The Mafia King and His Bride

* Miranda *

It was the weekend, and I had no plans to leave our home. Working as a bank clerk at one of the city's famous banks is not that tiring; however, I am feeling a bit lazy this morning. I opened the thick curtains of my bedroom window and the first thing I noticed was the sound.

Not the engines, those were expected in a place like this, where wealth announced itself loudly, but the silence that followed when the three black cars came to a stop in front of our mansion. Even the fountain seemed to hush, its water slowing as if it sensed something had arrived that did not belong to us.

I walked out of my room and stood at the top of the staircase, fingers curled around the banister, watching through the tall arched windows as men stepped out in precise formation. They are wearing dark suits and I noticed earpieces. Their eyes wandered outside our home. They did not look around in curiosity the way guests did. They scanned the place from the gates to our entrance.

And then one of the men opened the door of the luxury black car. I saw someone who seemed to be important emerge.

An old man with gray hair. Despite that, he is broad-shouldered even in the years weighing him down. He moved without hurry, a black cane tapping once against the marble drive, not for support, I realized, but for punctuation. Power rolled off him in waves, quiet and absolute. The kind of man who looks expensive from head to toe wearing a dark suit.

A chill crawled up my spine and I gulped down a lump in my throat for an unknown reason.

"Miranda," my father called me from below, I just turned a bit and I noticed him facing me from down the stairs. "Fix yourself and come join me to greet my guests."

I opened my mouth to ask why but he turned and hurriedly met with the visitors.

That alone told me something was wrong. Dad never summoned me when guests arrived. He liked to play the charming host, the untouchable man with money to burn. But his voice now carried an edge I had never heard before, thin and brittle. Like he was afraid.

I quickly change into a pale blue flower printed above the knee summer dress, and brush my hair then glance back at the reflection in my dresser. When I was sure that I looked decent enough I walked to the bedroom door.

I descended the stairs slowly, my heels clicking softly against the marble floors. My father stood in the center of the receiving hall, his suit wrinkled, his tie loosened like he had been pulling at it for air. Sweat shone at his temples even when it is cold.

The old man stood opposite him, with hands folded atop his cane, dark eyes lifting to me with interest that made my stomach knot. He isn't bad looking, I could only guess that he looked better when he was younger but there is something in his gray eyes that made me feel afraid.

"Ah," he said, his accent thick, deliberate. Italian. "So this is your daughter, Emmanuel."

My father forced a laugh without humor. "Yes Mr. De Luca, Miranda, this is...this is Mister Salvatore DeLuca. A businessman and a, friend."

Businessman? It made me frown but I composed myself. Everything about him screamed something else, and he does not seem to be his friend if my father is acting like this. The way the men behind him stood like statues. The way my Dad couldn't meet his eyes. Also, the way the room felt smaller, as if the walls themselves bowed inward.

"Nice to meet you, Mister De Luca," I said automatically, though my throat felt tight.

His lips curved into a smile that never reached his gray eyes. "You have your mother's face," he said looking at the wedding portrait of my late mother and Dad hanging on the wall. "And also your father's, misfortune."

I glanced at Dad. He flinched and looked down instead of meeting my gaze. That was when I understood.

The casino cards I found in the library. The nights he didn't come home. The whispers I'd overheard from the house help. The frantic phone calls and the promises he swore were under control.

How much does he owe this man for him to come bragging at our home like this?

Salvatore turned slightly, and one of his men stepped forward, placing a folder onto our polished table. Papers spilled out, numbers, signatures, and dates. My Dad's name was written again and again, each time looking more like a death sentence.

"You gambled with money that was not yours, Emmanuel," Salvatore said calmly. "You lost many times. Now you must pay."

"I will," Emmanuel said quickly. "I just need time, Mister Salvatore."

Salvatore's cane struck the floor. I almost flinch. The sound echoed like a gunshot inside our home.

"I am done with time, you know that for a man like me, time is worth millions every minute."

Then his gaze returned to me. It made me gasp for an unknown reason. I am still trying to process how my father could do this.

I felt it in his eyes like a hand closing around my throat.

"There is another way," he continued, in a voice smooth, almost kind. "A more, permanent arrangement."

My father's breathing turned ragged. "No. No, please, she has nothing to do with this."

"She has everything to do with it," Salvatore replied. "Debts are inherited, Emmanuel. Especially when blood is involved."

I couldn't move from where I was standing as I listened to them. Couldn't speak to the man who acted like he owned the place. The room tilted as his words settled into me, cold and heavy.

"I will take your daughter as my bride," Salvatore said. "The debt will be wiped clean. Your life will continue as it is."

"What? And if I refuse?" I asked, my voice barely my own when finally I mastered the courage to speak.

He looked at me. There was no cruelty in his expression. No anger but it even made him more dangerous from the way I see it.

"Then your father will die," he said simply. "Tonight."

My Dad looked at me with eyes begging. Fear ran through my chest, he does not sound like he was joking. Silence swallowed the room for a few seconds.

Then my Dad dropped to his knees.

"Dad!" I wanted to make him stand but the eyes of the old man who was looking at me made me stop.

"I'm sorry Mister De Luca," he sobbed. "I didn't mean for this, I swear I would pay you."

I stared at him, at the man who had raised me, who had chosen cards and dice over his own child, and felt something inside me fracture. I thought we were happy, but I failed to realize that my father had turned to gambling after my mother died.

Salvatore straightened, turning toward the door. "You have until dawn, cara. Decide. And Emmanuel, I don't believe you can pay me. This house is not even close to a quarter of how much you owe me."

The men moved as one, filing out behind him. My eyes were wide as I watched them leave. The mansion felt hollow once they were gone, like something vital had been ripped from its bones.

I stood there, shaking, knowing one terrible truth with absolute clarity. I slowly sat down on the couch for support.

What did my father get me into? I could not even scream at him or be angry, in my mind I am still processing the conversation that just happened. I just turned twenty-one, and never in my life did I imagine getting married this early.

"Oh, Dad."

I sobbed softly.

"I am sorry Miranda, please try to understand that I can't get away from him now. Salvatore not only owns the biggest casino in the city but he also has branches all over the globe. He is as wealthy as he is powerful, they even named him the Mafia King."

I looked up at my father, it's just like saying that I couldn't say no and I have no choice. The old man said they would kill him if I didn't agree.