The Mafia's Forbidden Bride

The rain won't stop falling. It poured over the cemetery like the sky was crying harder than anyone else standing here. The earth was soaked, dark mud swallowing up the flowers that had fallen from trembling hands.

I was only seven years old, staring at the two coffins being lowered into the ground, and for the first time in my life, I understood what it meant to be empty. My whole world came crashing down as both my favorite people were lowered into the earth.

My mother. My father. They were gone. Far away.

My small hands clutched the damp hem of my black dress. My shoes were sinking in the mud, but I couldn't move. I couldn't blink. I couldn't breathe without feeling the sting of water-rain or tears, I didn't know anymore.

Why won't they wake up? The thought kept circling inside me, broken, like a child's prayer. If I scream loud enough, maybe they'll hear me. If I run to them, maybe they'll sit up. If I say sorry-sorry for all the times I didn't listen, sorry for leaving toys on the stairs-maybe they'll come back.

But the coffins only sank deeper.

Around me, people whispered, voices buzzing like insects. Too soft to understand, yet sharp enough to cut. "How tragic." "So young." "An accident, they say." "The girl... poor thing. Losing both parents like that."

Poor thing. The words made bile rise in my throat. Their eyes weren't kind. They were curious, hungry, waiting for a spectacle. A mafia funeral is more than grief.

Aunt Rosa crouched beside me, her umbrella doing little to shield either of us from the storm. Her perfume was strong, choking in the damp air. She tucked a strand of wet hair behind my ear and whispered, "Isla, darling, don't cry. You have me now. I'll take care of you."

Her voice shook. Not just from grief but also from fear. Rosa had never wanted me. I was an unexpected plan in her mix. All she wanted was freedom, Paris, silk dresses, and champagne-not guardianship of her dead sister's daughter. I had overheard her complaining bitterly to her boyfriend over the phone a few days back. I could see her fear and worries in her glassy smile, in the way her hand trembled on my shoulder. She was already calculating what this meant. The burden of raising a mafia child. The shadow of my parents' enemies. I was a burden to her.

I pulled away, and her lips pressed tight.

Then the murmurs stilled. Like the storm itself had stopped to listen.

Don Alessandro had arrived.

He didn't walk so much as command the ground beneath him. A tall man in an immaculate black suit, his presence cut through the rain, sharp as a blade. Men flanked him, silent and watchful. Nobody dared to breathe too loudly; one look from him was enough to silence the crowd, and when his eyes swept over us, I hid behind Aunt Rosa, feeling my knees wobbling.

This was the man who ruled everything my parents had bowed to. His gaze lingered on me for a long moment. Dark. Unreadable. I felt my stomach twist. He said nothing. He didn't need to.

Then, from his side, a boy stepped forward. Matteo. Don Alessandro's son. He couldn't have been more than ten. He had sharp features like his father. Dark hair plastered to his forehead by the rain, sharp blue eyes that burned with something older than his years.

I had seen him once or twice before, from afar, during visits with my parents to his estate. Always surrounded by guards, always carrying himself like he already knew the weight of the world. Today, though, he looked at me. Just me.

And the tears I had struggled to hold back came pouring like an open dam. The pain hit me all at once.

Without hesitation, he walked through the mud until he was standing beside me. Rosa's hand shot out as if to stop him, then fell limp under Don Alessandro's gaze.

Matteo didn't ask permission. He didn't speak. He simply took my hand.

His palm was warm despite the rain, firm where mine trembled. I looked up at him, confused, angry, desperate for something to hold on to. His jaw was set, his shoulders squared like he was daring the world to challenge him.

"Don't look down," he whispered. His voice was steady, older than ten years should have allowed.

My lips parted, but no words came.

The coffins hit the earth with a dull thud, and the shovels began their work. The sound of soil striking wood echoed through me. Each shovelful was another goodbye I wasn't ready to give.

Aunt Rosa sobbed softly into her handkerchief. Others shook their heads, whispering prayers. But all I could hear were Matteo's words, replaying over and over. Don't look down.

So, I didn't.

I kept my eyes on the storm, on the gray sky that threatened to swallow us whole. I let the rain wash over my face, mix with my tears, and blur the edges of my grief.

***

The gravesite ceremony had ended, and most people had retreated to our house for the reception that followed. Aunt Rosa had drifted away with the others to be the perfect host alongside her friend and boyfriend.

I sat outside the house on the porch, knees drawn up, my dress clinging to my skin. My chest hurt from crying and receiving pity gazes, but the tears kept coming anyway. My face was hot even though the rain was cold.

The harsh reality that I was never going to see my parents again hit hard with each ticking minute. I wanted to scream so loud God would have to listen. But my throat was raw, and all I could manage were little hiccups.

Footsteps came closer. Slow, certain.

I looked up to find Matteo standing next to me. He had taken off his suit and was only in a neat white dress shirt. His eyes weren't curious like the others had been. They weren't with pitying either. They were steady.

He didn't ask if he could sit. He just lowered himself beside me, leaving barely a hand's space between us. For a while, he didn't say anything. Just sat there, like he was willing to let the rain fall forever if I needed it to. Then his hand brushed mine again, warm, grounding.

"Don't look down," he said softly, the same words he'd given me before. This time, his voice is gentler, not a command but a promise.

I sniffled, my lips wobbling. "They're... they're gone."

"I know," Matteo answered. He didn't flinch at the words like the grown-ups did. "But you're not."

Fresh tears burned my eyes. "I don't want to go with Aunt Rosa,"

He was quiet for a second, then leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper. "You won't have to. My father... he already told me. He's going to take you in. You'll live with us."

I blinked at him. "With you?"

Matteo nodded, his expression fierce. "With me. You'll be part of our family. No one will touch you, and no one will make you cry like this again."

The ache in my chest shifted, a little bit. I felt a bit hopeful.

"Promise?" My voice cracked.

"I promise." His hand tightened around mine. "But only if you promise me something back."

My eyes widened. "What?"

"That you won't look down," Matteo said. "Not when they talk. Not when they try to scare you. Not ever. You keep your head up. Always."

I nodded, not understanding all of it. However, something in me wanted to believe him and his words.

Welcome home

That was what I was told, the instant I set foot into the De Luca mansion. However, the De Luca estate was nothing like the home I had lost. My parents' house had been filled with warmth, voices rising and falling in laughter, the smell of my mother's cooking, the sound of my father's heavy footsteps in the hall. This place... it was grand. The silence was polished, sharp, and watchful. Even the floors gleamed as though they, too, were listening. It was beautiful, but it didn't feel like it belonged to me.

The first nights were the hardest. I woke up often, crying into the silk pillows I was too afraid to stain. The ceilings here were too high, the air too cold. I was suffocating.

One night, when the sobs wouldn't stop, Matteo slipped into my room. His hair stuck out in all directions, his eyes heavy with sleep. He didn't say anything at first-just climbed onto the bed and sat beside me.

"You're loud when you cry," he muttered, rubbing his eyes.

I hiccupped, glaring at him through tears. "Then, leave me alone."

"No," he stretched out beside me, folding his arms behind his head like he owned the bed. "I'll stay until you stop."

And he stayed. Every night after, whenever the crying started, Matteo was there. Sometimes he told me stories he made up on the spot, about kings who hid treasure, or knights who never lost a fight. Other times, he just stayed quiet, his steady breathing enough to calm me.

Mrs. Serafina De Luca, Matteo's mother, on her part, tried to fill the void left by losing my mother since they were close friends. She tried to shape me into something polished. Sometimes, she sat beside me at the piano, guiding me through the ivory keys. She was my tutor on days she wasn't busy.

"Back straight, Isla," she murmured one morning, adjusting my shoulders as I sat at the piano, one of my favorite things in the house.

"I don't like this." I pouted, slouching again. It feels silly.

She smiled, smoothing my dress. It feels dignified, she corrected, tapping my spine with one delicate finger. "Try again."

I huffed but obeyed. My small fingers stumbled over the keys.

"Wrong note."

"I can't do it!" I groaned, burying my face in my hands.

She carefully wiped my hands away, her smile faint but kind. "You can. You just don't want to. There is a difference, Isla."

Her words sank into me, heavy as stone. Later, she placed a storybook in my lap. "Read aloud."

The letters danced before my eyes. "This is too hard." I mumbled.

"Nothing's too hard for you." She said firmly, pushing stray strands of hair behind my ear. "Say the first word."

I swallowed, trying again.

"Good." She kissed the top of my head endearingly, looking at me with a proud smile.

Days turned to weeks, weeks to months.

I learned to braid my own hair, but sometimes Matteo insisted on doing it for me anyway. His fingers were clumsy, tugging too hard, but I never stopped him. It became our ritual-me sitting cross-legged on the carpet, him muttering under his breath as he tried to get it right.

"Hold still," he'd complain.

"You're pulling too hard," I'd whine, but secretly I loved it. Because it was him. Because it was ours.

Other nights, he would sneak sweets from the kitchen, stuffing them into his pockets with a conspiratorial grin.

"Don't tell Mama," he whispered, breaking chocolate in half and pressing the bigger piece into my hand.

I never told.

We shared secrets like they were treasures. When other children at family gatherings sneered, he stepped in front of me, his small frame somehow carrying the weight of something larger, stronger. When I was scolded too harshly by a tutor, he argued back, chin tilted up like he wasn't afraid of anyone.

He was my shield. My anchor.

For a while, I was convinced that I belonged in this rhythm of lessons, laughter, and stolen sweets Matteo snuck to me when no one was looking. It almost felt like family.

Almost.

Alessandro's presence was the shadow that never left the room. He rarely spoke directly to me, yet his silence carried a weight sharper than words.

Once, Matteo and I were playing cards in the sunroom after our home lectures. For once, I was winning. He accused me of cheating, laughing as he flicked a card at my forehead. That was when Alessandro appeared.

He didn't look at me, not really. His eyes lingered on the scattered deck, then on Matteo, cold and unreadable.

Matteo. With me.

Just that. Two words, hard and final.

My small victory vanished as Matteo scrambled to obey. He cast me one fleeting look, apology etched across his face, before the door closed behind him. I was left alone with abandoned cards, laughter fading into silence.

Although I couldn't understand his subtle actions and gaze, I could feel them. They pressed against me like sharp glass.

One night, unable to sleep, I wandered the halls, barefoot and restless, trying to locate Matteo since he wasn't in his room. That's when I heard them-voices, muffled but clear enough-spilling from behind the library door.

"Alessandro, she is only a child," Serafina said, her tone low but firm. "She has lost everything. How can you deny her warmth?"

"She is not one of us, Serafina." His reply was clipped, cold. "Do not confuse duty with affection. Her parents gave their lives for me-this is repayment. Nothing more."

My stomach twisted.

"Yet she looks at you as though she longs for a father's approval," Serafina pressed.

Silence. Then his retort, quiet but razor-sharp, "then she must learn disappointment early. It will save her later."

The words struck harder than any slap. My chest burned, and in that moment, I couldn't breathe.

I backed away before the floorboards gave me away, heart hammering against my ribs. That night, curled beneath heavy covers, I pressed my fists to my eyes until stars bloomed in the dark. Matteo and his mother might be kind to me, but now I understand.

I wasn't their daughter.

I wasn't Matteo's sister.

I was a debt-living proof of loyalty repaid in flesh and blood.

Matteo came later that night, having heard from one of the maids that I had come looking for him earlier. I quickly wiped my eyes and slid under the covers, not wanting to speak with him.

"Hey, Piccola, you awake?" He whispered, slipping into the room without waiting for my answer. He was stubborn like that. He sat on the edge of the bed, tracing circles on the bed cover. Maria told me you came around. "Sorry, I was in the study."

"Are you okay?" He asked, quietly. "What's wrong?"

I stilled under the covers, trying to steady my breath. He knew I wasn't asleep.

I shook my head. "Nothing." I mumbled.

"You're lying." He leaned closer, pulling the covers from me. "You always bite your lower lip when you lie." He lowered his voice.

I wanted to tell him-wanted to scream what I'd heard, but I couldn't, the words were stuck.

"Promise you'll never leave me."

Matteo's hands found mine in the dark, squeezing tight. "Never, Piccola. You're mine to protect. Always."

I swear, time flew so fast. One minute we were children playing tag in the gardens with Matteo stealing my dessert at dinner and being annoying, trying to fix my braids, and the next second we're all grown, teenagers trying to figure our way around life.

But before that shift, there were years that belonged to just us-little fragments I still kept like pressed flowers between pages.

I remembered being thirteen, scrawny and determined, when he was sixteen and already stronger, faster. I thought I was clever enough to beat him at anything. He was sixteen, smug and annoyingly patient. He'd decided I needed to "learn how to throw a proper punch," and we'd spar for hours in the empty gym with wooden practice swords until my palms blistered and my arms ached.

"Keep your guard up, Piccola," he'd snap, knocking my wrists up higher.

"You keep your mouth shut," I'd retort, swinging wildly. He'd catch my fist midair, twist my arm behind my back until I squealed, and then grin down at me like he'd won a championship.

"You'll thank me one day," he'd say smugly.

And damn it, part of me already did.

Other days, it was quieter. I sprawled in the library with me, pretending to study history when in reality he was beating me mercilessly at chess.

"You think too emotionally," he'd tell me, moving his rook with deliberate precision.

"And you think too slow," I'd shoot back, even though I was always the one cornered in the end.

He'd smirk, leaning back like the throne was already his. "One day, you'll understand the difference between strategy and impulse, Piccola."

I hated that he was right.

And then there were the nights he'd sneak into my room with a deck of cards or the latest game he'd smuggled from London summers. He'd sit cross-legged on the carpet while I perched on the edge of my bed, both of us whispering too loudly past midnight.

"If you lose again, you're fetching me dessert tomorrow," he'd declare.

"And if I win?" I'd challenge.

"You won't."

But on the rare occasions I did, the scowl on his face was priceless, and I'd treasure my victory like gold.

All of that-all those little stolen pieces of growing up together-made the shift even sharper when it came.

At 17, Matteo was no longer a boy. I realized it one morning in the courtyard. I'd been reading under the olive tree when I heard a voice-low, rough, commanding. My heart skipped before I even turned. And there he was, taller, sharper somehow, giving instructions to the gardener like he owned the world.

"Matteo?" The name slipped out before I could stop myself.

He stopped his conversation with the gardener and turned in the direction of my voice. The instant his eyes fell on me, a small smile pulled on his face.

He tilted his head with that smug and annoying smile still on his lips. "What?" He mouthed.

I stared, wide-eyed. That voice didn't belong to him. At least, not the Matteo I knew.

"Nothing," I muttered, burying my nose back into my books. But my face and ears were burning red. I sneaked a look later from behind my book and saw that he had turned and continued his talk with the gardener.

Months later, after my first semester at college, I saw him again for the first time since his return from England, where he had gone to study. And this time, it was worse. He had grown into a fine young man, having just celebrated his 23rd birthday. He stood, waiting at the door as though he'd been there forever, leaning one shoulder against the marble pillar like it belonged to him. Broader. Taller. His dress shirt stretched across his shoulders in a way I swear hadn't been there before. He held himself differently, too-chin lifted, posture proud-as the guards and even my chauffeur dipped their heads in greeting. He was growing to be the spitting image of Don Alessandro. I almost forgot how to breathe.

My mouth betrayed me. "You grew."

His lips curved, slow and smug, the kind of smile that made my chest ache in a way I didn't want to admit. "That's what time does, Piccola."

He opened his arms wide, as though daring me to refuse, and I hated myself for how quickly I walked into them. His chest was solid beneath my cheek, his arms firm around me as he picked me up and took me for a little spin. Gone was the boy whose hugs were all elbows and careless laughter. This was different. And boy, did he smell heavenly. Clean soap and something sharper, like cedarwood.

I pulled back before I could melt completely and lifted my chin. I tried not to look impressed. "Don't get cocky. You still look ridiculous when you're mad."

"Oh?" His ocean blue eyes caught mine, a shade too intense, too knowing. The teasing tilt of his mouth didn't reach them. "And when was the last time I looked ridiculous?"

I swallowed, heat crawling up my neck. Every time you stare at me like that. But I forced a smirk, curling my words like a shield. "Every day."

He chuckled, low and husky, the sound of it so unfamiliar, yet so him. "Still sharp-tongued, I see."

"Still insufferable." I muttered as we made our way into the house.

He leaned just so slightly, enough that my pulse stumbled. Then, softer, he whispered. "Welcome home, Piccola. I've missed you."

The words landed heavier than I expected. Especially with the way he called my pet name. I tried to shrug them off, but my chest tightened anyway.

"So... why are you home? I thought you were supposed to be in London until the summer."

"Business," he said, almost too casually. "Father needed me here for a while. Meetings, contracts, the usual headaches." He tilted his head, studying me. "And you? What are you doing home so early? I thought you loved school."

I rolled my eyes, relieved to slip back into banter. "Loved" is a strong word. Let's just say the semester ended, and I survived the mess."

The truth was that Serafina had told me that Matteo would be in Italy for a while before going back to complete his studies, and I didn't want to miss out on any opportunity to spend time with him.

His smile tugged wider, like he was amused by my choice of words. "So, the princess returns."

"You make it sound like I'm dramatic."

"You are dramatic."

I huffed and looked away, pretending his nearness didn't rattle me. He was my brother-not by blood-but moments like this reminded me how the line between family and something else blurred too easily.

"Still," I nudged his shoulder with mine. "Don't act like you don't miss me when I'm gone."

He arched a brow, voice dropping. "Maybe I don't."

But his eyes told another story.

I made a face at him, standing up to go to my room. "That's not what I heard."

And in that instant, I knew-this wouldn't be the last reunion that left me unsteady. Because the next time I saw him, he wouldn't just be passing through for business. He'd be a man finished with his studies in England, finally back in Italy to stay. To take over as heir apparent to his father's wealth.

And I wasn't sure if I'd be ready for him then.