaking his head slightly. "I’m not interested in marriage, Nonno," he said, his tone sharp and dismissive. "Flings are all I care for." His voice carried a hint of insolence as he stood, intending to walk out.

Just as Marco turned to leave, his grandfather slammed his hand on the table, the sudden noise halting him in his tracks.

"If you don’t marry Delilah Flynn," the old man said, his voice dangerously low, "I won’t hand over my capo position to you."

Marco froze, his mind racing as he processed the threat that had just been laid before him.

He couldn’t believe it—his grandfather was trapping him with the very thing he had been working so hard for. The Capo position, the title he had sacrificed so much to earn.

He had left Ashwood City three years ago to help expand Cosa Nostra's reach, doing whatever it took to prove his loyalty and dedication to the family business.

It was all to get his grandfather’s attention, to make him see that Marco was ready to lead.

And for a while, Marco had thought his plan was working.

Even if his grandfather hadn’t named him Capo yet, Marco assumed it was only a matter of time.

After all, the old man wasn’t getting any younger. Eventually, age would force him to step down, and Marco would take over. It was supposed to be inevitable.

But now, this.

His chest tightened as realization hit—this sudden marriage arrangement was a roadblock, one that could ruin everything.

If he refused, everything he had worked for would slip right through his fingers.

Marco clenched his fists, his knuckles turning white. His jaw set in frustration. The tension in his body was clear, but he didn’t turn around.

His grandfather, keen as ever, noticed Marco’s reaction and smiled, his tone smug. "I guess you have no other option," he said, his voice laced with satisfaction.

Without waiting for Marco’s reply, the old man snapped his fingers. The sound was sharp, commanding.

Immediately, the door opened, and Frank, the grandfather’s right-hand man, entered. He carried a remote, giving a nod of respect to both men before pressing a button.

The large TV on the wall flickered to life.

A picture appeared on the screen—a young woman with auburn curls, dressed modestly in a simple outfit. Her expression was soft, almost shy.

Frank began speaking, narrating as he swiped through different photos.

"Delilah Flynn," he said, his tone professional. "Now 23 years old. Beautiful, kind, and from a respected lineage. She is the ideal bride for the Donato family."

Marco stared at the screen, unimpressed.

As Frank continued, images of Delilah flashed across the TV.

In each one, she appeared petite, with delicate features and an air of innocence.

But Marco’s attention focused on something else entirely. She was short, slender, and—he couldn’t help but notice—flat in all the wrong places.

She was nothing like the women he was used to, the ones who caught his eye with curves and confidence.

Marco scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Is this the girl you want me to marry?" he asked, disbelief dripping from his words. "She looks like a teenager."

His voice rose in irritation. "Are you seriously trying to marry me off to some 15-year-old? She looks immature!"

His grandfather’s eyes narrowed, but his voice remained calm, almost amused. "These photos are from eight years ago," he explained. "We have no recent pictures of her."

Marco frowned, a bit thrown by the revelation. "No recent pictures?"

"No," the old man confirmed. "And she doesn’t have any recent pictures of you either. Apparently, you barely take any photographs yourself. Her aunt showed her an old picture of you from years ago, much like what we have of her."

Frank stepped back, allowing the tension in the room to settle as the grandfather continued, his voice carrying the effects of tradition. "It’s the family culture of the Flynns and the Donatos. Neither the bride nor the groom sees the other’s face, nor any recent photographs, until they meet in the presence of both families."

Marco shook his head, letting out a frustrated chuckle. "This is ridiculous."

"Ridiculous or not," his grandfather replied, his tone turning stern, "Delilah Flynn and her aunt will be visiting soon to discuss the marriage preparations."