The Mafia Kings Captive Bride

The rain came without warning.

One moment, Serena Vale was shelving books behind the counter of the sea-worn shop tucked at the edge of the Sicilian coast. The next, the sky split in half with a boom of thunder, and a curtain of water blurred the glass windows. Wind howled through the crevices of the old stone building. She barely flinched. Storms were common in late spring, and she rather liked them—how the gray clouds swallowed the world whole, how the streets emptied out and left the town breathing quietly, like it had secrets of its own.

She returned to the antique shelf, fingers tracing the leather spines of books older than she was. Her quiet life was wrapped in things like these: salt-soaked air, warm espresso at sunrise, evenings in silence. And it suited her. At least, that’s what she told herself.

A bell rang above the door.

Serena straightened, brushing dust from her skirt. “We’re about to close,” she called toward the entrance without looking.

Silence.

She frowned and turned—and in that moment, everything ended.

There were three of them. Men in black coats, drenched from the storm, their faces pale with purpose. The tallest stepped forward, his shoes echoing on the floor like a threat. She saw no umbrellas, no expression, no warmth. Just gloved hands—and the sharp glint of a needle.

Serena took a step back.

“Please don’t make a sound,” the man said in perfect, unaccented Italian.

Her heart kicked.

“What is this—?”

The man moved fast. Too fast.

Strong arms caught her from behind. A cloth pressed to her mouth. The scent was sharp and chemical—ether, she realized too late. She fought, kicking, twisting, her scream muffled against the fabric. Her fingers clawed at her captor’s arm, but her limbs were already going slack.

As the world tilted sideways, she caught a glimpse of the man at the front of the group pulling something from his coat.

A ring.

It glinted gold beneath the stormlight.

Then—darkness.

---

She awoke to silence.

Her mouth was dry, her limbs heavy. She blinked, her vision swimming, the ceiling above her slowly taking form. Smooth stone. Chandeliers. Carved molding that looked like it belonged in a cathedral.

Where was she?

Panic bloomed in her chest.

She sat up too fast and nearly fell back. Her body ached, her head throbbed, but she forced herself upright, every instinct screaming. She was in a bed—an enormous, canopied one dressed in black silk. The room was spacious and opulent, but not warm. Cold. Too cold.

Like a mausoleum dressed in elegance.

She stumbled out of bed, feet hitting cool marble. Her shoes were gone. Her clothes had been changed—she wore a thin white nightgown that clung to her skin like paper. The door across the room stood closed, but not locked.

She didn’t care.

Serena ran.

She threw the door open, bare feet slapping down a silent hallway of gold and black. No windows. Just paintings of long-dead men in long coats staring at her like she was already a ghost. She ran until she hit another door—and another. All locked.

No voices. No escape.

And then—

A voice, behind her. Deep. Calm.

“You’re awake.”

She turned.

He stood in the shadows of the hall, hands in the pockets of a tailored black suit, his posture relaxed but his presence terrifying. Not because of any physical threat—though he was tall, broad-shouldered, and carried the kind of silent confidence that could command a battlefield. No, what made her freeze was his eyes.

They were like ice poured into glass.

Unmoved. Observing. Dispassionate.

“Who the hell are you?” she breathed, backing up.

He tilted his head slightly, like a predator would, considering how best to strike.

“I’m the man who saved your life,” he said. “And the one who now owns it.”

---

Serena had never heard the name Matteo De Luca before that night.

Not in the shop. Not in her quiet world of books and coastal sunsets. But the next time she saw her reflection, it was in a gilded mirror with a headline scrawled across a digital tablet held out by a woman in black:

MAFIA DON TAKES BRIDE: RUMORS OF VALENTINO BLOODLINE CONFIRMED

Bride.

Her.

She’d been asleep for almost two days, and in that time, her face had been attached to a name she’d never claimed—and a bloodline she didn’t know existed.

Matteo De Luca, as it turned out, wasn’t just some wealthy recluse. He was Il Re del Sud—the King of the South. Head of the De Luca family. The most feared and untouchable mafia figure on the Sicilian coast. He ruled from the shadows, rarely seen, never touched, his empire built on blood and silence. And now—she was his bride.

“Why?” she whispered that night as he led her down a spiral staircase to a hidden dining room.

“Because your last name used to be Valentino,” he said, not looking at her. “And your father left behind a mess I now have to clean.”

“My father’s dead. I didn’t even know him.”

“Doesn’t matter. Blood is blood. You were his daughter the moment you were born. That’s the only truth the mafia respects.”

He gestured for her to sit.

She didn’t move.

“I’m not marrying you.”

“You already did.”

She blinked. “What?”

He looked her in the eyes for the first time.

“I married you while you were unconscious. I had the legal rights transferred. You signed, with your fingerprint. It’s done.”

Serena’s world cracked open.

“You’re insane.”

Matteo’s expression didn’t change. “Possibly. But effective.”

He poured her wine. She didn’t touch it.

“I’m not staying here,” she said, her voice hard.

He finally smiled—but it wasn’t kind.

“You misunderstand. This isn’t captivity. It’s inheritance. You were born into a blood war. All I’ve done is… claim the final piece.”

“I’m not a piece. I’m a person.”

“Then behave like one,” he said coldly. “You’re no use to me dead.”

---

That night, Serena stood in front of the mirror in the room she’d been forced into and stared at herself.

Her face was pale. Her hair, long and tangled from sleep and stress. She didn’t recognize the girl looking back. She had always prided herself on being ordinary. Safe. Invisible.

But apparently, she wasn’t.

Apparently, she was the daughter of Lorenzo Valentino—the man Matteo De Luca had sworn to destroy. And now, she was wearing his name.

De Luca.

She whispered it aloud and felt the room shudder with silence.

---

The days passed in a blur of careful pacing and locked doors. Matteo did not visit often, but his presence lingered in the way the house obeyed him even in his absence. She was given clothes, food, even books. But never answers.

Until the fourth night.

He summoned her to the garden.

It was dark by the time she was led there—escorted by a silent woman named Mara who never said more than a sentence at a time. The garden was overgrown and wild, but beautiful, with roses climbing broken trellises and ivy curling around stone benches. A single lantern burned near the fountain.

Matteo stood there, staring into the water.

Serena hesitated.

“You brought me here to kill me?” she asked, her voice bitter.

He didn’t move. “If I wanted you dead, you’d never have woken up.”

“What do you want from me?”

He turned then, and for the first time, his mask slipped just enough to reveal something underneath—something old and angry.

“I want to end the war your father started.”

“My father’s dead. Why punish me?”

“Because your name is still alive. Because you were hidden for twenty years and no one knew why. Because now that you're here, the other families are watching.”

“So I’m what? A symbol? A threat?”

He stepped closer. “You’re my wife.”

“No,” she said, trembling. “I’m your hostage.”

Matteo reached out—she flinched, but he only brushed a strand of hair from her cheek.

“Not a hostage,” he murmured. “A weapon.”

---

That night, Serena lay awake in the dark, Matteo’s words repeating like a curse.

A weapon.

An inheritance.

A wife.

But behind all of it, there was one unspoken truth she couldn’t ignore.

She wasn’t just in Matteo De Luca’s world now.

She was the key to either saving it—or destroying it.

And whether she liked it or not…

She’d just been crowned queen of a kingdom built in blood.