The Mafia's Stolen Bride

I recollected the events of that day prior to the intrusion of the stranger into my residence. I was en route to the church for my wedding ceremony. "You look absolutely stunning, though that scowl on your face is quite intense," Dana remarked. I stared at my reflection in the full-length mirror, feeling a strong dislike for the dress, the meticulously styled hair, and the imminent marriage that awaited me in less than an hour. "I feel utterly miserable. This is exactly what my father has always envisioned for his little princess," I grumbled. Dana rolled her eyes, walked over to the small vanity, and took hold of my champagne glass. "I think you need this. Maybe I should order another bottle." I wrestled the crystal stem from her grip, tilted it back, and nearly drained the glass. "You mean because I'm being coerced into an arranged marriage?" I replied with a touch of sarcasm. Dana remained oblivious to the world my family was entrenched in. She was my American friend, unaware

"I couldn't care less about my needs, as if you have any concern for them!" I swiped at his hands, determined not to reveal my fear. He chuckled, a seductive sound that seemed inappropriate coming from someone so obviously dangerous. "I don't believe we need to resort to insults, do we?" The audacity of this person was truly astonishing. I adjusted myself to sit upright, cradling my throbbing head. "What have you done? Why? Money? Power over my father? What?" "All your questions will be answered in due time." He moved towards the foot of the bed. "Fine. Perhaps you don't truly understand who I am or the influence of my family. Borgata." I emphasized the last word, spitting it out with disdain. He took a deep breath, his gaze intense. "Madeline Alessandro, daughter of Antonio Alessandro, a well-known winemaker. On paper and to the unaware authorities, that's who you are. But the truth is, your family holds significant power in the Italian mafia, strategically aligned with the form

Three days prior... At the young age of eleven, I was thrust into the secretive world of organized crime, a dark and treacherous path that would shape my life into something unrecognizable compared to the innocence of my youth. The memories of my initiation into this sinister realm lingered in the recesses of my mind, a disquieting ritual that unfolded when I was only twelve years old. By the time I turned eighteen, I had become a harbinger of destruction, ruthlessly shattering a man's spirit and body with calculated precision as I climbed the ranks of the merciless criminal underworld. At nineteen, I solemnly embraced the realm of murder, extinguishing the life of a treacherous enemy—an initiation that marked my passage into a world of darkness. Yet, it was at the age of twenty-five that time seemed to freeze, crystallized by the cold-blooded murder of my mother—a haunting reminder of the malevolence hidden within, poised to steal one's soul. Pushing aside the ominous thoughts that

"Kelan, please focus here!" "May I have a photo with you?" "Great actor. Great actor." The sounds of excitement reverberated, with fans lining the red carpet, eagerly reaching out for a moment with me. The nickname had stuck after a particularly intense romantic scene in my debut film. I stood casually, hands in my pockets, a smile on my face, shielding my eyes behind sunglasses. The premiere of my latest action-adventure film was poised to dominate the box office. A friend in the police force, a devoted fan of mine, had shared details about the murder. While I suspected that the detective's loyalty was influenced by my father's connections, our conversations had never crossed inappropriate boundaries. Over drinks at a strip club, Shane had provided some basic information: a quick hit, shots fired from a black Cadillac through an open window. The perpetrators lacked courage. Instead of reveling in champagne, I found myself consumed by self-pity and anger. Although I had once idoli

"Damn, buddy. Los Angeles is doing wonders for your tan," Miguel playfully teased as he entered the room, moving with a swagger. "Well, that's part of the job description," I replied absentmindedly. "You're definitely not your father," Lorenzo remarked, heading straight for the bar. "Damn, would you look at those curves." He made some adjustments while leering out the window. I rubbed my temples, tolerating Lorenzo's presence despite finding him somewhat distasteful. "Hands off, she's off-limits." "Same old Victor. Or should we start calling you boss now?" Lorenzo sneered. "That's enough, Lorenzo," Dominick reprimanded. "We're here for a reason. Any word of a war brewing?" "Only from my sources," I said with wavering confidence. I knew what was expected of me. "How's your father holding up?" Miguel inquired. "It's touch and go." "Who the hell is responsible for this mess? It's all over the news. We might as well help you settle in and take care of this bastard while we're at i