The Mafia's Heir's bride

The Morano mansion was unusually quiet.

A hush had blanketed the estate ever since the failed wedding ambush. But today, silence carried a heavier weight—an eerie stillness that even the wind outside seemed to respect.

Mafia Don Alessandro Morano—the patriarch feared across continents—lay on his sickbed, frailer than anyone had ever seen him. The man who once crushed rebellion with a single word now struggled to lift his gaze to the gilded ceiling of his room. His skin was ashen, clinging to his bones, and his breath came out in labored rasps. The dark circles under his eyes were like shadows of the wars he'd fought—of the secrets he'd buried.

The door creaked open.

Donato entered first, tall, stoic, and every inch the soldier his father had trained. His gait was heavy with concern, though he masked it well. Right behind him came Luca—his features sharper now, hardened by recent events, but his eyes flickered with something gentler when they fell on his father. Concern. Regret. Love.

Alessandro coughed violently, his body arching painfully before settling again. His wife, Lauretta, dabbed at his lips with trembling hands, her face pale, lips silently mouthing prayers. She'd been by his side through blood and fire, but now, all her strength seemed to crumble.

"I asked to see my sons alone," Morano rasped. Lauretta bowed her head, kissed his forehead, and silently exited the room.

Outside, in the hallway, Alessia passed Lauretta on her way back from the library. Something in the woman's expression—part heartbreak, part fear—made Alessia pause. Her gut twisted.

She tiptoed toward the slightly ajar door and crouched beside the wall, hidden by thick shadows. Her heart pounded as she strained to listen.

Inside, Morano turned to his sons. His voice was faint but still laced with that signature steel. "It's time."

Donato's brows furrowed. "Time for what, Papa?"

Alessandro slowly reached beneath his pillow and retrieved a small, weathered map wrapped in faded leather. He handed it to Donato with trembling fingers.

"This… is the last trace of the Book," he whispered. "The one that left Earth… and returned."

Luca blinked. "The book? You mean—"

"Yes," Morano cut him off. "The Book that holds the names of every soul who's betrayed us. The one that carries the price of power… the price of secrets."

Alessia's breath caught in her throat.

Morano continued, "The last time I touched it, I paid a coin. A coin none of you saw... because it was a part of me. A piece of my soul."

Alessia clapped a hand over her mouth. Coin?

He coughed again, the sound so raw and deep it shook her to her core.

"Anyone who reads from it," he said, "must pay a coin. And each coin… is their soul. Piece by piece, it takes them."

Donato looked pale. "You want me to find it?"

Morano nodded. "Take the map. It leads beyond borders... beyond reason. There's something hidden in the book—something powerful enough to end all our enemies. We must retrieve it before it falls into the wrong hands."

"I'll go with him," Luca offered without hesitation. "We'll find it together."

But Alessandro's eyes flared with surprising force. "No. You stay here—with your bride."

Luca looked torn. "Papa—"

"Your role now is with Alessia. She is your wife. And protection of what remains here is just as vital."

Luca clenched his jaw, torn between duty to his family and the woman he had barely begun to understand.

Donato accepted the map solemnly. "I'll find it, Father. You have my word."

Morano gave a small, satisfied nod, but his strength was nearly gone. His body sagged deeper into the mattress. His voice broke into a whisper. "It's not just a book. It's alive... and it's listening."

Then his eyes rolled back.

The room trembled with sudden quiet.

"Papa?" Donato stepped forward.

"Father?" Luca rushed to the bedside.

But the silence gave no answer.

A long, agonizing second passed before Lauretta burst into the room, having sensed the shift. She fell to her knees beside her husband, gripping his lifeless hand, her wail piercing the heavy air.

"No! Alessandro! No—don't leave me!" she cried, her sobs ripping through the mansion.

Guards and maids came rushing, and among them, Alessia slowly stepped inside. She didn't know when she had stopped breathing. She only knew her heart was a tangled knot of sorrow and confusion.

She had never seen so much grief. Lauretta clutched Alessandro's body as if she could hold him to the earth by sheer will. Donato stood silent, fists clenched, jaw rigid. Luca's face was carved in stone, but his eyes glistened.

And Alessia?

She felt cold.

The weight of what she had heard pressed against her chest like an anchor. A book that demanded a soul. A map that led to it. A mission for Donato. And Luca… left behind, with her.

The room swirled with tears and whispered prayers. The house mourned its king.

Hours passed, but the mourning never stopped. The air grew heavier. Guards stood at every door, servants lit candles in solemn reverence. Outside, thunder rolled in the distance, as if even the skies knew a force had left the world.

Alessia sat by herself in the hallway, knees tucked to her chest. Her hands trembled slightly. She didn't know if it was from what she'd heard… or from the knowledge that secrets had always shaped the Morano legacy.

She didn't cry—not yet. Her grief was a quiet kind, the kind that nested in silence. But it was growing.

Luca found her there, hours later. His face was blank, exhausted.

"He's gone," he said simply.

She nodded.

He sat beside her. For a long time, neither spoke. Then Luca whispered, "My father wasn't a good man. But he was our anchor. Even when we hated him, we… needed him."

She turned to him. "He believed in you."

Luca chuckled bitterly. "He believed love"....