Beauty and the Beast: The Mafia King’s Arranged Bride

Even a caged bird remembers how to fly; it only needs to find the strength to break the bars.

Serena

“My dear, you make such a beautiful bride.” My mother dabbed at the corner of her eyes with a handkerchief.

I forced a smile and glanced at my reflection. A white gown clung heavily to my body, a bouquet of flowers in my hands, a long veil shadowing my face. A glittering tiara, far too ornate for my taste, rested on my head. Mother insisted it was tradition, an heirloom passed down to every bride of the Romano family.

Not every bride. Only the Don’s bride. The mafia heir’s bride.

My groom—my soon-to-be husband—was Nico Romano. How did he look? I wasn’t sure. I’d seen only a photograph. At our engagement, he hadn’t bothered to attend; there had been “urgent business,” which everyone pretended not to name. But I knew better. His urgent business was ending a faction war in Chicago, most likely by filling his enemies' heads with bullets.

Still, I smiled like the dutiful bride I’d been trained to be. Like the obedient wife my mother always told me to become. Questions weren’t mine to ask. So I had slipped the diamond ring on my finger and played my part in uniting two dynasties built on blood.

“Your papa is here,” Mother whispered.

I turned. My father stood in the doorway, as unreadable as ever. When Don Moretti entered a room, silence followed. My aunt, mother, and cousins stayed back, leaving only my sister Lucia behind, her headphones clamped on as she defiantly ignored us all.

He nodded once, his expression carved from stone. For a fleeting moment, I wondered if he would show even a trace of emotion today. Instead, he laid his heavy hand on my head in a rare gesture.

“The Romanos are waiting,” he said flatly, glancing at his watch.

“Won’t you say anything to your daughter?” my mother asked softly.

He regarded me without blinking. “Be a good wife.”

A lump formed in my throat. “Yes, Papa.”

“You are a good daughter. I hope you will be a good wife as well.”

By “good,” he meant quiet. Dutiful. Obedient.

My mother touched my cheek with a faint smile. “This isn’t the wedding we dreamed of, but Nico is not a bad option. He is the Don of the New York famiglia now.” She always used the word famiglia as a way to soften the truth that we were nothing but mafiosi. Bloody, merciless mafiosi.

“Be a good wife to him. Don’t give him reason to seek comfort in another woman. If he does, make sure the mistress and her bastards never cross your threshold. Give him as many children as he wishes, and learn to cook, dear. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” She chuckled, though her eyes betrayed worry.

Then her tone hardened. “We let you chase your dream of becoming a doctor, Serena. But New York is not Los Angeles. You cannot be willful there. Forget the normal life you imagined. From now on, you are Nico Romano’s donna. That is your only duty.”

My eyes stung, but I nodded. “Yes, Mother.”

When they turned to leave, I whispered, “A moment, please.”

Father’s jaw tightened, but he allowed it. As they stepped out, Lucia ripped off her headphones, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“Must you marry that monster?” she hissed. “He killed his own father for power. How can you stand there and give yourself to him? I’ve made arrangements. Run, Serena. Please, don’t let them destroy you.”

Lucia had always been the rebel, fire to my parents’ ice. She hated this life and knew I did too, though I lacked her courage to escape. While I dared not dream of freedom, she lived for it.

I touched her cheek. “Be safe here, Lucia. Don’t bring trouble on yourself.”

Her jaw clenched. “I’ll free you from this unwanted marriage.”

I forced a smile. “Who says it’s unwanted?”

Her voice cracked. “And Josh? What about him?”

“Josh who?” I murmured, burying the ache deep inside me. “Be my maid of honour, Lucia. That’s all I ask.”

Moments later, my parents walked me down the aisle of the centuries-old family church. Its ancient walls carried the weight of history and perhaps our sins, too. My cousins trailed behind in pastel gowns, Lucia beside them, her sadness hidden behind her defiance.

Then I saw him.

Nico Romano.

Dark hair slicked back, jaw carved from stone, eyes the coldest steel-blue I had ever seen. His lips were full, perfect and pressed into a thin line as though he were attending a funeral rather than his own wedding.

My breath caught. Beautiful, yes. But cold. Unreachable. Dangerous.

This was the man I would marry.

As my father placed my trembling hand into his, a gunshot cracked through the air.

The bullet missed me by inches, grazing past my ear before burying itself in the arm of a groomsman.

I froze.

In one swift motion, Nico pulled a pistol from his suit. Ten shots rang out in succession. By the time silence fell, ten men lay bleeding on the church floor.

I dared not look at the flowers stained crimson behind me.

Sliding the gun back into his jacket, Nico clasped my hand again as though nothing had happened. The terrified priest cleared his throat and, voice quivering, began the ceremony.

And just like that, amid blood and vows, I became Nico Romano’s bride.