MARRIED TO THE MAFIA KING

The morning sun filtered through gauzy curtains, spilling gold across the massive bedroom I had barely slept in. Dominic was already gone. The sheets on his side were cold, undisturbed, as if he'd never even been there.

I sat up slowly, still wearing the silk robe a maid had laid out for me. Even the robe had a tag stitched in gold with the letter M.

Moretti.

Every inch of this place was branded. Silent wealth. Power carved into marble floors and velvet drapes. I was surrounded by beauty, by opulence — but I'd never felt more trapped.

A soft knock.

I turned as the door creaked open. A woman in a neat black uniform stepped inside, eyes low.

"Good morning, Ma'am. I'm Eva. I've been assigned to assist you with anything you need."

Assigned. Like I was a project.

She smiled politely and gestured toward a rolling tray beside her, covered in silver dishes. "Breakfast."

I stood slowly and walked over, lifting a lid. Fresh berries. Scones. Scrambled eggs garnished with herbs. There was even the tea I liked — chamomile with honey — the exact way I used to drink it at home.

My chest tightened.

"Who told you my tea preference?" I asked, trying to keep my voice even.

"Mr. Moretti," she replied. "He made sure it was stocked before your arrival."

Of course he did. The same man who wouldn't touch me. Wouldn't speak more than a few words. And yet remembered how I took my tea.

I didn't eat much.

The rest of the day passed like a dream I couldn't wake from. Every hallway was pristine, every staff member silent but watchful. They didn't speak unless spoken to. Didn't look me in the eye for too long. It was like walking through a film set. Perfect lighting, expensive furniture, and no soul.

I found the library by accident. Floor-to-ceiling shelves. First editions. Dustless. I traced a finger across a spine but didn't pull any books out. I wasn't sure if I was allowed to.

The mansion was huge, yet I was never alone. Guards at the gates. Quiet men in black moving through corridors. I saw one by the stairs. Another outside the garden doors. I wasn't sure if they were protecting me or keeping me in.

I caught my reflection in a gilded mirror. The same eyes. The same girl. But everything else felt borrowed. Like I was an exhibit in someone else's museum.

When night came, I was exhausted — not from activity, but from observation. Every smile I gave was calculated. Every word I said was recorded somewhere in someone's head.

Dominic came home late.

I heard the front doors close, the quiet echo of his footsteps down the hallway, the rustle of a suit jacket. I waited for him to enter the room. He didn't.

The door never opened.

I stared at the ceiling in that oversized bed and felt the walls closing in again.

Beautiful.

Silent.

Deadly.

This wasn't a marriage.

It was a sentence.

And I was serving it in gold.

**********

The dining room was long. Too long.

A crystal chandelier glowed above the table, casting reflections across the polished surface. Dominic sat at the head. I was placed to his right. Like a queen on a chessboard. Or a pawn dressed like one.

The food looked like it belonged in a magazine. Roasted duck with wine-glazed pears. Wild rice. Asparagus tipped in gold flakes. But everything felt surreal. Staged. Cold.

I picked at my food. He barely looked up.

Silence stretched.

Until suddenly, he spoke.

"Would you like an art studio built on the estate?"

My fork paused halfway to my mouth. I turned slowly to face him. His tone was neutral, unreadable. Like he was asking about the weather.

"What?"

"You paint," he said, slicing into his food with casual precision. "I saw the portfolio in your room. You're talented."

The words should've flattered me. Instead, they felt like surveillance.

"You went through my things?"

"I make it my business to know everything about my wife."

I blinked, throat dry. He said it so easily. As if curiosity was ownership. As if my life was something he had already purchased.

"I… I don't know what to say."

"You could say yes. The space is already being cleared."

Already. Of course it was.

I managed a small nod. "Sure. That would be… nice."

He didn't smile. Just returned to his plate, as if the moment had passed and my answer didn't really matter either way.

Dinner continued in a kind of quiet tension, like we were rehearsing for a role neither of us wanted. The silverware clinked softly. A butler poured wine I didn't drink. The scent of roses wafted from a massive arrangement that sat untouched at the center of the table.

Afterward, he stood.

"Goodnight, Serena."

And he left.

No kiss. No touch. No glance back.

Just a cold goodbye in a house full of warmth I couldn't feel.

I sat alone long after he was gone. Staring at my untouched wine. Wondering if gold bars felt as heavy as the silence in that room.

The room felt colder than it should have. Not from the air, but from the wall that stood between us. Invisible, but solid. He was on his side of the bed, still dressed down to his black shirt, back resting against the headboard. I was on mine, sitting upright, arms tightly folded across my chest.

He hadn't touched me. Not even accidentally.

Not when I walked into the room. Not when I stood right beside him brushing my hair. Not when I climbed into the bed that was supposed to be ours.

And I couldn't take it anymore.

"Are you planning to keep ignoring me forever?" I asked, voice steady even though my chest was a mess of knots.

Moretti didn't respond. His eyes stayed on the wall opposite us like I was a ghost.

I swallowed and tried again. "You married me. You made me your wife. And ever since, you've acted like I'm poison."

He turned his head slightly, just enough to look at me. "You want something from me?"

"I want to be acknowledged."

Silence.

My hands curled into fists beneath the blanket. "You didn't even touch me during dinner. You won't even brush past me in the hallway. I'm not some glass doll you're afraid to break."

"I'm not afraid," he said flatly.

"Then what?" I snapped. "You hate me? You regret this marriage that much?"

His jaw tightened. "This marriage was never about love."

"No," I whispered. "But it was about dignity. And respect. And right now, I feel like a ghost in your house. In your life."

I turned to face him fully now, voice trembling but louder. "You don't want me, I get it. But I'll never beg you to touch me, Moretti. Never."

That did it.

He shifted, eyes locked onto mine. Something flickered in his expression. Something like frustration. Maybe even guilt. But it was buried deep beneath his cool exterior.

"Good," he said quietly. "Keep it that way."

And then he lay down, back to me, the silence swallowing the rest of the night.

I blinked against the sting in my eyes.

I hadn't wanted tears. But they came anyway.

And in that huge bed, inches apart from a man I was bound to, I had never felt more alone.