Forced to Wed the Mafia Heir

"I sank deeper into the comfy chaise lounge, loving the feel of the velvety cushions against my skin. The only sounds were the quiet rustle of pages and the tick-tock of the old grandfather clock in the corner. It was so peaceful in the library, almost like my own heartbeat.

The reading lamp next to me creates lengthy shadows across the dark wooden furniture, enveloping my younger sister Ava in a personal cocoon of light. The walls were lined in rows of unspoiled volumes with leather-bound spines glinting in the faint light. I'd always connected the musty smell of old paper and polished wood - which permeated the air — with safety and comfort.

Ava's head rested cozily on my lap; her eyes closed, and her breathing was regular. I looked down at her calm face and started to smile a little. Her long lashes created soft shadows on her cheeks, and some black hair strands had dropped across her forehead. Our home lacked these quiet times; hence, I valued every second.

Running my fingers lightly through Ava's silky hair, I thought to myself, "These moments of peace are priceless." The serenity of the library almost made me forget the demands and expectations that were constantly hanging over us.

Ava stirred slightly; her eyes fluttered, matching my deep brown color inherited from our mother. She mumbled sleepily, "Read to me?" Her voice was barely audible above a whisper.

I gently laughed, the sound hardly breaking the stillness around us. "Sure, pipsqueak. What do you want to hear?" I walked over to the side table, my fingertips gliding across the stack of books we had chosen earlier.

"Before Ava could respond, a gentle but firm tap sounded in the library. My hand, which had been still in Ava's hair, froze at the sound, and I tensed. That knock sent a shiver down my spine as if it were the first blast of frigid air before a storm."

I carefully moved out from under Ava, gently resting her head on a fluffy cushion. She muttered in protest but did not wake; she only curled up closer on the chaise. Suddenly, very conscious of every wrinkle and flaw, I stood, smoothing down my silk top and wool skirt. Breathing deeply to slow down my suddenly pounding heart, I attempted to get ready for whatever was about to happen.

Our mother emerged behind the gently creaking, massive oak door. Her face looked pale and drawn, which made the black circles beneath her eyes particularly striking. Not one strand was out of place; her salt-and-pepper hair was pushed back so tightly that it looked painful. Her blue suit looked to hang a little looser on her frame than it had the last time I had seen her wear it. She modified it.

"Your father wants to see you," she whispered in a low, stern voice that barely carried across the room.

My stomach sank like a lead weight had been placed there. Trying to figure out what this could be about, I searched my mind, attempting to remember anything I might have done recently that was wrong. Had my grades slipped? Had I neglected some important household responsibilities? Drawing a blank on everything only made me more anxious. Being summoned to my father's office in our household was never a good sign.

"Right now?" I asked in a voice barely above a whisper. I hated how small and fearful I sounded, but I couldn't help it.

Mother nodded, and she nodded, eyes away from mine. Her hands were twitching at her jacket's hem — an unusual display of anxiety from her. "In his office," she said unnecessarily.

I nodded and tried hard to swallow. I took one last look at Ava's sleeping figure and then trailed Mother out of the library. Our heels clicked loudly on the polished wooden floor in the quiet corridor. Family photos stacked on the walls showed the austere faces of long-dead ancestors observing our development. Every step of the trek to my father's office felt like a march to the gallows, bringing me closer to some unidentified catastrophe.

Mother paused just outside Father's massive oak office door. The polished brass handle gleamed, and the glossy black wood exuded an imposing presence. She continued, "He's waiting for you," then turned and left without another word, leaving me alone in the hallway.

I stood there for a while, gathering my courage. Looking into a nearby mirror, I saw a pale face, wide eyes, and dark hair cascading in loose curls over my shoulders. I felt nothing like the confident heiress I was supposed to be; I looked young and terrified. Determinedly straightening my shoulders, I tried to muster some of the expected grace.

Then, I knocked on the thick door, took a deep breath, and tried to calm my nerves.

"Come in," my father's authoritative voice echoed from inside, sending shivers down my spine even through the thick wood.

I opened the door and cringed at the little hinge creak, then entered. The father's office always seemed stifling with its dark wood paneling and heavy furniture. The big mahogany desk dominated the room, its surface painstakingly arranged. A crystal decanter, probably scotch, sat on a silver plate to one side.

My father, in his high-backed leather armchair, sat behind the desk. He cut a striking shape, his broad shoulders accentuating his well-crafted suit. His steel-grey eyes locked on me with an intensity that made me want to shrink back, and his salt-and-pepper hair was well-brushed.

"Sit," he urged, pointing to one of the leather chairs before his desk.

I sank into the suggested chair, moving forward on wobbly legs. The leather chilled against my skin, and I fought the urge to fidget. Rather, I folded my hands on my lap, attempting to seem cool even as my heart hammered.

Father watched me silently for a minute, his sharp eyes apparently looking straight ahead. I battled the desire to wriggle under his inspection.

"Finally," he began, his strong voice filling the room. "Kylie, we need to discuss something important."

I nodded, not trusting my voice to remain steady if I spoke. There was obvious tension in the room, weighing me down physically.

Leaning forward with his elbows resting on the desk, the father asked, "You are aware of our family's commercial interests, I assume?"

Once again, I nodded. I was aware, of course. Although we never discussed it explicitly, it was an open secret in our household. Generations of our family have been involved in organized crime. I chose to focus on my schoolwork and my hopes for a normal life; it was not something I enjoyed contemplating.