Page 19 of Married to the Mafia Monster

I watch her for a moment, impressed by her determination. She’s smart, resourceful, and she hasn’t given up despite the fear she must be feeling.

It’s one of the things I admire about her, one of the reasons I’m so drawn to her.

I’m in dangerous territory. If Ricardo finds out I’m keeping things like the letter from him, it won’t just be my life on the line—it’ll be hers too. How will he feel when he finds out I’m going to marry my target?

TEN

Bella

The letter lies on my desk, mocking me with its indecipherable text. I stare at it, my mind running through every cipher and code I can think of.

My father always loved puzzles and ciphers, and he taught me a few tricks when I was younger. I just have to dig deep into those memories to find the key.

He must have known I could decode it, or else why bother sending it at all? I try not to think of the man with the knife. If I think of that, I freeze. That won’t get me anywhere.

I’m starting to think all of this is connected. The man in my room. My father. Alex. If I could just crack the code, maybe I’d start getting answers to some of my questions.

My mind drifts back to simpler times when my father would create treasure hunts for me, clues hidden in codes and riddles. I remember the laughter and excitement, the bond we shared.

But as I grew older, the light-hearted games ended. Money troubles reared their ugly head, and our relationship became more about survival and less about the joy we once shared.

There has to be a way. I try several common ciphers: Caesar shifts, Vigenère, even a basic substitution. Nothing works. Frustration builds, but I push through my exhaustion. The answer to everything is in this letter. I’m certain of it.

My notebook fills with scribbles and crossed-out lines until I decide to take a different approach, remembering the first book cipher he once taught me.

I grab the Bible from the bedside drawer and start counting letters, but that too leads nowhere. My head begins to ache, and I rub my temples, trying to clear the fog of fatigue.

The spacing of the letters seems irregular. Could that be it? I count the spaces between each letter and realize they follow a pattern of prime numbers. My heart races as I group the letters accordingly in numerical order and then start rearranging them.

Slowly but surely, a message begins to reveal itself. My father’s voice seems to whisper in my ear as the words take shape on the page:

Bella, if I can get this letter to you, you’re too easy to find. I love you, and I’ll get in touch again soon. The man who brings this letter will tell you more.

My mind flashes to Alex, remembering how he dragged that man away. The man who brought the letter can be trusted? But he brought a knife, threatened me. How can I trust my dad’s advice after that?

The reality of the situation sinks in. My father needs me to disappear properly. The thought is daunting. I’ve only just settled into this job, begun to carve out a small semblance of normalcy.

And now I have to leave it all behind and start fresh yet again. I made my first proper friend and I can’t even tell her where I’m going. Too risky.

Exhausted, I finally climb into bed, the letter still clutched in my hand. I’ll leave in the morning. I’m too tired to go now.

As I start to drift off, a dream takes hold. In it, I’m naked except for the kind of lingerie I would never buy. I’m in a dimly lit room but I’m not afraid.

Alex is here, his eyes dark and commanding. He approaches me, his footsteps soft on the carpet, and I can feel heat radiating from his body.

He stands close, so close I can feel his breath on my skin, sending shivers down my spine.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, his voice a low, soothing rumble.

I nod, unable to speak, my heart pounding in my chest. “Always.”

“Good,” he says, taking my hand and leading me to a plush, velvet-covered chair. “Sit,” he commands, and I obey, the fabric cool and luxurious against my bare thighs.

He ties my wrists to the arms of the chair with silk scarves. My pulse quickens, the sense of helplessness strangely exhilarating. He steps back, his gaze roaming over me, making me feel exposed and desired in a way I’ve never experienced before.

“Close your eyes,” he orders, and I do, the darkness behind my lids heightening my other senses. I hear the rustle of his clothes as he moves, feel the gentle brush of his fingers against my cheek, taste the anticipation like a sweet, forbidden fruit.

I sit bolt upright in bed, my heart pounding. I listen but there’s no sound anywhere. I check the chair wedged under the door, then look out the spy-hole. Nothing.

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