Chapter three

The brilliant, luminous beams of the sun cascaded relentlessly onto my face, casting an unusual radiance that felt almost foreign in the context of Moscow, Russia. Typically enveloped in a blanket of snow, the city rarely witnessed such intense sunlight. The cold, though not biting, clung to the air as I groaned, compelled to awaken from my slumber. With a languid stretch, I hoisted myself from the comfort of the bed, my knuckles cracking in a satisfying rhythm, and a yawn escaping my mouth in an almost exaggerated display of morning awakening.

Seated on the edge of the bed, I reached out to retrieve my phone, which rested atop the bed head. The device yielded to my touch as I pressed the button to bring it to life. Instantly, my gaze gravitated toward the digital calendar, and there it was, April 12th, 2020, etched onto the screen. My heart fluttered, for this date marked not only the calendar's progression but also signified a mere two months remaining until the inevitable culmination of my forced, opportunistic marriage.

Engulfed in a cloak of melancholy, I sat amidst the softness of my bedding, the reality of the day dawning upon me with a weightiness that was difficult to shrug off. Today, amidst all its symbolism, was my engagement day. The night prior had seen me tossing and turning, a turbulent sea of thoughts churning within me as I contemplated the impending encounter with Antonio, my betrothed.

Antonio Luca, a name that carried with it an aura of dread and an air of mystique. Over the months leading up to this juncture, I had delved into the depths of research concerning this enigmatic figure. My findings, culled from various sources including newspapers, painted a haunting portrait of a man rumored to have single-handedly taken the lives of fifteen individuals, earning him the chilling moniker "The Death Angel of Doom." Though official channels may have debunked these claims, my intuition whispered a truth that refused to be silenced.

It was in the pages of these reports that I found myself confronting an unsettling duality within Antonio. The same man who allegedly wielded death's scythe also seemed to bear a semblance of restraint when it came to matters of debauchery and indulgence. A deep breath escaped me as I unlocked my phone, my trembling fingers navigating to a saved image, a digital memento of the journey I was embarked upon. His features, captured in stillness, held a frigidity that extended even through the lens of a photograph. I could only surmise the impact of encountering his gaze in person, my imagination running wild with vivid scenarios of our first meeting.

Oddly, amidst the trepidation and uncertainty, a latent thread of anticipation seemed to weave its way through my thoughts. An inexplicable curiosity emerged, an ember of intrigue glowing amidst the shadows of apprehension. As the sun's luminous beams continued to dance, I readied myself to face the day, resolute in my resolve to meet Antonio Luca, a man whose complexities and enigma mirrored the shifting tapestry of my emotions.

The virtual landscape of social media held meager clues regarding Antonio Luca, leaving me to piece together fragments that collectively painted a chilling portrait of ruthlessness. The scarcity of information only served to deepen the sense of foreboding that gnawed at my thoughts. Despite the increasing unease, my choices were limited, and the path ahead was predetermined. Conversations with my father seemed futile, his stance resolute and unwavering; what he had conveyed, he had conveyed.

Following a span of introspection that stretched into minutes, I roused myself from the embrace of the bed and proceeded to the shower. The water, cascading in rivulets, offered a brief respite from the day’s burgeoning warmth. Emerging from the shower, I selected my attire with care, shrouding my form in layers that provided insulation against the lingering chill. The anticipation hung heavy in the air, a palpable tension as I anticipated the arrival of the trio tasked with tending to my appearance—hair stylist, pedicurist, and manicurist, each poised to orchestrate a transformation in preparation for my impending engagement.

Seated upon the bed, I awaited their arrival, the minutes ticking by with a languid cadence. Hunger gnawed at my stomach, a sensation compounded by the memory of my mother’s well-intentioned but restrictive instructions to limit my intake. All in service of presenting a figure deemed “palatable” for my soon-to-be-betrothed.

“Mom, I can’t help but feel like this is all just a facade,” I murmured softly, my eyes meeting hers in the reflection of the mirror. The two of us stood side by side, gazing upon the reflection that stared back at us. There was no denying the external beauty that the mirror presented, yet beneath that veneer of aesthetics lay a myriad of emotions that eluded easy expression.

Her voice, tinged with maternal warmth, rang out, “You look so beautiful.” A well-intentioned observation, a refrain spoken countless times, but one that seemed to carry an undercurrent of concern. We locked eyes, a silent exchange of shared emotions.

My gaze turned inward, the layers of my thoughts unwinding in the quiet moments. What did it mean to be beautiful on a day like today? A day marred by the knowledge that appearances masked a complex reality, a reality that veered from the conventional narratives of joy and anticipation. The reflection in the mirror was a truth in itself, capturing both the shimmering surface and the depths beneath.

Silence enveloped us, punctuated by the weightiness of emotions too intricate to encapsulate in words. What celebration could genuinely transpire when the heart wrestled with a maelstrom of conflicting sentiments? The room seemed to echo with the unspoken sentiments that swirled between us.

"Olga," her voice, soft and tender, called out to me, accompanied by the delicate touch of her hand stroking my neck. I lifted my gaze, meeting her eyes in the mirror's reflection. A smile graced her lips, yet it waned slowly, dissolving into a solemn expression that mirrored the gravity of the situation. "There's nothing you can do to change this," she murmured, her words gently weaving through the air. "Just accept it and hope for the best from it."

Acceptance and hope—the path she advocated for seemed simple in theory, a straightforward surrender to circumstances beyond our control. But the depth of emotion that surged within me belied the apparent simplicity of her advice. "What if I don't want to accept it?" I questioned, my voice quivering with an undercurrent of tears held at bay. "What if I yearn for the autonomy to choose my own path?"

Her head shook with a measured sluggishness, a motion that seemed to encapsulate years of wisdom and experience. "It can't work that way, Olga," she responded, her tone carrying a hint of resignation. "The lives of the Mafias are a realm apart from those of the 'normals,' as you call them. I've walked these paths for far too long to understand that truth. Acceptance often outshines resistance, guiding us to make peace with the destiny that's been woven for us."

The words hung in the air, each syllable a piece of hard-earned wisdom passed from mother to daughter. Yet, while her perspective held a wisdom born of experience, my heart struggled against its constraints. "But this isn't my destiny!" The words burst forth with an intensity fueled by frustration, the emotions swirling within me boiling over. "This is the destiny that Father wishes to impose upon me."

A growl of frustration reverberated through the air, my head wagging frantically as if to shake off the weight of expectation and tradition. But her patience had its limits, and in a moment, her patience snapped, her voice cutting through the room like a dog's bark. "Enough, Olga! Enough."

I could feel the heat of anger surge within me, a surge that dared to challenge the bounds of respect that bound mother and daughter. "Shut me up like you always do," I retorted, a sharpness lacing my words. "I shouldn't expect much from you. After all, you've allowed yourself to become his puppet, to be yanked around according to his whims."

The words hung in the air, the sting of their truth landing with an impact that left an indelible mark. In the stillness that followed, I found myself grappling with a tangle of emotions. The strength of my words bore the weight of my frustration, yet their honesty also carried the sting of realization—an acknowledgment of the complexities that tied my mother's actions to a web of interwoven obligations and loyalties.

A pregnant silence lingered in the wake of my candid words, my mother's gaze fixed upon me with a mask of emotionless detachment. The frosty chill that emanated from her eyes spoke volumes, a silent testament to the realization that I had unraveled threads that would have been better left untouched. My lips twitched with the impulse to retract my words, to mend the rift I had inadvertently created, but I swallowed back the urge, allowing the silence to stand.

"Come downstairs soon. Don't keep them waiting," her voice, low and measured, resonated in the room as she turned and departed without further ado. My fists clenched involuntarily, the tension of the moment coiled within me.

Minutes stretched into a muted tableau, my mind a canvas painted with the apprehension of facing the imminent gathering. Just then, Dima's figure materialized at the doorway, his black suit a stark contrast against the backdrop of my thoughts. His presence was a harbinger of a summons from the man who held the strings of power within these walls.

"Pakhan has demanded your presence," his words were crisp, a reminder that duty superseded personal feelings.

"Okay," I responded, my voice carrying the weight of reluctant compliance. I rose from the chair, the fabric of my navy blue maxi dress slipping through my fingers as I prepared to descend the proverbial steps towards my destiny. Dima's gaze remained fixed upon me, his frown a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken turmoil that roiled beneath the surface.

As I walked downstairs, my eyes took in the intricate decorations that adorned the house, each detail meticulously chosen to resonate with the gravity of the occasion. My footsteps carried me into the heart of the room, and there they stood—figures of consequence and power.

My gaze found Mr. Luca Domenico, the capo de capi of the Cosa Nostra. His eyes glinted with a cheeky smirk, a gesture that betrayed a sense of amusement at the unfolding events. Father's advice echoed in my mind, an exhortation to maintain a façade of corporate grace. Despite my best efforts, however, my lips struggled to comply.

But the true centerpiece of the moment stood beside Mr. Domenico—Antonio Luca. His eyes bore the same cold, apathetic demeanor that had captured me in photographs. An involuntary flinch betrayed my reaction as his gaze pierced through me, each icy glance sending shivers down my spine.

"Here she comes," Father's voice cut through the haze of thoughts that had enveloped me. The weight of his words prompted me to muster a wavering smile, a fragile mask that concealed the conflict within. A moment caught in the tension between anticipation and dread—a bittersweet interlude that encapsulated the complexity of emotions that swirled around me.

Seated amidst the gathering, I observed the tableau that unfolded before me. Mother, Dad, and Anton formed a trio, their positions deliberate, embodying the network of allegiances that extended beyond the mere family ties. Anton's bright-eyed gaze wandered, seemingly oblivious to the intricate web of power and politics woven around him. For a fleeting moment, I wished to be as innocent and unaware as he appeared. To be shielded from the weight of responsibility and destiny that rested upon my shoulders.

As my gaze swept across the room, I took note of the presence of the bridgediers, the elusive two spies whose role was to ensure loyalty and prevent treachery within their ranks, the diligent bookkeepers who maintained records in the shadows, and various members of the Cosa Nostra who lent their formidable presence to the occasion.

Luca Domenico's Italian-accented voice cut through the air, a comment on my appearance that hung in the atmosphere like a delicate wisp of smoke. Antonio, on the other hand, retained his stoic composure, seemingly unaffected by my presence or the exchange of words around him. What thoughts churned within the depths of his enigmatic gaze, I could only speculate. Perhaps, like me, he harbored reservations about the path laid before us.

"I told you," Father's words reverberated, accompanied by a hint of self-satisfaction that danced upon his lips. His smirk was a well-practiced facade, concealing the intricate machinations beneath. I wished to avoid Antonio's gaze, to shield myself from the intensity that emanated from him, but our eyes locked several times, each fleeting connection a momentary battle of wills.

The proceedings segued to a pivotal juncture as Father declared, "I think it is about time we get started."

"Wait!" The single word, issued with an undertone of a growling baritone, resonated through the space. The room collectively held its breath as Antonio's voice disrupted the anticipated flow of events. The unexpectedness of his interruption jolted me, my heart leaping only to settle heavily in my stomach. His desire to speak with me was a curveball that neither of us had seen coming.

Father's acquiescence shattered the suspended tension as he commanded, "Very well then. Dima, escort them to the balcony."

With measured steps, I moved alongside Antonio, the distance between us a testament to the tentative nature of the alliance being forged. Dima's presence at the entrance was a reminder that trust was yet to be fully established, that even in this context of unity, caution remained paramount.

"Leave us! Wait for us outside," Antonio's commanding tone directed Dima's exit, and the door closed behind him, leaving us on the balcony, shielded from prying eyes yet exposed to a myriad of unspoken truths.

As the weight of the silence enveloped us, his teak wood eyes met mine, an intensity that held a mythical allure. His cinnamon brown hair, styled with an air of casual elegance, complemented his gaze, creating a striking aesthetic that stood out even amidst the grandeur of the occasion.

"Do you want this marriage?" His words, laced with raw directness, hung between us like a thread waiting to be woven into a tapestry of answers. It was an inquiry that tugged at the precipice of truth and falsehood, a precipice upon which I stood, my footing unsure as I grappled with the enormity of my response. To confess the truth meant embracing the abyss of consequences that lay ahead; to utter a lie was to navigate a lifetime cloaked in deception.