The Mafia's questionable bride

I knew from the first time I saw Alexandro Campania that he was the one for me.

It was the kind of knowing that settles deep in your bones, quiet and certain. He stood tall and broad, muscles firm under his black suit. His sharp jawline, thick dark hair, and eyes like smoke and secrets made my heart stutter. He looked like a man who had been sculpted from danger itself. Handsome, yes, but there was more—something wild, something deadly.

And I liked it.

His eyes were the first thing that struck me. Dark brown, almost black when he narrowed them. That day, they had turned fully black. A man had accidentally shoved him in the hallway during the meeting. It should’ve ended in a simple curse word or maybe a warning glare—but no, Alexandro had pulled out a gun and shot him in the thigh.

Just like that. Cold. Fast. Merciless.

And yet, somehow, I was fascinated.

People screamed. The man cried on the floor, blood staining the tiles beneath him.But Alexandro didn’t even blink. He just slipped the gun back into his jacket and turned back to his father like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just shot someone in the middle of a mafia summit.

He was everything my father warned me about—and everything I’d ever dreamed of.

The meeting was between the three most powerful mafia families in Italy: the Leoni, the Campania, and the Mia. It was the first time in years they had all sat together in the same room. The police were closing in, getting smarter, bolder. Some idiot detective had gotten lucky and connected the dots, and now there were whispers of a joint investigation. Everyone was scared.

But not Alexandro.

He sat at that table like he owned the room. His father, Marco Campania, was already a legend. Ruthless, strategic, feared across Europe. But it was Alexandro who stole all the attention without saying a word. Even my uncle—the leader of the Leoni—kept glancing at him. There was something magnetic about him. Dangerous. Royal.

And absolutely off-limits.

You see, Alexandro had sworn never to marry anyone from the mafia.

His father had been trying for years to get him to choose a wife. Every time, Alexandro refused. He had one condition: the woman he married had to be innocent. Clean. No knowledge of mafia life. No blood ties. No involvement.

I was the exact opposite.

My name is Gild. It means "splendid." My father chose it the moment he held me in his arms. I was his only child—his miracle baby after years of trying. He’d wanted a son, yes, but he had settled for me with a quiet pride. He raised me like a boy in secret. Taught me to fight, to shoot, to think like a criminal. I had the mind of a strategist and the fists of a soldier. But to the rest of the mafia world, I was just another pretty face.

And maybe that was my power.

My father was part of the Leoni family. Not a boss, but respected. Feared. Trusted. His name held weight in Sicily. He was best friends with Don Riccardo, the Leoni leader. I called Don Riccardo “Uncle.” He had watched me grow up and always told me I had a lioness heart. I wasn’t allowed to fight in wars or deal directly with operations, but I knew everything. I had watched. Learned. Understood.

I knew how the mafia worked. I understood the blood and silence it demanded.

But Alexandro would never love a woman like me.

He wanted someone soft. Naive. Someone who didn’t know how to handle a gun or hide a body. Someone who didn’t see violence as a language. He wanted peace. A woman untouched by the darkness he lived in.

And so, that day, as I watched him from the balcony above the meeting hall, I made a decision.

If Alexandro wanted a woman outside the mafia… then that’s who I would become.

I kept my eyes on him the whole meeting. He never looked up. Never smiled. Not once.

His lips were tight, his jaw set, and when he spoke, his voice was low and firm. His father sat beside him, older but just as intimidating. But it was Alexandro everyone listened to. Even the Mia boss paused before replying when Alexandro’s deep voice echoed across the marble-floored room.

From where I stood behind the tinted glass above them, hidden in shadow, I memorized every detail. The way he tapped his fingers against the polished table—three slow taps, then silence. A pattern. Like a warning. The way he leaned back when someone else talked, bored unless it was strategy. The way he glanced once at the cameras in the corners of the room, his gaze sharp—he didn’t miss anything.

He wasn’t just strong. He was smart.

And that terrified me.

Because it meant if I ever got close to him, I’d have to lie better than I ever had in my life.

Later that night, I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the painting above my headboard—a lion in a red mist. I’d painted it myself at sixteen, after my first lesson with my father. He’d taught me how to choke a man unconscious with one hand. I remembered shaking that night. Crying, a little. Not because I was scared—because I’d done it too easily.

“You’re different,” he’d told me, placing a hand on my shoulder. “You’re meant to be something more than they think. But you’ll have to be patient, Gild. They won’t let you lead. So you’ll have to outsmart them all.”

I had nodded, even then.

And now, years later, I finally knew what that “something more” was.

Alexandro Campania.

He was my goal. My challenge. My reward. I didn’t want him just for love—I wanted him because he was impossible.

He was the one thing no one thought I could have.

The next morning, I began my plan.

Step One: Leave Sicily.

If I stayed under my father’s roof, I’d never be seen as anything but the mafia princess. Gild Leoni—spoiled, protected, and dangerous. Even if I dressed in yellow sundresses and wore bows in my hair, the men around me would always see the sharp edge beneath the silk.

So I packed a bag. Nothing flashy. No designer clothes. I tucked my real ID into a locked drawer and printed a new one. Clean. Civilian. I became Gilda Romano, a simple girl from a seaside town near Naples. I had studied psychology and worked as a floral assistant in my aunt’s shop. I liked lavender tea and poetry. I hated guns. I didn’t know what the mafia even really did, only what I’d seen on the news.

I became someone else.

Someone he could love.

Step Two: Move to Campania.

Alexandro lived in a massive villa outside of Naples, heavily guarded, impossible to reach. But the Campania family owned several legit businesses to launder their money. I knew them all—shipping docks, hotels, restaurants, vineyards.

One stood out: La Fiorellaia, a luxury floral shop downtown that catered to weddings and high-end events. Discreet, elegant. It just so happened they were looking for help.

I walked in with a fake resume and my best nervous smile.

“I’m Gilda,” I told the woman at the counter, an older lady with perfectly styled hair. “I’ve just moved here. I used to help at my aunt’s flower shop in Ischia. I saw the listing online and thought I’d try my luck.”

She looked me over carefully. My sundress was soft cream, my sandals simple leather. I had pulled my hair into a loose braid, no makeup, just clear gloss. I looked harmless.

“Do you know how to arrange lilies?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “And I can work weekends too.”

She hired me on the spot.

By the end of the first week, I’d seen Alexandro’s men twice.

They came in fast, quiet, always in suits. One would order something simple—a dozen white roses, a bouquet of red calla lilies—and leave without waiting for change. No smiles. No chatter.

But I knew what it meant. This shop wasn’t just flowers. It was a signal point. A quiet station between messages and meetings.

It was only a matter of time before Alexandro himself came in.