Chapter 7 #2
Aric’s lip twitches; not quite a smirk, but close. “Our Supreme Leader. He has a…passion for mythology. Greek, mostly, but he appreciates all of it. When his father died and he took the reins, he renamed the entire organization. Restructured. Renovated from the ground up.”
“So what is it now?” I can’t help myself. “A Gothic gentleman’s club for sociopaths?”
“The most powerful criminal alliance in the world,” Aric states, either ignoring my sarcasm or immune to it.
“Elite ruling dynasties controlling territories, governments, markets. Separate empires under one Council.” The matter-of-factness of it is almost more disturbing than the words themselves.
“The Council Leader calls it a self-made pantheon. Olympus, where the gods gather.”
“How poetic,” I murmur. “And humble.”
“Nikos isn’t humble. He likes to believe we’re the gods in the crime world. Gods of corruption.”
“So he, this Nikos, is the founder?”
“His family was one of the founding families. The society itself is older, though. Decades older. It operated under different names before. But he turned it into what it is today.”
I let out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “So he turned it into a shadow government of murderers with a mythology fetish. Charming.”
“Not fetish. Each country deliberately uses different mythological references. Asgard for Scandinavia. Olympus in Italy. Other names elsewhere. It helps obscure the structure. Makes it harder for authorities like Interpol to connect the chapters and see the full network.”
“Clever,” I admit. “And you?” I tilt my head. “Where do you rank in this pantheon of ego?”
“I’m the Second,” he says without pride, without arrogance, just fact. “Second only to the Supreme Leader.”
“Who is?”
“Nikos Romano.”
Ah yes, he’s mentioned Nikos, the mythology enthusiast.
“And what does it mean to be the Second?”
“Operational authority beneath Romano. Second command of the High Council.”
I look at the man beside me. For the first time, I realize just how badly I’ve underestimated him. It seems I married a man whose authority stretches farther than I was led to understand. A man younger than many rulers who nonetheless stands directly beneath the most feared one of all.
My father sold me to monsters.
“So while I was busy resenting my husband,” I say lightly, “I failed to realize I was handed to one of the most powerful criminals alive.”
“You were handed to an alliance. I happened to be attached.”
The words should offend me. Instead, they sound uncomfortably familiar.
This wasn’t his choice either.
“So tell me.” I shift in my seat, turning toward him fully now, studying the man I’ve been bound to as if understanding him might somehow give me back a fraction of control. “This society my father is so desperate to join… what exactly has he sold me for?”
Aric’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, but I can’t tell whether it’s at the question or my phrasing.
“A seat at the Council.”
I already knew. It doesn’t make hearing it said so bluntly hurt any less. I was traded for a seat on the Council. That’s what my life was worth.
“And does he at least have to earn it,” I press, my tone sharpening despite myself, “or does marrying me off grant him automatic entry?”
“He’ll go through initiation. The full process. Trials, tests, scrutiny from every member.” His voice hardens. “The arrangement secures his candidacy. Nothing more. He still has to prove himself worthy.”
“And if he fails?”
“Then he fails. Those are the rules. No exceptions. Not even for the father of a God’s wife.” He looks away.
I nod as though to myself. “And today? Why are we going to Asgard?”
“Tonight, everyone came to Norway,” Aric continues, his gaze drifting back to mine. “To meet you.”
“Of course.” The retort slips out before I can catch it. “Because nothing says ‘warm welcome’ like being paraded in front of a cult of self-proclaimed Gods.”
A faint, irritating smirk tugs at one corner of his mouth. It flashes across his face and disappears just as quickly, like lightning.
“You’ll be introduced as the newest member.” My sarcasm slides right off him. “A wife to a God. Not a Goddess yourself. Not yet, at least. You’d have to go through a full initiation to earn that title.”
“So there’s such a possibility?” My interest sharpens.
I hadn’t considered that. Mafia and women with power? In my experience, the two concepts seem mutually exclusive.
He nods, brows knitting together for a fraction of a second, as if something’s just occurred to him. “I see you don’t know much about your new life.”
Took him long enough to figure that out.
“We must set some facts straight,” he adds, with that quiet reserve that sounds more like a threat than reassurance. “The Vold name means as much in Norway as what I suppose Almaviri means in Monsera. And you’re now Mrs. Vold, so you will speak and act accordingly.”
“And what exactly does that mean? Because you see, I’ve never been a Vold before.
Never even met one, actually.” Once again, I can’t help but mock.
Just love getting under the arsehole’s skin.
At least, trying to, because he’s always so relentlessly composed it’s infuriating.
I want to get a reaction from him. Laugh, scream.
Anything would do. Just to see the man beneath all that control instead of the machine he pretends to be.
“How should I know what’s expected of me? ”
“As Mrs. Vold, you hold a prestigious position in our society.”
Once again, he lets my sarcasm pass without comment.
Aric: 1, Ayanna: 0.
Or rather, Aric: 758349, Ayanna: 0.
“As I said, my family’s status could be compared to yours. The difference is, we’re—”
I cut in. “Mafia.”
He nods, and I cannot for the life of me comprehend how someone can be so stone-cold all the time.
“Think of us as mafia royalty. Except, as Mrs. Vold…” There it is again—Mrs. Vold—as if calling me his wife would burn the tongue right out of his mouth.
“Your status is higher than your princess title back at your home country. From now on, you bow to no one but me and my father. All the rest, they bow to you.”
“Once again, I ask, what does it mean exactly?” My tone drips with fake sweetness. “Because you speak in riddles, husband.” I stress the endearment—yet another provocation.
His lips twitch in that signature way. “It means you respond to me and me only. You’re above everyone else but my father and me.
You’ll receive the respect you deserve. You’ll be protected and provided for.
Much like the hierarchy in the royal family, except here, you’re in line to the throne. Next to me, that is.”
“How lovely,” I deadpan. “And what do you want in return? My eternal gratitude? Because you see, I never wished for an upgrade, if you can call it one.”
The arsehole once again completely ignores my remarks like he’s mastered it.
“I want you to obey me.”
For a fraction, I think I’ve misheard him. Then I realize I haven’t.
“Obey you?” I repeat. “That’s convenient. An obedient wife who doesn’t trouble you while you do you, huh?”
“You misunderstand me,” he remains irritatingly unmoved.
“Oh, do I?”
He sighs, his expression settling into that faint, infuriating patience that seems to be his natural state.
At least, I managed to draw a reaction out of him, even if it was as little as a sigh.
“The alliance between our families didn’t simplify things, Princess. On the contrary, it made us targets. By uniting, we gained power, and power attracts enemies.”
He angles his head slightly. “Be a good wife to me, respect me, obey my will…” His voice drops lower, almost intimate. “And we might make it out alive.”
For a heartbeat, everything stills. The car, the road, even the air feels suspended in time. I stare at him, searching for a flicker of emotion, but of course, there’s nothing. Just that unreadable calm that makes him impossible to predict.
I force a small, humorless smile before I turn back to the window.
Fantastic. I’m married to a man who, apparently, treats obedience like oxygen.
But I’ll let him have it his way. I’ll play this game better than anyone.
Let him think I’ll bow or curtsy even until I find my way out of this.
And I will. Because Aric Vold might be adorably mistaken that he married some fragile royal doll—a sheltered daughter of a monarchy—but he knows nothing of what that title really means.
The truth is, monarchy and the mafia aren’t that different.
Both are built on loyalty and fear. Both thrive on hierarchy and obedience.
One hides its corruption behind crowns and etiquette, the other behind guns and gold.
But both demand sacrifices, and both rule by making people kneel.
The only real difference is the mask they wear.
And I’ve been wearing mine since birth.