The One

1. Chapter One

Chapter One

Mariella

“ D early beloved.

“We have come together in the presence of God to witness and bless the joining together of this man and this woman in holy matrimony,” Father Josef declares, his voice full and rich, defying the silence of the church.

The scent of freshly cut flowers fills the air, mixing with the faint aroma of burning candles and frankincense.

“The bond and covenant of marriage was established…”

I tune out the voice of the man who has been the priest for la famiglia for longer than I’ve been alive.

He rambles on about love and joy, making me want to burst out into hysterical laughter. But of course, I don’t.

Joy, what even is that?

Do I ever feel it?

Maybe, when I’m on my own and can lose myself in the chords of my guitar. Or sketching a new design for a dress that will never materialize into fabric.

Those activities soothe my soul.

Will I still be able to indulge in them after today?

I shudder. What if he doesn’t let me?

Now I’m freezing cold despite the warmth of this October day in Sicily.

I gaze up at the stained-glass window behind Father Josef. Angels and saints bathed in vibrant hues cast a kaleidoscope of light across the altar. The irony, considering the occupations of most people here.

The bright sun outside mocks me with its warm rays while inside this church, a cold and somber mood prevails. The contrast is so stark it tightens my throat, pushing me to the brink of tears.

I blink rapidly, forcing them back, and fix my gaze on the tips of my shoes peeking out from beneath my dress.

Regaining some composure, I lift my head and glance at the man beside me.

The one I’m about to pledge my life to.

The one I saw slipping into the bathroom at our engagement party with a busty waitress in tow.

So much for faithfulness.

But maybe that’s a blessing and he’ll leave me alone. Still, I’m expected to be the loyal, dutiful wife.

He stares at Father Josef, lost in his own thoughts. Did he ever oppose this marriage, or did he just accept it without a second thought?

Probably the latter. For him, this isn’t a prison sentence. It will benefit him somehow.

My soon-to-be husband is thirty-one, eleven years my senior, and known for his ruthless efficiency and emotional detachment.

He’s bred for the mafia life. A life in which men rarely live to a ripe old age.

Perhaps that will be my saving grace. God willing, he’ll die long before me, and I’ll be set free.

Guilt immediately bombards me. I shouldn’t think this, especially in the house of the Lord, but it’s my only sliver of hope.

Am I a horrible person to wish death on someone who has not directly hurt me?

How could he?

This is only the third time I’ve seen him up close, and we’ve not really spoken.

It’s strange to think I’m supposed to spend the rest of my life with this man and give myself completely to him. Other than his reputation and what he looks like, I know nothing about who he is.

The unknown looms large, growing more daunting the more I think about it.

My fiancé stands beside me, stoic and calculated. He’s a perfect reflection of the harsh realities of our world. His chiseled features and strong jawline exude authority. It’s a necessary trait in the unforgiving hierarchy of the Mafia.

Noticing my eyes on him, his attention flicks to me. His gaze is cold and piercing, revealing little emotion.

This is what our ‘marriage’ will be like, isn’t it?

My stomach lurches, nausea swirling in the pit of my gut. I swallow down the bile.

Unable to hold his gaze, my eyes drop back to the floor.

I turn slightly and peek over at my mother, who sits alongside my father and my three younger sisters in the front row.

What am I hoping to find there?

Reassurance?

It’s too late for mamma to help me now. Besides, my mother has never openly defied my father’s wishes. Any disagreements always ended with her locked away for a few days, or worse.

Her eyes glisten with tears. They’re not tears of happiness. She tried to protect me, but she’s powerless to stop history from repeating itself.

Women mean nothing in our circles. We’re bargaining chips for power, lust, and greed.

My gaze locks with my father’s. His unyielding eyes pin me in place, a silent warning to behave. He’s angry with me because I couldn’t muster a smile when we entered the church.

I’m used to his coldness. But still, disillusion hits me like a bullet to the heart.

He doesn’t care for me. Never has, never will.

All he ever wanted was a son to follow in his footsteps, carry on his legacy and all that crap. He made that painfully clear as he walked me down the aisle.

“Let’s get me the son your mother denied me,” he growled, low enough that only I could hear.

He tried for years to bring a male heir into the world, but fate, or perhaps karma, cursed him with five daughters instead.

But even if he had fathered a son, my fate and my sisters’ would have been the same. We were never more than assets to be traded, pawns in his endless pursuit of power.

My older sister Isabella will be next. The negotiations for her marriage are already underway.

She was promised to another man, a man she actually loved. But after his family betrayed the De Marcos, the ruling Mafia family in Sicily and most of Italy, they fled and have not been heard of since. So Father had to start his search from scratch.

I glance over at her, solemnly standing next to me.

Our eyes meet, and she sends me a sad smile.

I wish there was a way out of this for both of us.

Father Josef clears his throat to capture my attention. He raises his eyebrows in silent prompting.

He’s no stranger to ordaining loveless marriages. It doesn’t seem to trouble him. How does he reconcile it with his conscience?

With a practiced smile, he motions for us to turn and face each other.

Oh God! This is it.

Time is running out.

I glance toward the aisle, searching for the quickest way out.

But then my eyes land on the one man who’s filled my dreams since I was sixteen. Or should I say haunted them?

Heat rushes to my cheeks, and my heart does that annoying little jump it always does when I see him.

For a second, it seems like he’s looking at me, but I know better.

He’s just taking in the wedding scene.

He doesn’t see me. Never has, never will. I’m not in his league.

It doesn’t stop my heart from racing, though, and I take a deep breath to steady myself.

Unrequited love. It’s the cruelest.

Seeing him is the last straw. The tears I’ve been holding back threaten to break free.

I’m likely to encounter him more often than I do now, expected to be on my husband’s arm for the mandatory la famiglia functions.

What a torture that will be.

A loveless, possibly abusive marriage, on top of regular socializing with the one man my heart really beats for.

My life is about to become a living nightmare.