Chapter One AURORA #2
“AUNTIE AURORA!” Bruno barreled into the kitchen holding a plastic dinosaur and wearing tomato sauce across his face like war paint. He looked up at me seriously. “Luca says marriage means kissing the same person forever.”
My soul nearly left my body. “Unfortunately, he’s right.”
Bruno looked horrified. “ I don’t even want one kiss! That sounds disgusting.”
“Correct,” I hissed in return, glaring at my older sister.
“Can you cancel it?” Bruno suggested. “Ask Mommy to do it.”
Honestly? I considered it. Chiara shot me a warning look before turning back toward the counter.
“What would make you feel better?” she asked finally.
I frowned. “What?”
“The wedding is happening,” she said gently. “I know you hate hearing that, but it’s true. So tell me what would help.”
I opened my mouth automatically to argue again. Then stopped. Because there actually was something I wanted. Something stupid. Something selfish. Something normal girls probably got without needing permission from mafia kings.
“I want a bachelorette party,” I muttered.
Chiara blinked once. “That’s it?”
“Yes.” I glared at her.
“You hate parties,” she reminded me cautiously.
“I hate mafia parties,” I corrected. “I want loud music. Alcohol. Dancing. Bad decisions. One night where nobody talks about bloodshed over handmade pasta.”
Sienna appeared beside us like an overdressed demon summoned from hell. “Can there be strippers?”
“No,” Chiara and I snapped together.
Sienna rolled her eyes dramatically. “This family hates joy.”
Acouple days later, I learned something important. Spoiled mafia princesses were exhausting. Not because they were mean. Because they were delusional.
“Do you realize how lucky you are?” Bianca Rossi demanded for what had to be the sixth time in twenty minutes, pressing one manicured hand dramatically to her chest like she was personally grieving my lack of gratitude.
I stared at her from the backseat of the SUV and seriously considered opening the door and throwing myself onto the highway.
Lucky. Right. Because apparently being eighteen and a half years old and getting married off to a heavily tattooed professional killer with the emotional range of a kitchen appliance qualified as a modern fairy tale.
“I’m serious,” Bianca continued, sounding personally offended on Sergio’s behalf. “Aurora, do you know what my father wants for me?”
I looked at her blankly. “No.”
“Fifty-two.”
I blinked. “What?”
“My future husband.” She looked horrified. “Fifty-two years old.”
Silence. Then Sofia sighed sympathetically. “That’s tragic.”
“Tragic?” I repeated. “You’re acting like they diagnosed him with a terminal illness.”
“He wears loafers,” Bianca whispered, letting out a sob. “With tall socks.”
Alessia gasped. “No.”
“Yes,” Bianca nodded dramatically. “It’s all true. I’ve seen press photos.”
I stared at all three of them. Three beautiful girls in designer dresses and enough diamonds to fund small countries.
Three girls raised exactly like I had been.
Three girls who had grown up with bodyguards following them, rules hanging over their heads, and fathers deciding everything that mattered.
And somehow… They had become excited about marriage. Actually excited.
“I hate all of you,” I informed them.
Sofia laughed from beside me. “You’re being dramatic.”
“No,” I corrected calmly. “I’m being kidnapped with paperwork.”
“Marriage,” Bianca said.
“Same concept. Different decorations,” I muttered.
Outside the windows, the city unfolded in glittering ribbons of light beneath the evening sky. Rain had fallen earlier, leaving the sidewalks glossy and reflective, turning the city into streaks of gold and neon and blurred headlights.
Tonight was supposed to be simple. One normal night. No Leo. No Chiara. No family meetings. No discussions about alliances and security and marriage and protection. Just me. Just one night where I got to pretend I was a normal girl instead of a future mafia wife.
After a ridiculous amount of arguing, begging, emotional manipulation, and promising Chiara I wouldn't "accidentally commit crimes," I'd somehow gotten permission to go out. Technically. With supervision. Unfortunately.
Vincenzo sat in the front passenger seat looking like a man actively regretting every choice that had led him to this moment.
Late forties. Massive shoulders. Dark hair turning silver at the temples.
Permanent expression of tired disappointment.
He'd known me since I was little. Which meant he treated me less like mafia royalty and more like an irritating niece.
“Aurora,” he warned, glancing at me in the mirror, “I know that face.”
I blinked innocently. “What face? I have several faces.”
“The one where you're planning something.” He groaned, and I pretended to look wounded.
“Vincenzo.” I pressed my hand dramatically to my heart. “You think so little of me.”
“You're smiling. You smile before trouble,” he muttered. The girls dissolved into laughter beside me. Traitors. Ten minutes later, I solved the Vincenzo problem. Very easily.
“Vincenzo,” I said sweetly as we climbed onto the crowded sidewalk. “Could you do me one tiny favor? There’s a bakery around the corner. Could you get me a giant bachelorette cake?”
“No,” Vincenzo said plainly. “Not part of the plan. Drop you off at the club, watch you like a hawk. That’s what boss and Sergio said.”
“Please?” I stuck my bottom lip out and did my best version of puppy eyes. “I just want to celebrate with a cake. I never got them on my birthdays.”
He finally turned and looked at me. Narrowed eyes. Suspicion. The expression of a man who'd survived decades around dangerous people and somehow knew I was worse.
Bianca joined in. “Pleaseeeeee, Vincenzo?”
Sofia pouted. Alessia grabbed his arm dramatically. “Pleeeease.”
Poor Vincenzo looked up toward the sky like he was asking God for patience. “You girls are evil.”
Five minutes later he disappeared around the corner toward the bakery. The second he vanished into the crowd, I grinned.
Bianca stared in awe. “Oh my God, you little manipulator.”
“I prefer the title of strategic planner,” I winked at her. “Now run.”
We ran. The four of us disappeared into the city, laughing and stumbling over heels, clutching tiny purses while cold evening air whipped through our hair.
For the first time in weeks, I felt light.
Actually light. No expectations. No marriage.
No invisible chains hanging around my throat. No Sergio.
Just city lights and music bleeding from bars and people laughing around us. Freedom. Tiny and temporary. But freedom nonetheless.
“Where are we going?” Sofia asked breathlessly.
I pulled out my phone triumphantly. “I found a place earlier.”
Bianca narrowed her eyes. “Aurora.”
“No family connections,” I winked at her. “No fifty-two year old men in weird shoes and socks.”
Her eyes widened. “No bodyguards?”
“No stuffy mafia people,” I went on. “Just us.”
Sofia looked excited. “What kind of place?”
I smiled. “Just a regular nightclub.”
Twenty minutes later I realized I had made a catastrophic mistake.
We stood on a darker street now, away from the polished restaurants and rooftop bars.
Music pulsed through the sidewalk beneath my heels.
Not normal music. Heavy bass. Slow. Deep enough that I could feel it vibrating against my ribs.
Above us, black neon letters glowed through the darkness. The sign read After Dark.
I frowned. "Huh."
Bianca looked at me slowly. “Uh oh.”
I lowered my phone. “I think… I mixed up the names. I was looking for a club called After.”
“Oh my God,” Alessia gasped dramatically, but the other two girls looked interested.
Before I could defend myself, the doors opened.
Warm air rolled outside. Dark amber lighting spilled across the sidewalk.
And every instinct inside me screamed that something felt... off. Not dangerous. Just different.