BRIDE TO THE MAFIA HEIR

I dig the smell of fear. It's pretty intense, you know? When it comes out from them and mixes with their cheap perfume and desperation, you can almost taste it in the air.

Tonight, the club reeks of it.

I'm sprawled on the bed in my usual private room, waiting for my next... appointment. The sheets are scratchy against my skin and probably haven't been changed in weeks. Not that I care. Everything in this shithole is disposable-the furniture, the booze, the girls.

Especially the girls.

My fingers drum an impatient rhythm on my thigh. Where the hell is she? I check my watch-an ostentatious, gold plated monstrosity. It's all for the show, of course. The girls see it glinting on my wrist, and their eyes light up. They think they've hit the jackpot.

They're always disappointed.

The door creaks open, and I sit up, ready to unleash my displeasure on whoever's kept me waiting. But the words die in my throat as I take in the sight before me.

She's new. That much is obvious. The way she hesitates in the doorway, eyes darting around the room like a cornered animal. Her dress is too tight, practically spilling out the top. A cheap red wig sits slightly askew on her head.

"Well, well," I drawl, letting my gaze rake over her body. "Aren't you a sight for sore eyes?"

She flinches at the sound of my voice. God, I love when they do that.

"I... I'm sorry," she stammers, backing away. "I think I have the wrong room."

I'm on my feet in an instant, crossing the room in three long strides. She tries to bolt, but I'm faster. Always am. My hand shoots out, grabbing her wrist and yanking her inside. The door slams shut behind us.

"Now, now," I chuckle, pressing her against the wall. "Don't be shy. We're all friends here."

Up close, I can see the terror in her eyes. It's delicious. She's trembling like a leaf, and I haven't even touched her. Not really.

"Please," she whimpers. "There's been a mistake."

I laugh, the sound echoing off the grimy walls. "Oh, sweetheart, the only mistake was you walking through that door. But don't worry-I'll take good care of you."

I put my hand on her throat, just enough to surprise her. Her pulse quickens under my fingers, a rapid beat of fear. I get closer and take a deep breath. Underneath the strong perfume and the lingering smell of cigarettes on her clothes, there's something... different. Fresh. Pure.

"You're new here, aren't you?" I murmur, my lips brushing against her ear. "I love breaking in the new ones."

She struggles weakly against me, but it's pointless. I outweigh her by at least a hundred pounds, all of it muscle. I've taken down men twice my size without breaking a sweat. This slip of a girl doesn't stand a chance.

"Kind of skinny," I muse, running my free hand down her side. "But you've got some tits on you."

Suddenly, she lashes out. Her knee connects with my groin, and for a split second, pain explodes through my body. But I've been hit harder by better. I shake it off, grinning wolfishly.

"Feisty little thing, aren't you?"

I toss her across the room like she weighs nothing. She crashes into the rickety bedside table, sending it toppling. The lamp shatters on impact, plunging the room into near darkness. The only light now comes from the neon signs outside, casting everything in a sickly red glow.

She's sprawled on the floor, gasping in pain. I advance slowly, savoring the moment. This is my favorite part-when they realize there's no escape. When hope dies in their eyes.

But as I reach for her, something changes. The fear in her expression hardens into something else. Determination? Anger?

Then I see it. My gun, lying on the floor where it fell from the overturned table.

Shit.

Her hand inches towards the weapon, and for the first time tonight, I feel a flicker of unease. This isn't how it's supposed to go. They're not supposed to fight back. Not like this.

"Don't do anything stupid," I growl, trying to regain control of the situation. "You don't want to make this worse for yourself."

But even as the words leave my mouth, I know it's too late. She's got the gun now, fingers wrapping around the grip with surprising steadiness.

"Stay back," she says, her voice shaking but determined.

I raise my hands, taking a step back. My mind races, trying to figure a way out of this mess. I've been in tight spots before, but this is different.

"Look," I say, forcing a smile. "Let's just calm down, alright? No need for things to get messy. Why don't you put that down, and we can talk about this like adults?"

Her laugh is bitter, bordering on hysterical. "Talk? You want to talk now?"

I take another step back, eyeing the distance to the door. If I can just get close enough...

"I know things got a little out of hand," I say, keeping my voice low and soothing. "But it's not too late to fix this. Just give me the gun, and we can forget this ever happened."

For a moment, I think I've got her. Her grip on the weapon wavers, uncertainty flashing across her face.

Then her eyes hardened again. "No," she says firmly. "I don't think so."

Before I can react, she's on her feet, and the gun trained steadily on my chest.

"You're going to sit down," she orders, gesturing to the bed with the weapon. "Slowly. Keep your hands where I can see them."

I am considering my options. I could probably disarm her if I moved fast enough. But there's something in her eyes that gives me pause. This isn't some drugged out stripper or desperate junkie. This girl knows how to handle a gun.

Who the hell is she?

I sit on the edge of the bed, hands raised in surrender. "Alright," I say carefully. "You've got my attention. What do you want?"

She takes a deep breath, steadying herself. "Information," she says. "And you're going to give it to me."

I can't help but laugh. "Information? Sweetheart, I think you've got the wrong guy. I'm just here for a good time, same as anyone else."

Her eyes narrow. "Cut the bullshit, Daniel. I know who you are. I know what you do."

The use of my name sends a chill down my spine. This is bad. Very bad.

"I don't know what you think you know," I say slowly, "but I can assure you."

"Shut up," she snaps. "I'm not interested in your lies. I want to know about the trafficking ring. The girls you've been moving through this club. Where are they being sent?"

Jesus Christ. How deep is this rabbit hole?

"Look," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "I think there's been some kind of misunderstanding. I'm just a customer here. I don't know anything about"

The gun goes off with a deafening crack. I flinch as the bullet embeds itself in the wall inches from my head.

"The next one goes in your kneecap," she says coldly. "Start talking."

For the first time in years, real fear grips me. This isn't how it was supposed to go. None of this was supposed to happen.

As I stare down the barrel of my own gun, held steady in the hands of this slip of a girl I'd so badly underestimated, one thought echoes through my mind:

I am so fucked.

The Dust Raven glittered dully on the dirty floor of the strip club's VIP area. Kylie's gaze hooked onto it, her heart thumping so hard she felt it may explode right out of her chest.

"A Dust Raven? Really?" she thought, a crazy giggle threatening to leave her lips. "Only men with something to prove carry those..."

For a minute, time appeared to stand still. Kylie could hear her own rapid breathing, the distant throb of bass from the main room, and Daniel's low, ominous chuckle. The rifle rested between them, a lethal promise waiting to be fulfilled.

Kylie's mind raced. She'd never held a real gun before, let alone fired one. Sure, she'd seen them in movies, but this was different. This was life or death.

"Screw it," she thought, steeling herself. In one seamless action, she reached for the weapon.

The metal was cool against her feverish fingertips as she picked it up. It was heavier than she thought, and her arms trembled slightly under its weight. Kylie fumbled with the safety, her fingers clunky and unwilling.

"Come on, come on," she whispered under her breath. The mechanism was rigid, opposing her efforts. A small part of her brain recognized this information, putting it away for further contemplation.

"It's stiff," she realized. "He hasn't used it much."

Finally, the safety clicked off. Kylie raised the gun, her arms shaking as she directed it at Daniel. The barrel appeared to weigh a ton, and she tried to keep it steady.

"Stop," she said, hating how her voice cracked on that single word. She sounded afraid, which she was, but she couldn't afford to exhibit weakness. Not now.

Daniel's chuckle boomed in the small room, a vicious sound that sent shivers down Kylie's spine. His eyes raked over her, taking in the shaking gun, her shivering frame, and the dread she was trying so hard to disguise.

"What would a pretty little thing like you know about a big ole gun like that?" he growled, taking a menacing step forward.

Sweat beaded on Kylie's forehead. She could feel it running down her back, making the too tight dress cling even more tightly to her skin. The heavy makeup she'd applied earlier seemed like a mask, stifling her.

"Just back up and let me leave," she replied, her voice stronger now. The initial astonishment was fading off, replaced by a hard determination. She'd come too far to back down now.

Daniel's eyes narrowed, his attitude darkening. "I don't think so," he hissed.

Before Kylie could respond, he lunged at her. Time appeared to slow down. She saw his gigantic bulk flying towards her, his hands outstretched, ready to snatch the pistol away. In that moment, instinct took over.

Kylie squeezed the trigger.

The rifle kicked furiously in her hands, the recoil nearly tearing it from her grip. The blast was thunderous in the small space, leaving her ears reeling. For a short second, Kylie believed she'd missed.

Then Daniel's body lunged backward, slamming into the bed before crumpling to the floor. A dark stain appeared on his shirt, spreading swiftly.

Kylie stood still, eyes wide with disbelief. The rifle dangled limply at her side, now feeling ten times heavier. The acrid scent of gunpowder assaulted her nose, combined with the stale cigarette smoke and cheap perfume that saturated the club.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God..." The mantra reverberated in her thoughts, an unending loop of panic and disbelief. She'd shot someone. She, Kylie Morgan, had actually pulled the trigger and shot a guy.

The gravity of the situation came crashing down on her like a tidal wave. She had to get out of there. Now.

With shaking hands, Kylie used the hem of her dress to wipe off the gun, eliminating any evidence of her fingerprints. That was awkward and amateurish at best, but that was all she could think to do at the moment.

Tossing the weapon aside, she rushed for the door. Her heels clacked loudly on the floor as she stumbled down the hallway, nearly tumbling in her haste to flee. She passed a boredlooking guard, who scarcely spared her a glance. Just another inebriated chick, nothing exceptional in an environment like this.

The cool night air greeted Kylie like a smack to the face as she burst out the rear door of the club. She swallowed it down greedily, attempting to rid the odor of gunpowder and panic from her lungs. Her automobile sat where she'd left it, a plain sedan that blended in with the other vehicles in the lot.

Fumbling with her keys, Kylie virtually tumbled into the driver's seat. Her hands shook so terribly she could hardly get the key in the ignition. Finally, the engine roared to life.

Despite the humid July night, Kylie set the heat on full blast. Her teeth chattered, her whole body tortured with uncontrolled tremors.

"Shock," she whispered to herself, recalling a long-ago first aid training. "It's just shock. You're fine. Everything's fine."

She pulled onto the main street, forcing herself to drive normally. The last thing she needed was to get pulled over now. As she waited at a red light, Kylie came to peek down.

There, vivid against the cheap polyester of her clothing, was a spray of blood. Tiny droplets, barely apparent unless you knew to look for them. But to Kylie, they might as well have been neon signs declaring her guilt.

A scream tore from her throat, primal and terrifying. The car veered uncontrollably, nearly slamming into a light post before Kylie regained control.

"Pull it together," she screamed through gritted teeth. "I am Kylie goddamn Morgan. I'm better than this."

But even as she said the words, images rushed through her head. Daniel's enormous hands curled around the poor girl's throat. The girl's body hit the floor, abandoned like rubbish. The gun kicked in Kylie's hands, Daniel's body twitching as the bullet hit its spot.

"Enough," Kylie murmured forcefully, shoving the memories away. "What's done is done."

The rest of the drive passed in a haze. Before she knew it, Kylie was pulling into the garage of the Morgan mansion. The vast home loomed over her, its windows dark and deserted. For once, she was grateful for her parents' frequent absences.

Moving on autopilot, Kylie set about hiding her traces. She cleaned down the automobile interior, using enough cleaning agents to make her eyes water. Her disguise came off piece by piece – the tootight dress, the cheap wig, the stripper shoes she'd borrowed from a girl at school.

Everything went into the estate's antique furnace, fed piece by piece into the voracious flames. Kylie watched as the evidence of her night's escapades burned to ash, feeling weirdly disconnected from the whole process.

As she slipped through the deserted corridors of the mansion, now outfitted in inconspicuous coveralls, Kylie's mind raced. What would happen now? Would the police come knocking on their door? Would her parents somehow find out what she'd done?

The notion of disappointing them, of damaging the treasured Morgan's name, was almost worse than the memories of pressing the gun.

Finally, Kylie reached the sanctuary of her own bathroom. She turned the shower on full blast, not bothering to wait for the water to warm up before stepping in. The icy spray shook her system, bringing her crashing back to reality.

For a long period, Kylie just stood there, fully dressed, letting the water soak through the coveralls. Then, as if a dam had cracked, the feelings she'd been keeping back all night came gushing out.

Sobs wracked her body, mixing with the shower spray. Kylie slid down the tiled wall, pressing her knees to her breast as she wailed.

"Morgans don't cry," she thought cruelly, recalling her mother's oft-repeated credo. "Morgans don't cry."

But at that moment, crouched on the floor of her shower, Kylie didn't feel like a Morgan. She felt little, afraid, and so very, very alone.

As the water poured over her, washing away the final remnants of her disguise, Kylie's mind slipped. How had she landed up here? It felt like only yesterday she'd been just another wealthy kid, coasting through life on her family's name and money.

Then came the announcement. Her parents, beaming with pride, told her of her forthcoming marriage to some mystery billionaire. Daniel. The name sent a tremor through Kylie's body, even now.

She'd smiled and nodded, playing the part of the dutiful daughter. But inwardly, questions had festered. Who was this man? What type of person decided to marry a woman they'd never met?

So she'd begun digging. At first, it was just harmless curiosity. A few questions here and there, some covert inquiries about her parents' social circle. But the more she knew, the more terrifying the image got.

Whispers about dubious business practices. Rumors of connections to organized crime. And then, the most alarming of all rumors of missing girls, young women who'd disappeared without a trace.

That's what had led her to the strip club tonight. There wasn't much to go on - just overheard fragments of discussion, and a few wellplaced bribes to the proper people. But that was enough to drive Kylie to don that absurd disguise and venture into a world she'd never known existed.

Now, crouched in her shower as the hot water slowly ran cold, Kylie wondered if it had been worth it. She'd confirmed her darkest worries about Daniel, certainly. But at what cost?

She'd taken a life tonight. Justified or not, that was a weight she'd carry for the rest of her days.

As the weeping gradually receded, replaced by a bonedeep tiredness, Kylie forced herself to stand. She took off the soaking coveralls, letting them fall to the shower floor with a wet slap.

Methodically, she cleaned away all signs of the night's occurrences. The remainder of the heavy makeup swirled down the drain, along with the cheap perfume she'd coated herself in. By the time she walked out of the shower, pruned and shivering, Kylie almost felt like herself again.

Almost.

Wrapping herself in a thick robe, Kylie padded into her bedroom. The familiar surroundings felt alien now like they belonged to a different person. A Kylie who hadn't pulled a trigger, who didn't know what it was like to kill a life.

She collapsed into her bed, staring blankly at the wall. What now? In a few hours, the sun would rise. The world would go on turning, ignorant of the happenings of the night. But for Kylie, everything had changed.

Would the police come? Had anyone at the club seen her? Recognized her, despite the disguise? The questions whirled in her thoughts, each more scary than the previous.

And what about her parents? What would they say if they realized what their perfect daughter had done? The thought drove a fresh rush of panic through Kylie's body.

No. They could never know. No one could ever know.

As the first rays of light began to peek through her curtains, Kylie made a decision. She would bury this night deep inside herself, lock it away in the darkest regions of her memory. She would continue on with her life as if nothing had happened.

She was Kylie Morgan, after all. And Morgans were nothing if not masters of keeping up appearances.

But as Kylie finally drifted off into a fitful sleep, one thought rang through her mind:

Nothing would ever be the same again

I'm lost in the pages of Tolstoy when Liam bursts into the library like a hurricane in an Armani suit. I don't bother looking up. Maybe if I ignore him, he'll go away.

"Daniel Hayes is dead," he announces, voice dripping with drama.

I grip my book a little tighter, willing myself not to react. Daniel Hayes. Now there's a name I hadn't expected to hear today. Or ever again, if I'm being honest.

"And?" I manage, keeping my tone as flat and uninterested as possible.

But Liam, being Liam, isn't about to let me off that easy. I can practically feel the manic energy radiating off him as he plops his designer clad ass right on the antique coffee table in front of me. Dad would have a fit if he saw.

"And you know what that means," Liam grins, snatching my book away. I resist the urge to snatch it back. That would only encourage him.

Instead, I sigh, resigning myself to whatever scheme he's cooked up this time. "Shouldn't you be talking to our father about this?"

Liam leans in close, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I'm talking about it with you."

He turns those puppy dog eyes on me, the ones that stopped working sometime around my tenth birthday. I tense up, ready to tell him exactly where he can shove his secrets when the door creaks open again.

Great. Just great.

Sophia glides in, all angelic grace in a flowing white dress. She closes the door behind her with a soft click that sounds suspiciously like a coffin lid to my ears.

"Not until you hear us out," she says, her voice sweet as honey and twice as sticky.

Before I can make a break for it, Liam claps a hand on my shoulder, pinning me in place. "Both of us," he adds, unnecessarily.

I slump back into the couch, defeated. "You have five minutes."

Sophia perches on the arm of the couch, her dress swishing softly. She's the picture of innocence, which immediately sets off warning bells in my head. My sister hasn't been truly innocent since she convinced our nanny that Liam was adopted when we were kids.

"That's all we need," Sophia says, leaning in close.

Here we go, I think, bracing myself for whatever brand of insanity they're about to unleash.

"With that despicable Hayes monster put out of his misery, we have an opportunity if we move fast," Sophia begins, her eyes gleaming with barely suppressed excitement.

I sit up straight, muscles tensing. This can't be good. "The next words out of your mouth had better not be that we should take this chance to eliminate the Hayes," I warn, already feeling a headache coming on.

Liam scoffs, "What, are you scared?"

I shoot him a glare. "No, but I'm also not suicidal. And that taunt stopped working on me when I was ten."

Sophia laughs lightly, a tinkling sound that would be charming if I didn't know better. "We're not suicidal."

"Then stop dicking around and tell me," I growl, my patience wearing thin.

Sophia twirls a strand of her hair, a habit she's had since childhood. It's meant to make her look innocent and distracted, but I know it's just another one of her tricks. "The Morgan daughter, the only one left, was set to marry Daniel Hayes. They were going to announce the engagement today."

That catches me off guard. "I hadn't heard anything," I admit, frowning.

"No one did," Sophia says, her smile widening. "That's the point."

I let that sink in for a moment, trying to see where they're going with this. "It sounds like the girl dodged a bullet," I say slowly, still not sure I want to know where this is heading.

Liam nods enthusiastically. "Most definitely. But here's the thing..."

He exchanges a loaded look with Sophia, and my stomach drops. Whatever they're about to say, I know I'm not going to like it.

"If someone's going to secure an alliance with the Morgan family," Liam continues, "why not one of us?"

I feel the color drain from my face as the implications hit me. Oh no. Oh hell no.

"Then I suppose I should congratulate you on your impending nuptials," I force out, trying to keep my tone light.

Liam's grin widens impossibly further. "Actually, we're here to congratulate you."

Panic floods my system. This can't be happening. I scramble for an out, any out. "What about Umberto?" I blurt. "He's old enough to play husband to the Morgan girl."

Sophia and Liam share another look, their smiles growing wider, and I know I'm well and truly fucked.

"Now, now, little brother," Sophia coos, patting my arm in a way that's probably meant to be comforting but just makes my skin crawl. "You know as well as we do that Umberto isn't... suited for this kind of responsibility."

She's not wrong. Our youngest brother is more interested in partying and blowing through his trust fund than anything resembling actual work or family duty. But still...

"And I am?" I counter, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice.

Liam leans back, crossing his arms. "You're the smart one, Roberto. The levelheaded one. The one who actually gives a damn about the family legacy."

"Plus," Sophia adds, her voice dropping to a stage whisper, "you're by far the most handsome."

I roll my eyes at that. "Flattery will get you nowhere."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Liam chuckles. "It's gotten us this far, hasn't it?"

I stand up abruptly, needing to put some distance between myself and my conniving siblings. I pace over to the fireplace, staring into the flames as I try to think this through.

"Why me?" I ask finally, turning back to face them. "Why not you, Liam? Or you, Sophia? You're both older and more established. Wouldn't you be better choices for this... alliance?"

Sophia's smile turns sad, almost wistful. "You know why, Roberto. I'm damaged goods in the eyes of society after that mess with the Fitzgerald boy."

I wince at the memory. That particular scandal had been ugly, even by our family's standards.

"And me?" Liam shrugs. "I'm too much of a wildcard. The Morgans would never trust me with their precious daughter and all that comes with her."

"But they'd trust me?" I can't keep the skepticism out of my voice.

"You're the golden boy, Roberto," Sophia says softly. "The one with the clean record and the good reputation. The one who actually finished college and has a real job outside the family business."

"A lawyer," Liam adds. "Respectable. Trustworthy. The perfect soninlaw material."

I turn back to the fire, my mind racing. They're not wrong, as much as I hate to admit it. I've always been the responsible one, the one who tried to stay above the fray of family politics and backstabbing. And now it seems that very quality is coming back to bite me in the ass.

"What if I refuse?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

The silence that follows is heavy, loaded with unspoken threats and promises.

"You won't," Liam says finally, his voice uncharacteristically serious.

"Because you know what's at stake," Sophia adds. "For all of us."

I close my eyes, feeling the weight of generations of Connoly pressing down on my shoulders. The family legacy, the empire built on blood and secrets, all of it hanging in the balance.

"Does Father know about this plan of yours?" I ask though I'm pretty sure I already know the answer.

"He will," Liam says, "once you agree."

I turn to face them again, taking in their eager expressions, the mix of hope and calculation in their eyes. My beloved, scheming, utterly ruthless siblings.

"And the Morgan girl?" I ask, realizing I don't even know her name. "Does she get a say in this?"

Sophia waves a dismissive hand. "Details. We'll work those out later. The important thing is to make the first move before anyone else can swoop in."

I shake my head, a humorless laugh escaping me. "You make it sound like we're talking about a business merger, not a marriage."

"Aren't we?" Liam counters, raising an eyebrow.

And there it is, the cold, hard truth of our world laid bare. Love, happiness, personal choice – those are luxuries for other people. For us, everything is a transaction, a move in the great game of power and influence.

I walk back to the couch, sinking down onto it with a heavy sigh. "You really think this is necessary? That the family is in that much trouble?"

The look Liam and Sophia exchange speaks volumes.

"You've been out of the loop for a while, little brother," Sophia says gently. "Things are... not great. This alliance could be our saving grace."

"Or our downfall if we fuck it up," Liam adds helpfully.

"You can't seriously be asking me to marry some woman I've never met from a family we were raised to hate," I say, turning back to face my siblings. The ridiculousness of the situation hits me anew, and I can't help but let out a bitter laugh.

Liam and Sophia exchange another one of those loaded looks that make me want to throw something. Preferably at their heads.

"I'm not," Liam answers finally, his voice unnaturally melancholy. He pauses, and it's like the whole room holds its breath. "Father is."

Just like that, the fight drains right out of me. My hold on the whiskey glass tightens, and for a single second, I actually consider hurling it into the flames. But come on, it would be a horrible waste, because if there's one thing a Connolly never does, it's squander good wine. We might muck up a lot of things, but whiskey? That's sacred. Besides, the burn in my throat is the only thing keeping me grounded right now.

I could argue with Liam and Sophie all day long, and maybe I'd even win once in a while. But Father? Forget it. His word is the final say around here, and he's a pro at poking our buttons to achieve what he wants. The person knows us better than we know ourselves, which is pretty messed up if you think about it. I learned that lesson the hard way when I was still naive enough to think there was some other life out there for me-a way out of this mess. I used to dream of it, actually-running away, starting over, being just another nobody. But that's all it ever was: a silly dream. And I'm the fool who thought it could be real.

I slam my glass down, the noise louder than I intended, and walk out of the library, disregarding Liam and Sophie's shouts like they don't even matter. Why should they? They don't get it. No one does. The weight of their expectations, Father's demands, and this whole messed-up situation is crushing me. Every breath I breathe seems like I'm breathing their damn legacy, choking on it. I need to get out, clear my thoughts, and breathe. But who am I kidding? In this house, there's no escape from the Connolly legacy. It sticks to you like glue, no matter where you go, like some awful joke you can never laugh at.

What's the purpose of attempting to fight it? No matter what I do, I'm always going to be exactly what they want me to be: another Connolly puppet, dancing to the old man's song.