Bride to the Mafia Boss

1. Victoria

VICTORIA

“It happened again. Don’t bother coming.”

My voice is barely above a whisper.

Beyond the bridal suite window, Lake Michigan churns beneath a grey sky, dark water crashing against the shoreline below the Gold Coast tower.

“What?” Olivia’s voice crackles through the phone. “Even today? Fuck!”

“Tell Elsie we love her.”

My grip tightens around the phone.

“And don’t come looking for me unless you hear directly from me. I mean it, Liv. No matter what.”

A horn blares through the line.

Then Olivia’s voice pulls away from the receiver, sharp with urgency.

“Turn back. Take the river road. Turn back right now.”

Tyres screech.

A second later, she is back on the line.

“Vic, when are you telling?—”

“Please, Olivia. Not now. Don’t start.”

The sound of heels cuts through the hallway outside.

“Mum’s coming.”

“Victoria—”

“I’ll call when I can.”

“Be careful, Vic. For us.”

My throat tightens.

“For us.”

I end the call and slide the phone into the hidden pocket sewn inside my wedding gown, burying it beneath yards of ivory tulle just as the suite door opens.

The phone vibrates again against my hip.

I hesitate, then pull it back out beneath the folds of silk.

Eleven unread messages.

Maybe more.

I tap the first one.

CLARA: Babes, I’m running late. Save me a seat before some rich asshole steals it.

Despite everything, I almost smile.

Another message waits beneath it.

UNKNOWN: Congratulations, Miss Victoria. From your student, Victor.

Then another.

FRED: So this is really it? Guess the stranger never got his chance after all.

I lock the screen.

Whatever those messages mean, they belong to another life.

One I won’t have in twenty minutes.

“Victoria.”

My mother’s voice draws my gaze toward the mirror.

She stops behind me, one hand pressed to her chest.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

Her eyes shine.

I look away first.

She moves forward and smooths the lace over my bare shoulders. Her fingers adjust the fabric with careful pride.

“Look at you,” she whispers. “Absolute perfection. You always did have an eye for the finest silk, even when you were a little girl.”

A fond smile touches her lips.

“Your father would have been so proud to see you carry the family name into this room today.”

The familiar ache settles in my chest.

I force a smile.

“Thank you, Mum.”

I stare at the stranger in the mirror.

She steps back to admire the veil.

The suite door opens again.

“Mikhail.”

The warmth in my mother’s voice changes at once.

Mikhail steps inside, carrying a glass of whiskey.

Dark coat.

Black silk shirt.

The scent of tobacco and expensive cologne follows him into the room. Gold flashes at his wrist as he adjusts his cuff.

The kind of man who never needs to announce himself because everyone else already knows he has arrived.

“Dorogaya.”

His pale eyes settle on me.

“You look beautiful.”

“You’re early,” my mother says.

“I wanted to see the bride before the politicians downstairs start pretending they are friends.”

A faint smile touches his mouth as his gaze finds mine through the mirror.

“Chicago remembers its manners when money gathers in one room.”

I lower my eyes.

“Good afternoon, Mikhail.”

A velvet box appears in his hand.

He places it beside my jewellery.

“For the wedding.”

My mother opens it.

Emerald earrings gleam beneath the chandelier.

“Beautiful,” she murmurs.

She slips her arm through his, and together they move toward the window.

Watching them feels strangely familiar.

She looks happier beside him than she has in years.

I should be happy for her.

Instead, I stare at my reflection.

My dress is perfect.

The woman wearing it feels empty.

When I was fourteen, I imagined a wedding built on love, warmth, and choice.

Instead, in less than fifteen minutes, I will walk into a marriage arranged like a business deal.

This marriage was settled before Francesco or I had a say in it.

It has nothing to do with love.

I do not hate him.

We grew up together, running through the same gated compounds while our fathers drank Scotch behind closed doors and made decisions that shaped the rest of our lives.

He was simply the boy next door.

The son of family friends.

The boy I was always expected to marry.

Dante Ricardo built his empire on old money, blood-soaked ports, and enough fear to keep the Midwest quiet.

Then Dante died.

And Francesco inherited an empire he was not ready to carry.

A vibration rattles the adjoining door between our suites.

The door is not fully closed.

A narrow gap remains.

Francesco’s voice cuts across the room, harsh and strained, nothing like the charm he wears in public.

“I don’t care about the wedding,” he snaps.

His footsteps move back and forth across the hardwood floor, restless and uneven.

“The ceremony is a cover.”

Every muscle in my body tightens.

“The peace talks with the Nero Syndicate are already three years overdue, and I’m not letting a single shipment stall at the docks today because of tradition.”

His voice rises with each step.

“That’s why I bought this building. It overlooks Lorenzo’s port, and that arrogant bastard still thinks he’s walking into neutral territory.”

Ice clinks against glass.

Francesco continues.

“Get him to the eighteenth floor during the ceremony. Put the partnership contract in front of him. Get the signatures for customs clearances the second the blessing ends.”

Silence.

Then—

“Once Lorenzo Nero signs, he dies.”

The room tilts.

For a moment, I wonder if I heard him wrong.

Then Francesco removes all doubt.

“The Nero Syndicate controls every major Atlantic port.”

His voice hardens.

“We take Nero, we take everything.”

The pacing stops.

A short silence stretches across the room before Francesco lets out a cold, humourless grunt.

“That’s why we aren’t using our own men. Roberto is handling it. Keep the Ricardo name out of it.”

A glass strikes a desk.

Hard.

“His job is simple. Wait for the signature, kill the Don, and do not fuck this up.”

The call ends.

My heart does not.

A second later, another glass slams heavily against the desk on the other side of the door.

Bitterness coats the back of my throat.

The deal on the eighteenth floor is not the only thing he has been handling in this building.

His plan to murder Lorenzo Nero is not the only reason I am standing here in a wedding dress, wondering how my life became this.

Last night was.

Last night finally destroyed whatever remained of my willingness to walk down that aisle.

Just after midnight, I slipped out of the bridal suite to ask the concierge for tea. Sleep had been impossible. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw a church, a ring, and a future I never chose.

The penthouse corridor was quiet when I stepped out.

Then I saw Francesco.

Three doors down.

He unlocked a suite and disappeared inside without even glancing around.

At first, I told myself there had to be an explanation.

Then the sounds started.

A woman’s moan drifted into the hallway.

Then another.

And another.

My stomach tightened.

He did not even have the decency to leave the premises. The corridor walls were not thick enough to hide anything.

“Fuck, Francesco… fuck, right there.”

Her breathless gasp carried clearly through the door, followed by another broken cry that sounded almost painful with pleasure.

The hallway filled with filthy sounds.

Skin striking skin.

A woman moaning loudly enough to echo off the walls.

The headboard hitting the wall.

Again.

Again.

Again.

I stood there listening to the man I was supposed to marry spend the night with someone else.

Oddly enough, I never cried.

I only waited.

Forty minutes later, the suite door opened.

Francesco stepped into the hallway, adjusting his cufflinks.

When he saw me, he did not even look embarrassed.

“On the night before our wedding?” I asked.

His expression barely changed.

“It’s nothing, Victoria.”

Nothing.

The word still makes me sick.

He reached out and tapped my cheek with two fingers.

“A man needs to clear his head before he takes a wife.”

I stared at him.

He smiled.

The same charming smile that convinced half of Chicago he was his father’s worthy successor.

“Don’t ruin my night with a scene. I’m in a good mood. Go back to bed.”

Then he walked away.

Just like that.

The memory dissolves as my mother’s hand settles on my shoulder, adjusting my veil.

“It’s time, darling. Everyone is waiting.”

I blink and find myself back in the bridal suite.

Back in the dress.

Back in the trap.

A few minutes later, we ride the private lift to the ballroom.

An ostentatious glass pavilion hangs over the dark, rolling waves of the lake. The Chicago skyline glitters through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

The doors open onto a sea of wealth.

Crystal chandeliers.

White roses.

Hundreds of guests.

Politicians.

Judges.

Businessmen.

Every major boss from the coast, dressed in black tie.

Men whose hands look clean because somebody else does their dirty work.

At the end of the aisle, Francesco Ricardo stands before the officiating minister.

His tuxedo is custom-tailored.

His smile is perfect.

And he is a perfect liar.

An innocent man would have looked like a wealthy prince ready to claim his bride.

Francesco looks like a man waiting for the rest of us to play our parts.

My mother squeezes my arm, then takes her place to my left, just outside the massive double doors of the conference hall.

The string quartet begins the bridal march, the music echoing softly through the ballroom.

I barely hear it.

Because I am studying the room.

Every entrance.

Every exit.

Every ten feet, Francesco’s men stand in place, broad shoulders filling expensive suits, guns hidden beneath their jackets, eyes fixed on the crowd.

The politicians.

The visiting bosses.

The threat they expect.

Not the bride.

A strange calm settles over me.

This is my chance.

Maybe my only one.

The ballroom doors begin to open.

Guests rise from their seats.

My mother takes her first step forward.

I do not.

Instead, I let the bouquet fall from my fingers.

White roses scatter across the floor.

For one second, no one moves.

Then I turn and run.

“Victoria?”

My mother’s voice cracks behind me.

I hear the confusion before the panic.

Then the music stops.

A heartbeat later, Francesco roars my name, his voice echoing off the walls, furious and full of disbelief.

I do not look back.

Kitchen staff jump aside as I race through the service corridor, gathering the skirts of my gown in both hands. My breath catches in my chest as I run.

My fingers hit the lift button.

The silver doors slide open just as several of Francesco’s men round the corner.

I throw myself inside.

The doors close, cutting off the shouting voices down the corridor.

I steal one trembling breath as the lift drops. My hands shake against the ivory silk, but there is no time to steady them.

No time to feel the panic clawing up my throat.

Only what comes next.

The mirrored walls trap my reflection from every angle as the reality of what I have just done crashes into me.

I am a runaway bride.

An idiot.

A fugitive in a city ruled by the men I am fleeing.

The lift dings at the lower level.

I take a deep breath and smooth the front of my dress.

Then I step out into the grand marble lobby.

I force myself to walk.

Running attracts attention.

A panicked woman in a wedding dress attracts even more.

The lobby appears normal.

Guests laugh over champagne.

Concierges stare at computer screens.

Nobody knows an entire wedding has just collapsed upstairs.

Then a security radio crackles.

One of the guards lifts a hand to his earpiece.

His eyes snap toward me.

Recognition flashes across his face.

“Miss Victoria?—”

The lobby erupts.

The guard lunges toward the main doors, barking into his earpiece. Behind me, the lift dings again. More footsteps thunder into the lobby.

Francesco’s men.

I run.

Guests scatter.

A champagne glass shatters against marble.

The security doors begin closing.

I dive through the narrowing gap.

My veil catches.

Fabric tears.

I rip free and burst outside onto the front steps.

Cold Chicago wind slams into me.

Behind me, furious voices spill out of the hotel.

“Find her!”

“Move!”

“Shut the street down!”

I run harder.

Traffic crawls beneath the glowing skyline. Near the hotel entrance, camera flashes erupt as more guests arrive for the wedding I just destroyed.

I keep running.

Across the connecting walkway.

Past fountains and polished stone.

Past guests arriving for a celebration that no longer exists.

At the far end, I burst through another set of glass doors and stumble into the neighbouring tower.

The corridor beyond is almost empty, stretching into a T-junction where the hallway splits in two directions.

Bright overhead lights shine across the marble floor while my breathing echoes around me.

At the far end, a lift stands open.

Floor 9 glows above the doors.

Someone is coming down.

Behind me, the shouting grows fainter.

My pulse refuses to slow.

I gather my skirts and run.

No family.

No security.

No plan.

Just a wedding dress, a city full of dangerous men, and the knowledge that somewhere above me, on the eighteenth floor, a man is about to be murdered.