Empire of Lies

Melina

"What...what did you just say?"

"Are you deaf?" my father asks, his voice cold as steel. Not even glancing up from the documents sprawled out on his desk. "You're getting married next month."

Married? Me? He has to be joking, but I can tell he isn't. he never jokes, he never speaks to me unless necessary.

My father, leader of the Bratva for as long as I've been alive, has ruled with an iron fist long before I was born. He's the most feared don we've ever had, and I've spent my entire life proving myself to him, working relentlessly to be more than just his daughter, but his successor. The underboss of the Bratva. Breaking the chain of tradition that says women can't hold real power.

And now... this?

"I won't do it." I tell him firmly and for the first time I stepped into his office, those cruel green eyes meet mine.

"You don't have a choice."

"...I've too worked hard to be discarded like this." I try to hide the desperation in my voice but fail miserably.

He stands and I feel my body tremble but I keep my expression guarded and firm even as he limps closer to me, even as he slaps me hard on the cheek and my head spins to the side, I stand my ground, because showing weakness is much worse than getting a few hits.

I clench my jaw and fists nails digging in to my palm. "Who is he?"

"The one man who can save us before the Mexicans attack...Dominic Salvatore"

I stumble backwards. Dominic Salvatore. The capo of the New York Italian mafia, the deadliest man in all of New York, the one man that is said to be so cruel and wicked he baths in blood. The torture god. That is the man my father is giving me too.

I know, things have been hard since he had one of his legs damaged. I know he's trying to protect his people. But...selling me off to someone forcing me into something I never asked for. A man I definitely don't want.

So, in other words I'm leaving one ruthless person to another who is rumored to be ten times worse.

"After everything I've done-" I begin my voice lace with malice and anger but he cuts me off.

His cold eyes flicker with mockery, "Everything you've done, you did because it was your duty. This is also your duty. You will marry him and you'll do it with a smile."

My body begins to tremble, not from fear but from rage. It's finally, arguing with him will only gain me more hits and disapproval.

I turn on my heel towards the door and walk out slamming it in his face.

***

I've never dreaded time before like I do today. It feels like a month came in the blink of an eye. I sit in the bride's room dressed in the most disgustingly beautiful white dress ever, I wanted to wear red. It'd have matched with my hair, made a statement but of course father disapproved. I had no say or whatever in this sham.

Mafias from all over the country are here, even the Mexicans. They had sworn today there would be no war, in respect to the union my father has arranged.

Throughout the wait period, I had not heard a thing from the so-called torture god, not that I wanted to. But the fact he hadn't bothered himself with an introduction infuriates me more.

I glance at myself in the mirror. As per my father demand my hair is styled back in a sleek ponytail. The makeup was instructed to be as light as possible, unlike my reaction to my hair I have no problem with that. The ball dress is so big and long its uncomfortable to be in and the stones around the chest I can't stop trying to pull them off-a bad habit.

The female coordinator comes in with a big smile, like she just won a lottery or something.

"Bride please get ready; you'll be going in in a minute."

Exactly a minute later, the door creaks open and I rise to my destiny.

The hall is massive, and the wall lined with dark wood and towering windows. The floor is polished marble and the seats are filled with men and women that hold more power than anyone can dream of.

Every step I take on the aisle feels more like a nightmare. I can hear the faint murmur in the crowd, their voice laced with curiosity and greed, their eyes watching me like a predator watches its prey, waiting for a crack-a form of weakness.

I clutch the bouquet tighter but square my shoulders and lift my chin, not giving into their judgmental gazes, that calculate, that see me nothing more than my father's daughter-a bargaining chip.

My eyes land on the alter, on him.

Dominic Salvatore.

The rumors don't do him justice, he's taller than I expected. Broad shoulders fill out the black suit he's wearing like an amor, his presence feels like a sharp force, suffocating and magnetic at the same time. His face is hard and chiseled in all angles, his dark hair falls perfectly over his forehead. His eyes-grey and cold, eyes that have seen more death than life.

He's handsome, I won't deny, but rather than amusing me it irritates me.

His gaze lands on me, there's no warmth or kindness just calculating and analyzing as they rake me head to toe as if measuring if I'm worth it.

A shiver runs down my spine but I force myself to move, one foot in front of the other, keeping our gaze locked. Until I reach the alter, standing face-to-face with him. The silence in the room is suffocating, everyone watching, waiting to see how this match between the Bravta princess and Italian don will unfold.

He doesn't smile, he doesn't offer his hand. There's no pretense of this being a marriage out of love or at least respect. He just watches me with those dead eyes.

The priest begins the ceremony but it blurs in the background barely registering. My mind races between what's happening and the tipping rage that threatens to spill. I should be looking for a way to escape. But even I know there's no way out. Not now. Not ever.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife."

I feel suffocated, like I've just been stabbed in the heart. Every piece of freedom I had, gone, just like that.

"You may kiss the bride." The priest declares.

I don't expect him to do it, maybe brush his lips against my knuckles. Instead, he leans in, his lips inches from mine. He looks up and his eyes meet mine, they look darker filled with something I can swear looks like hatred, but before I can fully understand he presses his lips against mine.

Its hard and unforgiving. Its not a kiss-it's a claim. A warning. Then I feel a sharp sting as his teeth sinks into my bottom lip, hard enough it causes me to bleed. I gasp, tasting the metallic tang of it, and pull back, eyes wide and anger flaring.

He doesn't flinch, doesn't apologize. Instead, he leans closer, his breath hot against my cheek, "Welcome to the famiglia mia mogile." He whispers, his voice laced with venom clouding his Italian accent.

I stare at him, trembling with fury. My lip throbs, the taste of blood lingering on my tongue. I want to explode, scream at him and lash out but I don't, I refuse to let him know how much this is affecting me. I refuse to give him the satisfaction he wants. Instead, I wipe the blood off my lip, with the back of my hand and stand tall.

The room erupts into polite applauds, but all I hear is the sound of my own heart beat thundering in my ears. His lips curl slightly, but it's not a smile. It's something darker. And then it dawns on me.

I just married a psychopath.