Page 20 of Mafia King of Lies

If that were true, you wouldn’t be giving me away to a man almost your age.

I think it, but I don’t say it. What’s the point now? It’s over. I’m seconds away from walking down that aisle, and nothing I say will change it.

“You look beautiful, Maria.”

The doors open, and dread lodges deep in my stomach.

The violin strums the gentle classical piece I picked out just days ago. A piece that once sounded like hope… now sounds like surrender.

I knew it. Things were going too well. I should’ve braced for the collapse.

“Rendimi orgoglioso, Maria.” Make me proud, Maria.

My father’s voice is steady and cold.

There’s no turning back.

The guests see us step into the aisle, and all rise to their feet.

I’m going to be sick. My stomach churns violently, and if it weren’t for Papá’s firm grip on my arm, I would’ve run—bolted down the aisle and never looked back. My heart aches with every step toward the life I didn’t choose.

This. This is exactly what I wanted to avoid.

I don’t want to marry a man twice my age.

I keep my gaze fixed just a few feet ahead as we walk. The sweet, angelic music that fills the cathedral feels all wrong now.It will forever be etched in my memory as the soundtrack to my walk toward the slaughter.

Because that’s what this feels like.

I am the lamb, and waiting for me at the altar… is the wolf.

I steal a glance at Papá. His expression is set, stern, eyes locked forward.

But I—I can’t bring myself to look at Matteo. Mr. Davacalli. My fiancé.

We come to a stop at the altar. I keep my eyes on the floor, trying to steady my breath as the blood rushes through my veins like a storm.

The priest begins to speak, but his voice is distant—muffled beneath the roar in my ears.

“I do,” my father says, his voice cutting through the haze. “I give my daughter to this man.”

Fuck. Here it is.

Papá gently removes my hand from his arm—but I resist. Just for a second. I don’t want to let go. I don’t want to do this. This cannot be my fate.

But he doesn’t give me a choice.

With practiced calm, so as not to draw attention, he pries my hand off his arm and places it in a much larger, waiting palm.

I can’t bring myself to look up. Not yet. Not at the man I’m about to marry.

But I feel the heat of his touch, the command in the way he holds me.

“Ti do la mia cosa più preziosa.” I give you my most precious thing. My father murmurs, just loud enough for those at the altar to hear.

“Take care of her.”

I force my eyes up.

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