Loved A Machine: The Mafia Queen's Awakening

Five days before my wedding to the most feared Mafia Don in New York, I breached his private server.

I didn't find cartel intel. Instead, I found a custom AI bot programmed to auto-reply to my text messages.

Beside it rested unencrypted chat logs with his childhood ward, Serena. The messages were a saccharine scroll of warmth and devotion I had never known.

For five years, I had poured my heart out to a machine.

While he used a script to tell me to stop causing drama, he was busy sending extra guards for Serena because she was scared of the rain.

He routinely forgot my lethal seafood allergy, bringing me lobster, yet meticulously tracked Serena's menstrual cycle so she wouldn't touch cold water.

On the morning of our Syndicate wedding, my phone lit up with a final message.

"Skip the traditional bridal retrieval. I have to escort Serena on her run to keep her calm."

I had spent years living in a bulletproof cage, acting as a glorified maid while he gave his humanity entirely to another woman.

Why did he build impenetrable security networks for her, but an AI to shut me up?

I didn't cry, and I didn't put on my custom bridal gown.

Instead, I canceled the venue, uploaded his AI code to the underworld's gossip network, and boarded a flight a thousand miles away.

Let him marry his machine.

Chapter 1

Gianna POV

Five days before the ceremony that would make me the Queen of the New York Cosa Nostra, I breached my fiancé's encrypted server. Inside, I did not find state secrets or rival intel, but a custom AI bot, programmed to automate his replies to my text messages.

The monitor cast a sterile, blue geography across my hands as I traced the lines of code that served as my death warrant.

I used to be a computer science major. Two years into a top-tier program, before the Family decided my only value was as a bride. I never graduated. But sitting alone in a penthouse for five years with nothing but time and a chip on your shoulder sharpens certain skills. Dante knew this when he taught me to build ghost servers for the Syndicate. He just never imagined I would use those same skills to crack his own private vault.

Dante is a visionary.

Taking the Family at a mere twenty-two years of age, he dragged an ancient underworld into the modern era. He built impenetrable money-laundering networks and cyber-security systems that could humble a government. He also has a body count that makes rival Capos sweat when his name is spoken above a whisper.

He is lethal, brilliant, and a man whose quietest moments promise violence.

And for the last six months, I have been pouring my heart out to a script he had named, with no apparent irony, Domestic Low Priority.

I scroll through my phone, the screen a catalogue of my own vulnerability: the messages sent while negotiating neutral ground for our syndicate wedding. The texts sent from behind the curtain of a bridal fitting, surrounded by the silent judgment of armed Soldiers. The countless, foolish instances I had typed the words, I miss you.

His replies are always there, immediate and sterile.

"Understood."

"Stay safe."

"Stop causing drama."

I had believed him a man of few words, a man whose station as Boss of the New York underworld afforded him no time for sentiment.

Then I look back at the unencrypted folder on his server.

The folder is labeled with a single name: Serena.

Serena is his childhood ward. She saved him during a mafia war when they were kids, and since that day, he treats her like a sacred object.

I open the chat logs between them.

The messages are not short. They are novels.

He asks if she slept well. He tells her he is sending an extra guard because it is raining and she gets nervous in storms. He promises, with written tenderness, to pick up her favorite pastries from a bakery across town.

I kept scrolling. Then I stopped.

An exchange from the day before his resort trip with her.

Serena: Are you sure you should be gone this close to the wedding? Gianna might actually walk this time.

Dante: She won't. She lacks the courage.

Serena: Good.

A sudden numbness prickled at the tips of my fingers, traveling up my arms until I had to consciously remind myself to inhale.

I close the laptop, the lid shutting with a sound no louder than a sigh, just as the front door of the penthouse opens.

His footfalls, heavy and precise, announced his arrival on the marble floor before Dante walks into the living room. He is wearing a dark, impeccably tailored suit that seemed to absorb the light in the room. He smells of the cold night air, of expensive cologne, and of the ghost of cigar smoke from a Syndicate sit-down.

He stops abruptly when he sees me sitting on the sofa.

The architecture of his face hardened.

"Why are you awake?" he asks, his voice a low rasp of gravel.

"I was waiting for you," I say, my own voice a thread of sound in the cavernous room.

Dante loosens his tie and throws his suit jacket over a chair.

"Use the encrypted app if you need something," he says. "Do not wait up like a civilian. It is a security risk."

I look at his hands-hands that have ended lives and built empires.

"Do you find me too talkative, Dante?" I ask.

He freezes.

The very temperature of the room seemed to fall as he turned his head, the movement slow and deliberate, and fixed his gaze upon me.

"Why are you asking me that?" he demands.

"Just answer the question."

Dante lets out a harsh breath.

"Sometimes, yes," he says irritably.

"Give me an example," I push.

He walks over to the bar and pours himself a glass of whiskey.

"You text me about meaningless civilian trivialities," he says. "You tell me the florist changed the color of the roses. You tell me your dress is heavy. You report your entire life to me."

"Is that not what a husband and wife are to do?" I ask, forcing my throat to swallow back the metallic taste of bile.

Dante takes a drink and sets the glass down hard on the crystal tray, the sound a sharp crack in the silence.

"Running an underworld empire is exhausting, Gianna," he says coldly. "I deal with federal agents and rival cartels all day. I should not have to manage your emotional fragility at home. You need to develop some Mafia stoicism."

I look at him.

I remember the chat logs.

I remember Serena texting him that she chipped a nail, and Dante immediately sending a car to take her to a private salon without a word of complaint.

"Why is Serena never required to be stoic?" I ask.

I didn't fill the silence. The hum of the penthouse's air conditioning suddenly felt abrasive, grinding against the quiet.

Dante's expression darkens into a dangerous scowl, and he takes a step toward me.

"Did you stay up just to pick a fight?" he asks softly, the question less a question than a verdict.

I do not back down. Instead, I stand up and face him, the space between us charged and thin.

"Why do you use an AI to patronize me instead of acting like a man and telling me to be quiet?" I ask, my voice a tightly controlled wire.

The blood drained from Dante's face.

A conflict of guilt and a terrible, rising anger warred in the depths of his dark eyes.

"Did you breach my private server?" he demands, the words not shouted, but they seemed to press against the bulletproof glass of the windows.

I just look at him, offering no quarter.

He sighs heavily and rubs the back of his neck, the caught man vanishing behind the mask of the Don.

"The AI was a gift," he says smoothly, trying to change the narrative. "You always complained that I never use my tech skills for you. I built that specifically for you."

I look at the man I have loved for five years. I watched his chest rise and fall, counting the seconds it took for the absurdity of that excuse to settle into his rigid posture.

He built impenetrable security networks for Serena.

He built an AI to shut me up.

"I am going to sleep," I tell him, and I walk away, leaving him alone in the company of his machine.

Gianna POV

I wake up the next morning to the weight of the damask quilt, a familiar pressure that has taken the place of solace.

Today is my day off from managing the Family's legitimate fronts, but there is no peace to be found in this house.

A woman's bright laughter cut through the morning stillness from the living room.

I open my bedroom door.

Dante and Serena are walking in from the private elevator, both wearing workout clothes.

It was his rule: a strict, tactical morning run for his health and security.

I asked to join him two years ago.

He told me I was too slow-a security liability.

And yet, he has taken Serena on those same morning runs for three years straight.

Serena is flushed and smiling, her skin gleaming with a light sweat.

"I am so tired, Dante," she complains playfully, her body angled into his space.

Dante smiles.

It is a rare, genuine expression that softens his hard features, an expression I had not seen aimed in my direction for years.

"I will cut the perimeter run short for you tomorrow," he tells her, his tone possessing a gentleness I did not recognize.

Then, he looks up and sees me.

His smile instantly vanishes.

The architecture of his face shifted, reassembling itself into the cold, untouchable Boss of the Family.

He holds up a takeout bag from a luxury restaurant.

"I brought breakfast," he says.

I do not even have to look inside the bag to know its contents.

I can smell it.

The opulent scent of imported lobster congee and shrimp dumplings hung in the air.

I am deathly allergic to shellfish.

Three years ago, I had a severe reaction and ended up in the hospital.

Dante sat by my bed and swore on his life he would memorize my allergies.

And yet, he has brought seafood back from his morning runs every single time since.

"Why can you never remember my allergy, Dante?" I ask.

I forced my throat to swallow back the metallic taste of bile, keeping my vocal cords strictly regulated.

Serena immediately steps between us.

She places a small, delicate hand on Dante's arm.

"Oh, Gianna, I am so sorry," Serena says softly, her wide eyes a portrait of pleading innocence. "I forced Dante to buy it. I was just craving it so badly. Please do not be mad at him."

Dante nods smoothly, accepting her defense as his due.

"I will have a Soldier fetch you something else," he says.

He turns his back to me and starts unpacking the food for Serena.

He does not apologize.

Serena walks toward the master bathroom.

"Fresh towels and your specific body wash are in the usual spot, Serena," Dante calls out to her.

I stop breathing for a second.

A man who routinely ordered executions before his morning espresso was currently inventorying Serena's body wash.

I feel like a stranger trespassing in their house.

I turn around and walk back into my room, closing the door on their domestic tableau.

I change into a simple dress and grab my purse.

When I walk back out, Dante is setting the table for Serena.

"Where are you going?" he asks without looking up.

"I have business," I say.

He drops the subject immediately, his disinterest a palpable thing.

He pulls out a chair for Serena as she comes out of the bathroom.

I walk out the door and step into the New York air, a damp chill rising from the pavement.

I instructed my assigned Soldiers to drive me to the Family-affiliated bridal boutique, then commanded them to remain with the vehicle, affording me a privacy I had not known in years.

The attendant rushes over to me as soon as I walk in.

She looks behind me, expecting the Don to walk through the door at my side.

I attended six fittings in this shop.

I was always surrounded by armed guards.

Dante never showed up to a single one.

"Miss Gianna," the attendant says nervously. "We have the two custom gowns prepared for your final decision."

"I am here to cancel the order," I say.

The attendant drops her clipboard, the plastic clattering loudly against the marble floor.

She stares at me in shock.

"Cancel?" she whispers.

"Yes," I say. "Please process the cancellation."

She obeys quickly, as if sensing the finality was an order she dared not refuse.

She hands me the receipt with shaking hands.

"Miss Gianna," she says quietly, her eyes meeting mine. "I hope you find a man who truly cherishes you."

I stare at her, and a strange dizziness made me reach for the edge of a nearby table.

It took a stranger five seconds to see what took me five years to accept.

I thank her and leave the shop. As I stepped back onto the street, I noticed for the first time in months the precise blue of the morning sky.

I spend the rest of the day canceling the neutral-ground venue and the florists, while using my clearance as the future Donna to issue a classified directive, redirecting the security details to a decoy perimeter on the opposite side of the city.

By the time I finish, the sun is setting, drawing long, skeletal shadows from the city's towers.

My phone rings.

It is Carmela, the Family Matriarch and Dante's mother.

"Gianna," Carmela says sharply, her voice leaving no room for argument. "Get to the Estate for dinner right now. Dante and Serena are already here waiting for you."

Gianna POV

Upon my arrival at the heavily guarded Family Estate, the soldiers nod in deference as I passed through the massive iron doors.

Within the grand dining room, the long mahogany table is already set.

Serena is seated right next to Dante, in the place that should have been mine.

He is expertly shelling a bowl of shrimp, carefully placing the pale meat onto her plate.

Serena looks up, offering me a bright, practiced smile.

"Gianna, you are here!" she says. "We have been waiting for you."

Dante turned back to shelling shrimp, and in the exact moment his attention shifted, Serena's smile held. But her eyes changed-a flicker of cool appraisal, the way a collector checks a rival's piece for flaws. Then it was gone, replaced by warmth before anyone else could see.

I let my gaze fall at her half-empty plate, knowing the lie for what it was.

I offered no reply to the charade, walking instead to the far end of the table to take an empty chair.

The entire feast spread before us was an homage to Serena's favorite seafood.

I picked up my fork, and quietly resigned myself to a plain side salad.

From the head of the table, Carmela's voice sliced through the room.

"Gianna," she announced. "About the Syndicate banquet menu next week. We need to add Australian lobster and baked crab."

"Why?" I ask, looking up from my greens.

"Because Serena loves them," Carmela states, as if it were a matter of state.

With a show of modesty, Serena dropped her gaze to her lap.

"Oh, Carmela, you do not have to do that," she murmured. "It is Gianna's wedding."

"Nonsense," Carmela replied firmly. "Keeping the Family's ward happy is our priority. You are true, blood-tied loyalty."

I turned my gaze to Dante.

He is methodically wiping his hands on a linen napkin, offering not a single word to defend my wedding menu.

Even my own bridal banquet is just another stage for Serena.

"Sure," I say, the word tasting of ash on my tongue.

The rest of the dinner passed in a tedious blur.

When the plates were finally cleared, Carmela stands.

"Gianna, come to the parlor with me," she commanded. "Serena, be a dear and help the staff clear the table."

As Serena starts to rise, Dante frowns and his hand shot out to gently catch her wrist.

"Sit down, Serena," he commands softly. "You are on your cycle. You should not touch cold water."

Then, his dark, impassive eyes snapped to me.

"Gianna, you do it," he orders.

The faceted crystal of the water glass dug into my palm, the sharp ridges leaving deep, bloodless indentations in my skin.

The man who commanded the New York Mafia meticulously tracked his ward's menstrual cycle, yet had consistently ignored the agony of my seafood allergy for five years.

Carmela pauses, then let out a sharp, dismissive laugh.

"Dante is right. A true Mafia wife must learn to serve her family," she decided coldly. "Gianna, you clear the table. Dante, you and your father go to the study to discuss the shipment."

Dante nods without a second thought and stands.

Serena trailed after them, leaning against the study doorframe to happily monopolize the Don's attention while I was left behind.

I was banished to the kitchen with the dirty plates, where I stood alone.

I felt like a stagehand in a play about my own life, forced to watch someone else live out the leading role.

It took an hour of this domestic torture before Serena finally let out a delicate yawn.

Instantly, Dante emerged from the study and snatched up his car keys.

"It is late," he declares. "We are leaving."

We all piled into Dante's armored SUV.

As expected, he drives to Serena's heavily fortified safehouse first.

It is located a mere three blocks from our own penthouse-a property Dante personally selected.

He had claimed he needed to be able to reach her instantly in case of a security threat.

Pulling up to her building, Serena hops out and offers a cheerful wave.

Dante shifted the car into park, his eyes fixed on her retreating figure until she passed through the biometric security doors.

He did not pull away until he was certain she is safely inside.

The silence in the car became a heavy, pressing thing.

"Dante," I say quietly, to break the tension. "Do you think your bond with Serena crosses a line?"

He was clearly still in a good mood from his evening, and he reaches over to stroke the back of my hand like I am a well-behaved pet.

"Are you feeling jealous, Gianna?" he asks, a faint smirk playing on his lips.

I pulled my hand away.

"Serena saved my life during a war," he explains smoothly, as if reciting a well-rehearsed speech. "If I wanted her, I would have taken her. You are the one getting the title of Mafia Queen. That should be enough for you."

I let out an exhausted sigh.

"We need to talk tomorrow, Dante," I said.

He instinctively frowns, opening his mouth to dismiss me and tell me to text his assistant.

But then, a flicker of memory crossed his features as he remembers I found out about the AI bot he used for my messages.

He snapped his mouth shut and gives a curt nod.

"Fine," he relented coldly. "I will make time for you tomorrow."