Rejected Baby of the Turkish Mafia Boss

Chapter 1

Today was the hardest day of my life. I’d just graduated with my architecture degree in Italy, and when I returned home, my baba—what we call fathers in my country— told me I would have to marry a man I don’t love.

I cried and begged him to let me choose my own path, but he wouldn’t listen.

For him, the family’s honor came before my own heart.

I felt desolate, betrayed, and hopeless.

How could I be happy if I didn’t have the right to choose who to love?

That’s when I mustered my courage and decided to talk to my father.

My heart grew heavier with each step I took toward his office, which was on the ground floor of our house.

Faint moonlight streamed through the window, casting dancing shadows on the floor.

He was sitting in an armchair, reading a Turkish newspaper, as usual.

I knew I couldn’t put off the conversation we were about to have any longer.

“Ba-baba, can we talk?” I asked, my voice trembling, trying to hide the tears that threatened to spill from my eyes.

He lowered the newspaper and gave me a serious look. My father, Hilal Aydin, had always been highly respected and feared in his organization. He was known for his firmness, his cruelty, his iron fists, his wickedness, and for the traditions he claimed to value so much.

“What is it, Eda?” he replied, his expression indifferent, as if he already knew what was coming.

I took a deep breath and gathered all my strength.

“Baba, I can’t marry Yusuf. I don’t love him. I can’t spend the rest of my life with someone who won’t make me happy.”

My father’s expression changed from indifference to fury in the blink of an eye.

“Eda, you don’t understand what you’re saying,” he said harshly.

“The marriage to Yusuf is an honor for our family and the organization.” He stared at me, the veins in his neck pulsing with anger.

“You don’t have a say in this matter—he chose you.

This is an alliance that will strengthen our ties and traditions against our enemies. Love is secondary.”

My father’s words echoed in my ears, like a speech I’d heard many times before. But I didn’t want to accept it. I couldn’t surrender to a destiny I didn’t choose.

“But, baba, I deserve to be happy. I deserve to choose who I want to spend my life with. Love isn’t secondary to me. It’s what matters,” I said, my voice trembling.

“Eda, you know that marriage is an important tradition in our organization and that all of them are arranged. It’s your duty to marry a man who holds a respectable position in it, like Yusuf, and follow the path that our family has laid out for you,” he replied, his expression stern.

“I understand the importance of marriage, baba, but I don’t believe Yusuf is the right person for me. I’ve always wanted—always dreamed of—finding someone I can love and build a life with, not just fulfilling some mandatory tradition,” I argued.

“You’re young and don’t know what’s best for you. Trust me: this man is the best match you’ll find among our allies, and he’ll be a good husband, as much as can be expected,” he said, trying to convince me.

But I couldn’t and didn’t want to ignore my own feelings. I knew I needed to fight for my right to choose who I wanted to spend the rest of my life with.

“Baba, please understand that I just want to be happy. I can’t marry someone I don’t love,” I concluded, hoping he would finally understand.

The argument grew tense, charged with the pressure of a decision I wasn’t willing to accept, when my father decided to ignore me again, leaning back in his favorite armchair and returning to the newspaper spread out in front of him.

“Baba, acting this way won’t help. You won’t convince me or force me to do this,” I said, my voice trembling but determined.

“I won’t force you to do what, Eda?” He lowered the newspaper slowly, feigning ignorance, his expression serious and inquisitive.

“About the marriage to Yusuf,” I replied, a lump forming in my throat.

My father’s eyes met mine, and I could see concern mixed with stubborn resolve in his expression. He knew exactly what I was about to say.

“Please, baba. I can’t do this,” I went on, fighting back tears. “I don’t love Yusuf. I can’t spend the rest of my life with someone I have no feelings for—and I won’t.”

“Eda, you don’t understand.” His expression was a mix of disbelief and barely restrained anger. “This marriage is important for our family, for the organization,” he said, his face reddening with frustration. “It’s not just about what you want.”

“But, baba, what I want matters too.” I shook my head, feeling my resolve strengthen. “I deserve to be happy and to choose who I spend the rest of my life with.”

He paused, looking at the floor for a moment before meeting my eyes again.

“Eda, sometimes in life we have to make sacrifices for the good of the family and the organization. Love is something that can develop over time.”

“Baba, I don’t want a marriage based on ‘can develop,’” I said, frustration rising in my voice. “I want a union built on love, passion, and connection. I can’t accept being married off like this.”

The argument continued, each of us holding firm to our position.

And every word I spoke only fueled my father’s anger.

In the end, it became clear that baba wouldn’t change his mind.

He had given his word and promised my hand to Yusuf, and that couldn’t be undone.

My father was determined to honor the marriage promise, while I was willing to fight for my own happiness, even if it meant defying the organization’s traditions.

In the end, it became clear we wouldn’t reach an agreement that night. The gulf between our visions of the future was deep and seemingly insurmountable.

With a broken heart and an overwhelming sense of helplessness, I left his office and headed toward the front door. I knew a difficult battle lay ahead, one I was ready to fight to find my own happiness and freedom, even if it meant going against my father’s will.

My mother, who was in the living room, tried to ask me something, but I ignored her.

I needed space, fresh air to breathe. I stepped out into the dark night, with no destination in mind.

Tears streamed down my face as I walked through the streets.

I felt like a caged bird, unable to fly toward my own happiness.

Partway through my wandering, I hailed a taxi—I wasn’t reckless enough to drive drunk—and headed to a bar. I asked the driver to stop at the first one we came across. I needed a place to calm down and think.

I sat at the counter, where bartenders were serving customers, ordered something strong, and let the alcohol burn my throat. With each sip, I felt some of the pain fade. Even though I wasn’t used to drinking, I started downing drinks recklessly—the drunker I got, the more I cried.

The tears flowed freely, and I no longer cared about the people around me, who watched with curiosity and compassion. In that moment, I just wanted to forget the life that awaited me, the marriage I didn’t want.

As the night wore on and the bottles piled up, I cried in silence, mourning my lack of choice over my own life.

I was a young Turkish woman, daughter of a powerful mafioso, but I wanted more than traditions and the organization could offer.

I wanted love, freedom, and I was willing to fight for them, even if it meant defying my own father.

Deep down, I knew the journey would be difficult, but I was determined to find my own path, even if it meant facing the consequences of my choices. And that night, at that dark and lonely bar counter, I began to chart my own destiny, far from the shackles of an arranged marriage.