Under the Mafia King’s Control

As the last guests left the villa, an uneasy silence settled over the house. Everything felt strangely still after the whirlwind of the day. Alessandro and I ascended the grand staircase side by side, his confident strides contrasting with my rising nerves.

It was our first night together.

Since moving into the villa, Alessandro had made a point of keeping a respectful distance, leaving the bedroom entirely to me. He'd adhered strictly to the boundaries dictated by his principles. "We won't share a bed until we're married," he'd said with unflinching calm, as if those words alone could ease the weight of this absurd situation.

But tonight was different.

When we reached the bedroom door, Alessandro opened it and turned to face me, his dark, piercing gaze meeting mine.

"After you," he said calmly, his tone brooking no hesitation.

I drew in a deep breath and stepped through.

The room was just as I had left it, yet it felt transformed. It was no longer just my bedroom—it was now ours.

I slipped off my shoes and placed them by the armchair, then perched on the edge of the bed, nervously fiddling with the hem of my dress. Alessandro closed the door behind him, shedding his jacket with practiced ease before draping it neatly over the back of a chair. Every movement he made was precise, almost calculated, as though he were trying to diffuse the tension he undoubtedly felt as well.

"So…" I began, my voice hesitant.

He turned to me, one brow arching slightly as if waiting for me to find the courage to finish my thought.

"How… how is this supposed to work?" I finally asked, deliberately avoiding his gaze.

A faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

"Work?" he echoed, taking slow steps toward me.

I looked up at him, searching for answers in his unreadable expression. "You know exactly what I mean, Alessandro. Us. This bed. This room."

He stopped a few feet away, crossing his arms over his chest. "Arianna, this marriage may not be ordinary, but some things are straightforward. We are married, and that means we share a space. This bed. This room."

I frowned, meeting his gaze with a defiant edge. "So, it's that simple for you?"

His features softened slightly, but his voice remained steady. "Nothing about this is simple, Arianna. But you need to understand one thing: I will never force you into anything. Ever."

I hesitated, his words leaving me momentarily speechless. After a pause, he continued, his tone lower and more intimate.

"This isn't just about tradition or appearances. What we do here has consequences for everything and everyone around us. But beyond all that, there's you. And this child. Your safety, your well-being—that's what matters most to me."

His gaze bore into mine, so intense that my nerves wavered under its weight. I swallowed hard and looked away.

"That's easy to say," I murmured.

He stepped closer, his presence radiating warmth and strength.

"It's not just words, Arianna," he said quietly. "You carry my child. You carry my name. That makes you the most important person in my life. Whether you accept it or not, it's the truth."

I lowered my head, unable to hold his gaze any longer.

Later that evening, after I had changed into more comfortable clothes, I returned to find Alessandro already in bed. He was propped against the pillows, shirtless, revealing faint scars etched across his chest—marks of a life that had undoubtedly been far from ordinary.

I slipped into my side of the bed, careful to avoid making eye contact as I pulled the covers over me.

"You seem tense," he remarked, his voice calm but tinged with amusement.

"That's because I am," I shot back, burrowing under the sheets.

A brief silence fell between us, but I could feel his gaze on me, unrelenting. Eventually, I exhaled deeply.

"Alessandro…" I began hesitantly.

"Yes?" he replied, his tone neutral.

I turned my head slightly toward him. "I need to talk to you about Marco."

At the mention of the name, his expression changed—a flicker of something sharp and cold passing through his eyes. But he remained composed.

"No," he said firmly, cutting me off before I could say more.

I blinked, surprised by his response. "No? Don't you want to know?"

He adjusted his position, sitting up straighter against the headboard. "Your past doesn't interest me, Arianna. What matters to me is the present—what happens now. You carry my name and my child. Marco, or anyone else from your previous life, is irrelevant here."

His voice was calm, yet there was a razor's edge to his words, closing the subject with finality.

I lay back down, frustrated but oddly relieved by his decisive stance.

Fatigue eventually overcame me, and I drifted into a restless sleep.

But sometime during the night, I stirred awake, conscious of an unusual warmth enveloping me.

It took me a moment to realize Alessandro had pulled me into his arms while I slept. His arm rested around my waist, his chest pressed firmly against my back.

My first instinct was to tense, my heart hammering in my chest. Before I could move, his deep, sleep-laden voice broke the silence.

"Go back to sleep, cara mia. It's still night," he murmured near my ear, his hand tightening slightly, as though to keep me there.

I froze, conflicted. Part of me wanted to push him away, to assert the boundaries I had so carefully tried to maintain. But another part—the quieter, more vulnerable part—didn't move.

Instead, I closed my eyes, willing myself to relax. There was something strangely comforting about the way he held me, as though for the first time in weeks, the chaos swirling around us didn't matter.

It shouldn't have felt right, but somehow, it did.

And so, against my better judgment, I let myself sink back into sleep, lulled by the steady rhythm of his breathing and the undeniable truth that, for better or worse, this man was now my husband.