The Mob Boss’s Girl

I pin my hair up and stare at my reflection in the mirror.

If the circumstances were different, I would allow myself to admire my reflection. The emerald green eye shadow has made my brown eyes pop unnaturally, and something about the dress I'm wearing—the same shade as the eye shadow—gives my skin a lovely glow.

My mother will be proud of my appearance.

My father will be devastated.

I steel myself for both. My mother's eagerness to marry me into the Ferrante family is heartbreaking considering she knows who they are, better than anyone else in our world. If she were a better person, I wouldn't hate her for this. I would understand that she didn't have a choice in the matter; that she's putting on a show so they don't suspect that joining our families is the last thing in the world that we want to do.

But she isn't a good person.

As for my father, his devastation will undoubtedly affect me. He hasn't been the same since my mother announced what she considers a 'fortuitous match'. I know that the reason why he avoids meeting by gaze is because he doesn't want to see the judgment in my eyes.

I wouldn't judge him. I know he isn't to blame for this.

A swift knock on my door sets my teeth on edge. I would recognize her knock anywhere. My mother opens the door and we make eye contact briefly. Her eyes travel down my body and then back up at my face. I try to rest my features, but my anger is expanding inside of me. She tilts her head and clicks her tongue against her teeth.

"But what are you so sad about?" she demands. "It's not everyday that a woman of practically inferior birth marries into a family like the Ferrante’s."

"Inferior birth?" she argues, gesturing at the room around them. "Is this what you want to call it? We've always had more than enough!"

"The fact that you're saying that means we haven't," she states, drumming her long black fingernails along the edge of the door. "No extremely rich person ever acknowledges their wealth, much less acts grateful for it. Can't you see that? We have enough to maintain the image of wealth, but not for the future. Once your father and I die, you and your sister will be disgraced. Do you think I want that for you?"

I chuckle dryly. "If anyone heard you, they'd probably believe that you want what's best for me. But I know you, mom. I know what your true intentions are."

She makes her way toward me slowly. Her eyes are on my face, studying it. I try not to show fear. I square my shoulders and stare back. Once she stops in front of me, she says, "The only reason why I won't give you the slap that you deserve is because I don't want your face to be red during lunch. You're testing my patience, Laura."

I say nothing, but I don't look away.

"Besides," she says, walking backward. "You're acting like you're engaged already when we don't even know if he's going to choose you. He might like Mary better. She's certainly more understanding about the whole situation."

Mary is older than me, but we definitely don't share the same temperament. She's a lot kinder. Swallowing mom's bullshit has always been easier for her. I'm torn between wishing that he'll pick her and wanting to take her place simply because I don't believe that she'll be able to survive in a dark world. I'm afraid of what he'll do to her. I don't want to think that she'll be mistreated by a man with a horrible reputation and that I won't be able to help her. If I'm there, things are different.

I could handle myself. Maybe.

Mom walks toward the door, sashaying. It irritates me to see how pleased she is about all of this. She's practically selling us. She stops at the door—as predicted—and says, "I, for one, hope he finds Mary more pleasing. I know that she'll do what's right for this family. You should follow her example, Laura. We'd get along better if you did."

I want to throw the brush I'm holding at her, but it's only a fantasy. I could never hurt her. Not because I'm terrified of her, but because she's still my mother, and I owe her that respect. I'm not the savage she thinks I am. She closes the door and I stare at the ceiling so I don't cry. It'll ruin my makeup.

But the more I think about what she said, the worse I feel.

Mary has always been my mother's favorite, but that's only because she succeeded in transforming her into a door mat. I, on the other hand, always rebelled. It's not that I think my sister should have done better—I don't blame her. She went for the easiest option, which was being on our mother's side. I decided not to.

And I paid for it every day of my life.

I stare back at my reflection and take a deep breath to calm myself. I have to go downstairs and come face to face with the man I might marry. I wonder what he looks like. I've heard about his wicked reputation, but I've never seen a picture of him. It's not like he's active on social media or something. I don't even know how old he is.

I know absolutely nothing about that man.

I'll find out now, though, and satiate my curiosity. I think it's only natural that I'm curious. Anyone in my position would be. All ruthless men I've ever met were much older. My father's friends. Or my mother's. Then again, they've had a reputation for decades. This man— Luca Ferrante—has only been around for a short time. I was in my junior year in high school when I first heard about him, so that means he's given himself a name over four years.

Not to be confused with his family. They've been around for centuries, apparently.

I stand grabbing the door handle for a few beats before opening the door. I hear the sound of the party downstairs instantly. It's not quite a party—rather, it's not supposed to be. It's simply an opportunity for us to get to know a man and his family. But my mother makes everything an exaggeration. She's undoubtedly trying to impress the Ferrantes. I glance at my sister's bedroom door before making my way down the stairs. Has she joined the party already? In case she hasn't, I want to give her more time to herself.

I wonder if mother harassed her, too.

I hear laughter just as I step into the living room. The glass doors are all open, letting a cool breeze in. I've never cared much for décor but our living area is one of dreams; all white with delicate paintings of lilies on the wall to my left, a plush beige carpet beneath the round glass table, and a magnificent fireplace right across from me. The ceiling is high and the chandelier is the true star of the show. It's been passed down from generations, and it's unlike anything anyone has seen before. The crystals look like diamonds when the sun hits them. It's a beautiful sight.

The party is outside. Mom decided to give an outdoor lunch, right by the pool. I can see an older couple through the glass door. They aren't looking at me. I only have a few minutes to compose myself, and then I have to go out there and join them. I've never felt this much anxiety about meeting people before. The butterflies in my stomach are uncontrollable. I breathe in deeply and take a step forward, then I stop. I could check on Mary and see if she's in her room. If she is, we can join the group together, and I wouldn't have to feel this way. But no. The longer I stall, the worse it'll be when I present myself. I'm raising their expectations.

I give myself a short pep talk before walking toward the glass door.

Mom is the first to see me; she eyes me like she's appraising a possession, and the expression on her face makes my step falter, but only for a second. I continue walking until I'm outside.

Mary is among the group. She's standing beside our dad, whose face is gray. His eyes downcast. Everyone turns to face me, and I fight to maintain eye contact with the whole Ferrante family.

There's the couple, and three others. A woman who looks to be a decade older than me, a man who seems to be about her age—in his thirties—and another younger man. He's undoubtedly in his late twenties, and his eyes are searching my face eagerly. It's him. I'm sure of it.

It can only be him.

"Sarah and Marc," my mother says, nearing me and taking my arm in hers. For once, I'm thankful for her touch. "May I present to you my youngest daughter, Laura." She turns to me with a wide smile and says, "Laura, this is Marc and Sarah Ferrante. This is their oldest son, Miguel, and his wife, Eliza. And this here is Luca."