The Mafia's Forbidden Bride

The rain won’t stop falling. It poured over the cemetery like the sky was crying harder than anyone else standing here. The earth was soaked, dark mud swallowing up the flowers that had fallen from trembling hands.

I was only seven years old, staring at the two coffins being lowered into the ground, and for the first time in my life, I understood what it meant to be empty. My whole world came crashing down as both my favorite people were lowered into the earth. 

My mother. My father. They were gone. Far away.

My small hands clutched the damp hem of my black dress. My shoes were sinking in the mud, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t blink. I couldn’t breathe without feeling the sting of water—rain or tears, I didn’t know anymore. 

Why won’t they wake up? The thought kept circling inside me, broken, like a child’s prayer. If I scream loud enough, maybe they’ll hear me. If I run to them, maybe they’ll sit up. If I say sorry—sorry for all the times I didn’t listen, sorry for leaving toys on the stairs—maybe they’ll come back.

But the coffins only sank deeper.

Around me, people whispered, voices buzzing like insects. Too soft to understand, yet sharp enough to cut. “How tragic.” “So young.” “An accident, they say.” “The girl… poor thing. Losing both parents like that.”

Poor thing. The words made bile rise in my throat. Their eyes weren’t kind. They were curious, hungry, waiting for a spectacle. A mafia funeral is more than grief.

Aunt Rosa crouched beside me, her umbrella doing little to shield either of us from the storm. Her perfume was strong, choking in the damp air. She tucked a strand of wet hair behind my ear and whispered, “Isla, darling, don’t cry. You have me now. I’ll take care of you.”

Her voice shook. Not just from grief but also from fear. Rosa had never wanted me. I was an unexpected plan in her mix. All she wanted was freedom, Paris, silk dresses, and champagne—not guardianship of her dead sister’s daughter. I had overheard her complaining bitterly to her boyfriend over the phone a few days back. I could see her fear and worries in her glassy smile, in the way her hand trembled on my shoulder. She was already calculating what this meant. The burden of raising a mafia child. The shadow of my parents’ enemies. I was a burden to her.

I pulled away, and her lips pressed tight.

Then the murmurs stilled. Like the storm itself had stopped to listen.

Don Alessandro had arrived.

He didn’t walk so much as command the ground beneath him. A tall man in an immaculate black suit, his presence cut through the rain, sharp as a blade. Men flanked him, silent and watchful. Nobody dared to breathe too loudly; one look from him was enough to silence the crowd, and when his eyes swept over us, I hid behind Aunt Rosa, feeling my knees wobbling.

This was the man who ruled everything my parents had bowed to. His gaze lingered on me for a long moment. Dark. Unreadable. I felt my stomach twist. He said nothing. He didn’t need to. 

Then, from his side, a boy stepped forward. Matteo. Don Alessandro’s son. He couldn’t have been more than ten. He had sharp features like his father. Dark hair plastered to his forehead by the rain, sharp blue eyes that burned with something older than his years.

I had seen him once or twice before, from afar, during visits with my parents to his estate. Always surrounded by guards, always carrying himself like he already knew the weight of the world. Today, though, he looked at me. Just me.

And the tears I had struggled to hold back came pouring like an open dam. The pain hit me all at once.

Without hesitation, he walked through the mud until he was standing beside me. Rosa’s hand shot out as if to stop him, then fell limp under Don Alessandro’s gaze.

Matteo didn’t ask permission. He didn’t speak. He simply took my hand.

His palm was warm despite the rain, firm where mine trembled. I looked up at him, confused, angry, desperate for something to hold on to. His jaw was set, his shoulders squared like he was daring the world to challenge him.

“Don’t look down,” he whispered. His voice was steady, older than ten years should have allowed.

My lips parted, but no words came.

The coffins hit the earth with a dull thud, and the shovels began their work. The sound of soil striking wood echoed through me. Each shovelful was another goodbye I wasn’t ready to give.

Aunt Rosa sobbed softly into her handkerchief. Others shook their heads, whispering prayers. But all I could hear were Matteo’s words, replaying over and over. Don’t look down.

So, I didn’t.

I kept my eyes on the storm, on the gray sky that threatened to swallow us whole. I let the rain wash over my face, mix with my tears, and blur the edges of my grief.

***

The gravesite ceremony had ended, and most people had retreated to our house for the reception that followed. Aunt Rosa had drifted away with the others to be the perfect host alongside her friend and boyfriend.

I sat outside the house on the porch, knees drawn up, my dress clinging to my skin. My chest hurt from crying and receiving pity gazes, but the tears kept coming anyway. My face was hot even though the rain was cold.

The harsh reality that I was never going to see my parents again hit hard with each ticking minute. I wanted to scream so loud God would have to listen. But my throat was raw, and all I could manage were little hiccups.

Footsteps came closer. Slow, certain.

I looked up to find Matteo standing next to me. He had taken off his suit and was only in a neat white dress shirt. His eyes weren’t curious like the others had been. They weren’t with pitying either. They were steady.

He didn’t ask if he could sit. He just lowered himself beside me, leaving barely a hand’s space between us. For a while, he didn’t say anything. Just sat there, like he was willing to let the rain fall forever if I needed it to. Then his hand brushed mine again, warm, grounding.

“Don’t look down,” he said softly, the same words he’d given me before. This time, his voice is gentler, not a command but a promise.

I sniffled, my lips wobbling. “They’re… they’re gone.”

“I know,” Matteo answered. He didn’t flinch at the words like the grown-ups did. “But you’re not.”

Fresh tears burned my eyes. “I don’t want to go with Aunt Rosa,”

He was quiet for a second, then leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “You won’t have to. My father… he already told me. He’s going to take you in. You’ll live with us.”

I blinked at him. “With you?”

Matteo nodded, his expression fierce. “With me. You’ll be part of our family. No one will touch you, and no one will make you cry like this again.”

The ache in my chest shifted, a little bit. I felt a bit hopeful.

“Promise?” My voice cracked.

“I promise.” His hand tightened around mine. “But only if you promise me something back.”

My eyes widened. “What?”

“That you won’t look down,” Matteo said. “Not when they talk. Not when they try to scare you. Not ever. You keep your head up. Always.”

I nodded, not understanding all of it. However, something in me wanted to believe him and his words.