The Mafia King's Broken Captive Bride

Seraphina POV The heavy oak door didn't stay closed for long. Barely an hour after Eleonora’s initial departure, the lock clicked again. She swept back into my gilded cage, this time trailed by a nervous, bird-like woman clutching measuring tapes and thick, velvet-bound catalogs. Eleonora ignored my pale, bruised reflection in the vanity mirror. She gestured sharply, and the woman began spreading swatches of expensive silk and lace across my unmade bed. They looked like beautiful, suffocating shrouds. "We do not have time to indulge your sulking, Seraphina," Eleonora said, her voice clipping through the stifling air. She picked up a catalog and tossed it onto the mattress. "The invitations are already being expedited. You will pick a silhouette today. Something modest, yet elegant enough to photograph well for The Commission." I stared at the glossy pages, my silence only fueling her arrogance. "You should consider yourself blessed," Eleonora continued, her dark eyes narrowing with undisguised contempt. "A ruined Marino girl, dragged from a frozen lake, still being given a stage this grand. Most families would have quietly disposed of such a liability. We are giving you respectability." *Respectability.* The word echoed in my mind, hollow and sickening. She didn't see a bride; she saw a PR campaign to scrub Julian's near-fatal betrayal clean. She wanted a docile, grateful doll to smile for the cameras. I looked down at my trembling hands. The lingering weakness from the icy water was real, but the fire igniting in my veins was hotter than ever. If they wanted a Marino, I would give them exactly what that meant. The designer approached me hesitantly, tape measure in hand. "If you could just stand, Miss..." I stood, allowing my knees to buckle slightly. I slumped against the vanity, my breathing ragged, playing the broken victim to perfection. The designer gasped, reaching out to steady me. Then, the switch flipped. I lunged past the designer and clamped my hand around Eleonora’s pristine, tailored forearm. My grip was bruising, fueled by pure adrenaline. "A wedding!" I gasped, my eyes wide and unblinking as I stared into Eleonora’s suddenly shocked face. I let out a breathless, jagged laugh that scraped against the walls. "Yes! It’s brilliant. We need red, Eleonora. Not white. White is for the weak!" "Let go of me, you insolent—" Eleonora tried to yank her arm away, but I dug my nails into her sleeve, leaning in so close she could feel my feverish breath. "We will have a *Vendetta* wedding," I whispered, the word tasting like copper on my tongue. Then, my voice escalated into a manic, theatrical shriek. "We’ll paint the silk with the blood of the rats who slaughtered my father! Don Antonio Marino knew how to celebrate! Bullets and blades, Eleonora! We’ll string their intestines across the altar!" The designer let out a muffled whimper, backing away toward the door. Eleonora’s face drained of color. The polished matriarch was gone, replaced by a woman staring at a rabid dog. "Have you lost your mind?" "Mind?" I tilted my head, letting a tear slip down my cheek while a wide, unhinged smile stretched across my face. "My mind is at the bottom of the lake. But my blood... my blood remembers. My father died a king in the dirt! And your men? Your spineless men hide behind briefcases and lawyers. They don't know the beauty of a slit throat. But I can show them. I’ll show all your guests!" I released her arm so violently she stumbled backward, her heel catching on the edge of the rug. "You are insane," Eleonora breathed, her chest heaving. The disgust in her eyes was now entirely eclipsed by genuine horror. She wasn't looking at a political pawn anymore; she was looking at a bomb threatening to detonate in the middle of her perfectly curated high society. A madwoman who would turn the Moretti name into a laughingstock. "Gather your things," Eleonora snapped at the trembling designer, not daring to take her eyes off me. "We are leaving. Now." They practically fled the room. The heavy door slammed shut, and the lock engaged with a definitive click. I stood alone in the center of the room, the manic smile slowly fading from my lips. My chest ached, and my legs finally gave out, dropping me to the hardwood floor. I pulled my knees to my chest, surrounded by the scattered catalogs and discarded lace. I had won the skirmish. Eleonora would never allow a lunatic to stand at the altar and ruin her family's flawless facade. But as the afternoon shadows began to stretch long and dark across the floorboards, the scent of her expensive perfume lingered in the air like a warning. Eleonora was just the messenger. When Julian heard what I had done, he wouldn't run.