A Bride For The Mafia King

Portia.

I sigh as soft, feathery lace falls across my face. It's black and heavily stained from being tucked away for so many years, and the smell that clings to it makes my stomach churn. It's musty. Dry, and reeks with dust. I suppress the urge to fling it away because it belonged to my mother. It's the same one she wore on her wedding day. The same one my grandmother wore on her big day as well.

Clove pink and discarded daisies are scattered, littering the stone floor. The huge, black woman who's been brought to help me prepare grumbles behind me. It's the fifth time she's wondering aloud why she has to work with an old, musty, smelly veil when a new one stays tucked in its box a few meters away. I move my foot, tossing the delicate clove pink about, before crushing it, impaling it's bright pink petal with my heel.

It's my wedding day, but it feels like a funeral. No, a funeral would have been better. My funeral.

Wish I had it a while ago.

The strong, heady smell of the pink carnation makes my stomach turn. I've envisioned my wedding day so many times, despite my fate. This doesn't match the picture-perfect image I have in mind at all.

Not that I expected it to.

"Done," the woman whistles, stepping away from me and dusting her hands. "At long last."

I exhale as I stand, the now-dirtied petal sticking to my heel. Not that I give two fucks about that. Lifting my face tentatively, I let my eyes roam over my reflection in the mirror. "What do you think he'll say about the veil, Amma?"

She tsks, shaking her head as her lips curl up in distaste. "Fernando is the embodiment of niceties, but I'm doubly sure he won't like that veil. It's old and an eyesore."

I shift my gaze and let my eyes settle on her fully for the first time, taking her in properly. She's average in height, plump and has a huge black birthmark on the side of her face. Her soft, pitch-black tresses frame her almond face, and enhance her small, pretty eyes. The expression; a green snake underneath a green grass fits her so well. She's just as cunning as the rest of the devils who kept me confined her, her gentle outlook be damned.

"I guess he'll have no choice but to get used to it. I'll only have it on for an hour at most, anyway."

"Why don't you just wear the damn one he sent? I swear, you and your brothers are stubborn."

I don't bother to answer her, smothering the crinkles on my gown. She has a point though. The veil was a gift from my brothers.

A gift.

No, not a gift.

Just another cruelty to make me wear my mother's veil for this disgusting wedding ceremony. They know how much I detest this. How much I loathe Fernando.

He's an enemy of our family for crying out loud. Why are they honouring his wants like little, needy puppets?

Amma snorts and turns to gather the dress, the keys jangling on her waist. I stare hard at them. Tiny metal demons. I could take them. Knock her over. That part would be easy as pie. It's the men with guns outside the door who'll be the problem.

Noisy footsteps advance from a mile away, announcing the approach of soldiers to my basement room.

A basement. A fucking basement, that's where they locked me in. My own brothers. Flesh and blood. Same mother, same father.

From the way things are going, they're expecting me to put up a resistance. A strong fight. They'll take me kicking, screaming and crying if I do, I very well know that. Besides, I'm smart enough not to waste my energy on them. I'll need it after for something more important. For the wedding night.

A man shouts something in Russian, and another laughs. A low whistle pierce through the air, followed by a loud thud like something heavy falling. Scuffling feets, and blows are heard.

It's then that all hell breaks loose. Gunfire explodes just beyond my room. A bullet slithers its way through the thick, metal door - straight into the mirror, shattering it, shattering my miserable reflection into a thousand, tiny pieces. I groan, skidding back forcefully into the stone wall.

Amma shouts out a strong of words in Russian.

I steady myself. Touching the back of my head with one hand, I somehow still manage to keep a staunch hold on the bouquet of daises. Suddenly, the door is kicked open, banging against the wall as heavily armed men in military uniform file into the room, infiltrating every corner. A cloud of powerful smoke follows behind them, seeping into my wrecked basement.

The smoke billows out and their faces become clearer. They're twice a dozen, and I don't recognize any of them. Not one face. They're not my brothers' men.

What the hell is going on? Had Fernando turned on us?

Amma sits on the floor, still blubbering something in Russian, sobbing uncontrollably.

I just stare at the space where the door previously was in a daze, trying to make sense of what exactly is going on as another set of footsteps approach. Slow, firm, not in a hurry. The minute he steps into my line of vision, I know for sure that he's the big boss.

He's got a mask on his face. He's the one I should worry about.

He's here for blood. I can feel it.

He halts just inside the room, surveys it, sizing up every soldier, every stone, every cobweb, every sand particle. And when brilliant cerulean blue eyes land on me, a weight drops in my stomach, a hundred-pound cement block.

Amma boldy stands now, tripping over her own words as she advances toward him. He looks down at her, mildly irritated, and she doesn't make it far. An echo of bullets knocks her down, splattering blood on my face and neck. She falls to the floor with a loud crash.

I swallow hard. Fuck.

I don't spare her a glance. I can't afford to. One bullet would let her live, but several?

She's dead. The worst kind of death.

The man's eyes return to mine, and they narrow. When he takes a step forward, I gulp, taking one back too, knocking the chair behind me to the floor, my heart in my mouth. My hands trembled by my sides, and blood whooshes to my ear. I'm shaking now, frightened.

I turn around to run but see a dozen pair of eyes staring back at me. The leader - the masked intruder, biggest and baddest of them all blocks the exit with his huge frame. There are no windows for me to jump out through. Besides, I'll never be that lucky. Suicide was never an option, not for my brothers. I'm important in the grand scheme of things. Way important.

But something's off. This wasn't meant to be the pattern.

Before I can decide what to do, before I can make up my mind to try to charge them, to risk a dozen bullets putting me down like they did Amma, he's got my wrist in his right hand and he's squeezing it.

I let out a choking sound, my hand falling open. The daises fall to the floor. I watch them, then watch him lift my hand to his face. His thumb comes to my ring finger where the hideous, pathetic diamond ring catches the light from the waning sun streaming in through a hole in the wall. He inspects it, and for a brief moment I wonder if he's contemplating on breaking it or not. But he twists and forces the ring off. Pocketing it, he shifts his gaze to my face again.

Something clogs my throat, making it difficult for me to breathe.

He cocks his head to the side and snarled, one hand still locked around wrist. I gasp when he spins me around all of a sudden.

What the hell is going on?

I let out a scream as he jerks me to him, his body a solid, protective wall at my back.

He releases my wrists and banded his arm beneath my breasts. With the other, he pushes the veil of my neck, out of the way, his fingers rough against my skin, fingers tugging, bruising. I fear he's going to snap my neck. One quick twist is all it'll take anyways. He's a shocking six foot eight - twice my size.

But he does the unexpected. The unexplainable.

Instead, the moment I turn my face up to his, he squeezes and instantly, my knees give out. My arms drop uselessly to my sides. He shifts his grip and as I slip, weakened, he lifts me up and hauls me over his shoulder, turning the room upside down before it all goes pitch black.

Portia

I don't know for how long I lay passed out. I don't feel anything but dryness. I don't smell anything but musty dampness. I swallow hard to keep from retching. Cold is seeping into my body, stiffening my muscles, making them hurt.

I hear the sound of cars moving in the distance.

"Get the fuck up, you animal!"

I cough as a familiar pain hits my right side. I curl away from it, turn my face the other way, but it comes again. Stronger. Harder. More cruel.

I groan.

"What are you? Sleeping beauty? If you don't get the hell up from there, I swear I'm going to kill you!"

The rough baritone registers into my subconscious mind. Vincent. My brother. No surprise there. You'd think after years of getting whipped, slapped and battered by him, I would've gotten used to the feel of his boot by now. What can I say? I'm equally a disappointment in that regard.

"Stop attacking her. She's not the one who put us here," another voice says.

Gregory. My other brother. The slightly, less insane one.

"Besides, there's no way out even if she unlocks our cuffs," he adds, his voice oddly resigned.

"Don't tell me that. There's a fucking window over there," Vincent snarls before digging his toe into my ribs. I hiss at the pain. "Up you worthless piece of shit. Don't think he's going to save you - "

"Leave her alone, you fool."

I groan, blinking my eyes open. I roll my head, and stop instantly, the pain sharp at my neck and back. I bring my hand up to my neck to touch the spot, feeling the bump as I tried to recollect.

Clove pink and discarded daisies on the floor. Shattered shards of mirror crunching underfoot as I took flight. Or thought about running before he caught me by the arm.

I glance at my hand. The ring is gone. He's taken it, and I couldn't be more thankful. My terrible wedding day. My forced wedding. It never happened. My prayers worked.

I steel myself up to a seated position, rubbing my prickly nose. The musty dampness... it's not only in this room. I trace the smell to the veil somehow still on my head. It survived that man's cruelty.

Mother's spirit is still strong and with me.

The room tilts, and I shut my eyes in agony until the dizziness passes. When I open them again, a tall, dark shadow looms over me like a menace. I shrink as it leers down at me.

Vincent.

"A hundred years past, and look who's up. You little wretch."

I ignore him, looking past his bulk to see Gregory sitting across the room, his back against the far wall, his head tilted to the side solemnly. Nathan, our cousin lay with his head on his lap.

"Been waiting for you for hours. Hurry up and untie me, and stop looking lost," Vincent orders. He looks so different. Smells like a wreck. He's been beaten like never before, sporting a cut lip and numerous brusies lining his face and neck. He groans as he crouches down with his back to me.

I observe that Nathan's hands are bound, and Gregory's must be as well. They're behind him. I'm the only one they left unbound, and I can't help but wonder why.

Is it because I'm a lady?

The white satin of my dress is ruined - smudged with dirt and blood. Amma's blood. The hem is black, and the skirt ripped apart. I reach up to pull the lace off my head, the sound of hairpins falling to the ground too delicate in this dungeon room. That's what this is. A cell in a dungeon room. The walls are four, stoned, and the fourth is a wall of bars. The window Vincent is proposing we escape from is about the size of a shoebox and too high to reach. That is where the light is coming from. A too-bright square in the otherwise dark, dreary room. It's dawn already.

Fuck. I've been passed out since last night?

I wonder where we are. I wonder what the hell is going on. Were we in the cellar of the compound I was imprisoned in the basement? Given these conditions, I very much prefer the basement now.

"What the fuck are you waiting for?" Vincent barks, spittle landing on my face as he inches his neck forward. I'm sure that if his hands weren't tied, he would have dealt me a slap or two. Probably a dozen times. That's how violent he is with me.

I look up to meet his dark, hateful eyes. His black hair is tousled, falling over his forehead.

Without a word more, and dreading his anger, I reach to untie him, feeling a stab of self-loathing. What the fuck is wrong with me? Why do I keep being obedient when he keeps treating me like trash?

I look over at Gregory. He's two years younger than Vincent, but wiser. He looks sad, and like I heard in his voice, resigned. Like there's no hope of living anymore in him. His face is also decorated - bruises along his jaw and dried blood by his nose, but his face isn't as bad as Vincent's.

I bite my bottom lip before I ask. "Is Nathan okay?"

Nathan is our cousin. He's much younger than all of us, and we treat him like a brother. He's still passed out, I believe.

"Yeah. He's fine," Gregory says, looking down at him. He exhales.

"Not for long if you don't these fucking ropes off me," Vincent threatens.

I glance at the knot and snort internally, shifting my gaze back to Gregory.

"What's going on?" I ask.

"We were betrayed."

"By Fernando? Oh my goodness."

"No," Gregory says, shaking his head. "He was used as a bait."

"Your chummy sweetheart is gone," Vincent announces with a disgusted look. "He puts toddlers to shame. What a dumb coward."

"He's not my chummy sweetheart," I say sharply. "I never liked him."

"Well, that makes two of us. Now move it." He gestures to the knot.

I'm about to oblige him, focus my attention on the damn knot and set him him free when I hear the sound of a metal door clanging open nearby. Light infiltrates the space just outside the cell. Heavy footsteps follow - brooding thuds and a man's voice booms. Then another one that I recognize. One that brings back so many terrible memories. That makes anger surge up my veins.

"Fucking hell," Vincent mutters, awkwardly shuffling to his feet as the men come into view.

The sight send chills down my spine.

Soldiers match in first, automatic weapons shining on their shoulders. They're six, each of them carrying a heavy-duty flashlight. They insert a key into the lock and open our cage just as my father's brother, our uncle, comes into view, grinning like a fucking devil.

His eyes fall on me first, on my terrible position on the floor. It would make my skin crawl if I wasn't already terrified. His gaze flits between my brothers and my sleeping cousin. He's clean-shaven for once, hair neatly combed back, slick with gel. I can smell his cologne - strong, heady, annoying, all the way from here.

"Throwing your own family to the dogs. Fucking imbecile," Vincent bristles, spitting in his general direction. It fails to touch him though.

My uncle looks at him, spreading his arms open as though he's inviting Vincent in for a hug. "Oh. We're now family, huh? Interesting."

"Sleazy old man."

More footsteps sound from outside. I look past my uncle as he steps aside. Three more soldiers, another man I know isn't a soldier judging by his expensive suit and casual slant to his stance enter.

And then him. The boss. He's no longer masked but I know it's him. I can feel it, and I would recognize those eyes anywhere. I will never forget those eyes. That chilling blue, and the way they looked at me as though they knew me inside out.

He stops just inside the cell, his big bulk taking up most of the entrance, sucking up more than his share of oxygen. Sucking mine as well.

I forget how to breathe. Pressing a hand to my chest, I stare, transfixed, my heart racing.

The man donning the expensive suit stuffs his hands into his pockets, and leans toward the big boss to whisper something to low for me to catch. It's a foreign language, alright. Italian. I'd have known that these weren't Esmeralda men from anywhere. He's wearing a red suit that looks just as expensive as the boss's but not as sophisticated. The boss is the one with my ring, I remember. He's also the one who somehow knocked me out.

The boss scans the cell, taking in each of my brothers in turn, and I try my best not to shrink away when his gaze settles on me and stays there.

Instinctively, I touch my neck as I take in his head of charcoal-black hair and the shadow of a beard on his chin. There's a scar running along his right cheek. It does nothing to take away from his features. Instead, it achieves the opposite result. He's dangerous, this man. Scary. Deadly. I'd know it even if I saw him out on a normal day in the normal world.

But then, I was never a normal girl, and my life was far from what would be regarded as normal.

And even though I don't know who he is, or why he's keeping us hostage, my brothers do. I see the fear in their eyes. Feel it in the anxiety wafting off them, their fear poignant in the air. Making me equally scared as well.

We're going to die.

Portia

"Well, well, well. Who do we have here?" Vincent is the first to speak up, taking a step toward the man like the stupid loser he is.

The boss's lips curls upward as though in amusement, and I watch him with bated breath as it takes the most minute tilt of his head to have a soldier charging at my brother, shoving him back to the floor.

The man's eyes flit to me now as though he's curious, and my heart beat faster at how deeply those blue eyes twisted the knots in my belly. It feels like forever, the both of us, holding each other's gazes, neither wanting to look away first until he gives up, scanning Gregory and Nathan, who is still passed out. What the hell did they do to him?

"And him? The boy." he says suddenly. I don't blink. They're the first words I hear from him, and his voice, fuck, his voice is deep - almost like a rough growl but a low one. I start wondering how a growl can sound so quiet. It's without a doubt firm, and assets the control he possesses. I get the feeling that he's a man of few words. Straight to the point.

Strict.

Now why is that so fucking hot?

A soldier moves toward Nathan now, boots clanking against the cemented floor, the sound bouncing off the solid walls. I wonder how vast the darkness in our little cell is. In the distance, I see glimpses of flashing lights. Windows just like the ones in our cell, I presume.

"He's fine. Still breathing," Gregory says thickly, a slight edge to his voice. The soldier ignores his words and bends to check for himself. He straightens and nods to the boss.

"He still lives."

The boss looks different without his camo. Bigger. Deadlier. Slinkier. His hair is a little wet. I'm sure he took his precious time in the shower, which seems very uncharacteristic of his personality.

He nods to the soldier, shifts his gaze to me once more, before turning to my uncle.

"Let's get this over with."

Heathcliff, my uncle, smirks as he reaches behind him to where he must have hid his pistol all along.

"What's happening? What are you going to do?" I cry out, a new fear overwhelming me even though it's not the first time I'm seeing a gun. I live in a world of violence. I live and breathe it ever since I was born. It's my name. My inheritance. My legacy. My life. I'm the Esmeralda princess at the heart of it. Or I was when my father was still alive. Ever since his death, I've been reduced to a pawn. A means through which my selfish brothers achieve their nefarious aims.

Suddenly, boldly, I pull my legs back, readying to stand. To stand tall too. My feet is bare, I realize. I must have lost my shoes in transit. I don't care.

Everyone pauses, their eyes on me.

I only see one person. Him. The boss.

He appears taller than before but that's because I'm still on the ground. He takes a step toward me, and I scramble backward in fright, my hand falling on the rusting metal frame of a cot. I pull myself together to stand. Willing the nausea to subside. Willing my fear to die.

I realize I still have my mother's veil in one hand. Dry crusts of blood sticks to it just like my wedding dress. It's Amma's blood, no doubt. The memory of how his men killed her would be forever ingrained in my mind. It would haunt me for days to come, reminding me that the boss is not one to be messed with.

And that's if I make it out of here alive today.

That's if he shows me mercy.

He stops when he's only a few feet away from me. He's taller now than he appeared in the basement. I'm short. I've lost the five inches my shoes gave to me. I have to crane my neck to look up at him and my gaze alternates between his deep blue, soullesss eyes to the scar running from his cheek to his mouth, his neck. There's another scar there. Concealed. The edge of one. It disappears beneath the collar of his shirt.

The man has been through hell.

No. He is hell.

He's going to be my hell.

"Don't be stupid, Portia. Kneel," my uncle orders from behind him. "Do you know who the fuck he is? Show some respect, you little brat."

I ignore him, shifting my gaze from that almost concealed scar on the boss's neck back up to his eyes. Someone chuckles at my uncle's words. The other suited man, I presume.

The boss's eyes skim my face, then slowly move down. I follow it, see how the blood has splattered over the ripped bodice of my dress, too. I don't know why I'm surprised by it.

I reach to put my hand over it and cover myself, feeling self-conscious.

"Do you know who I am?" he asks in that same quiet, yet chilling tone he used in telling his soldier to check up on Nathan.

My gaze snaps back up to his, and I squint, confused. I'm pretty sure I haven't seen him before in my life. I don't know him at all. I study him critically, shift my gaze to the other suited one, his right-hand man or brother perhaps who stood with his hands in his pockets, but still couldn't place their faces. I shake my head, gulping.

He leaned in till his breath fan the tip of my left ear, and whisper. "Scarfoni."

I gasp, stunned.

It's a lie. It can't be. The last time I heard the Scarfoni name was ages ago. They're all dead. The whole family massacred. None was spared.

I swallow, feeling the blood drain out of my face because I know what we did to him. I know what we did to them.

He's back for revenge. I know this.

He smiles at me like he's reading my thoughts. Knows what I'm thinking.

"Scared now, are we? Say my name," he commands.

Scarfoni. That's their family name. When they'd all been alive, that name was associated with terror. My brothers attacked them after betraying our father.

"Say it."

I swallow, lick my lips.

He waits patiently, taking his sweet time. If he's survived the war and is this calm, then he's had a lot of time to learn patience. It's been ten years since then.

Scarfoni. I do the math in my head. He must be in his late twenties, surely. I glance to the other one, noting their resemblance for the first time. The other suited one is younger, though, with a homely, yet deadly appearance.

"Scarfoni," I say at last, the name stinging my tongue. "Callahan Scarfoni."

I don't know how he manages to hear me as my voice is barely a whisper, but he gives me the faintest smile and a slight bow of his head in acknowledgement.

"Portia Von Esmeralda." His gaze sweeps over my neck, over the swell of my breasts above the ruined gown. I see the lust flash in his eyes for just one second, then it's gone. "Grown up and pretty. Shame you have to die."

My mouth instantly goes dry. I'm speechless as he closes his hand gently over my shoulder, his grip slightly less painful than he was earlier when he forces me to my knees.

He leans down, brushes his lips against my ear.

I'm caught off-guard by the tickle of the scruff on his jaw.

"Do as I tell you. Don't. Fucking. Look," he warns, and I know what's coming. What's about to happen.

I know I'll disobey him. I know I'll look.

He strides away from me and takes his place a few meters away, close to his brother. I sink to the ground again, feeling numb. He positions himself before my brothers as Heathcliff orders that Gregory should be made to kneel beside Vincent.

I can see sense their fear from here. See how when Callahan crouches down in front of Vincent, a dark patch blooms on the insides of Vincent's trousers. My brother pisses himself. My all powerful, ruthless, no-nonsense brother pisses himself.

I suppress the urge to laugh. No, to really roll myself on the floor, cackle till my guts hurt, but now's not the time.

We're about to die.

Callahan doesn't miss the expanding dark spot. If he's enjoying this, he doesn't show it. His face is as straight as a ruler.

In my periphery, I see Nathan just beginning to stir awake. Will they kill him too? He's just a kid. He's innocent.

"Where is Fernando?" Callahan asks.

"How the fuck should I know that? The idiot is the reason why we're all here. He betrayed us. He's the one who plotted - "

"I didn't ask for the details. Where is he? Do you know where he's run off to?"

"Fuck no. What am I? His bodyguard? I did - "

"Then you are of no use to me," Callahan says and straightens, a ting of finality in his gestures. He steps back and whistles. Just a whistle. Heathcliff points the gun in between Vincent's eyes and pulls the trigger. It's so fast, no hesitation, no tiem for Vincent to plead for this life. No time for me to even process, though I knew what was coming.

The sound is ear-splitting, reverberating off the walls. I press the heel of my palms to my ears, groaning. Why don't they use a silencer for crying out loud? Blood and pieces of my brother's brain splatter across the wall, and my face.

I wince, and wipe away it away. I don't scream. And I don't look away. I watch instead. Watch as Vincent's body twitches, still kneeling as if he's not realizing he's dead, before finally dropping to the floor with a thud.