Forced To The Mafia King
Ownership
The vows are finished before I realize no one ever asked me if I agreed.
The cathedral smells like incense and old money. Marble beneath my feet. Gold everywhere. A performance staged for men who measure loyalty in blood and contracts in bodies.
I don't look at him when the priest speaks his final words. I already know who he is. Everyone does. He is seated beside me like an executioner waiting for paperwork to clear. Calm. Still. Unimpressed by the ritual meant to sanctify what is, at its core, a transaction.
When I finally turn my head, his gaze is already on me. Not curious. Not possessive. Evaluative. As if he's confirming the condition of a shipment.
"You may kiss the bride," the priest says, voice trembling.
The silence that follows is deliberate. He doesn't move. Doesn't touch me. Doesn't perform for them. Instead, he leans in just enough that only I can hear him.
"This marriage is not protection," he says quietly. "Do not confuse it for mercy."
His hand closes around my wrist. Not hard. Certain.
The kiss never happens. He turns us toward the aisle, forcing the crowd to rise, applause detonating around us like gunfire. Cameras flash. Names are whispered. I am walked, not escorted, past men who now know exactly who owns me.
Outside, a black car waits. Engine running. Door open.
I hesitate for half a second.
His grip tightens.
"That hesitation," he says without looking at me, "will cost you later."
The car door closes. The lock engages. And in the dark glass, I finally see it clearly.
I wasn't married. I was taken.
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