Chapter 3: Kira - Marrying the Mafia Daddy

The elevator doors open directly into Domenico’s penthouse apartment. As I step out behind him, the weight of what’s happened settles deeper into my chest with each breath.

This is home now.

Domenico doesn’t pause to let me look around, and I have to hurry to keep pace, one hand lifting my skirt so I don’t trip. The city glitters beyond the glass—Boston’s skyline scattered with lights that blur into streaks as I move past.

I follow as he turns down a long hallway. Stopping, he throws a door open and turns on the lights. Then he gestures for me to walk inside. “This will be your room for now,” he says.

Instead of walking inside, I stay where I am and take in the room. The bed is made with military precision, cream linens pulled tight, neutral walls that could belong to any hotel in any city. There’s a desk, a chair, and a closet with sliding doors.

It’s all very functional and incredibly impersonal. Exactly the kind of room meant for visitors who don’t stay long enough to leave marks.

My stomach drops through the floor.

Wait, does that mean he already plans to kill me? No, I can’t think like that. I have to somehow believe he won’t do that. I mean, why marry me just to kill me?

I look up to find him watching me, his blue eyes unreadable in the hallway light. He’s already pulling his cufflinks free, rolling them in his palm like coins he’s counting. The casual gesture makes something cold thread through my veins.

Even though I’d prefer to keep as much distance between us as possible, I ask, “Shouldn’t we be sharing a bedroom?” The words taste like ash.

I don’t want to seduce him—I’m not even trying to be close to him. But my dad’s voice plays on repeat in my skull, the hiss he delivered two nights ago when he shoved the lingerie into my hands.

“You better fuck him, Kira. You better make sure he wants to keep you. One call and I pull the plug on your mom. One fucking call.”

When I confided in Father Joseph how nervous I was about the marriage, he told me a marriage is supposed to be a union in every sense. Same message, but very different delivery.

Domenico’s fingers still around the metal disks. He looks at me for one beat, then another, and I feel every second of silence like pressure against my sternum.

“I mean,” I continue, because the silence is worse than speaking, “we’re husband and wife now.”

I need this marriage to be real in every way he requires. I need him to claim me thoroughly enough that no one can question it, least of all the man who sold me.

My husband’s expression doesn’t change. He just shrugs and tells me to follow him, which I do. We pass two more doorways before he stops at the end of the hall and pushes open a heavier door.

The primary bedroom swallows the light from the hallway and turns it into something denser, richer. Charcoal linens on a king bed pulled so tight they look poured rather than made.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he says, and this time I don’t stay in the hallway.

“Are my things here?” I ask, my voice steady even as my hands aren’t. “I had two suitcases. Dad gave them to your men when I arrived at the church this morning.”

Domenico crosses to a door I hadn’t noticed, set flush into the wall. He pulls it open to reveal a closet larger than the bedroom I had back home, and disappears inside. I hear the soft scrape of wheels on wood, and then he’s back, rolling both suitcases behind him.

I don’t know why the suitcases were in his walk-in closet if I wasn’t meant to stay here. But at least they weren’t lost.

They look small in his grasp, battered nylon that cost forty dollars each from the discount store near our old apartment. He sets them down near the foot of the bed without comment; the wheels locking with a soft click.

I stare at them. Everything I own in the world, compressed into forty-eight inches of cheap fabric and zippers that stick. My practical clothes, my worn shoes, the photo of my mom from before the accident that I couldn’t leave behind, even though it hurts to look at.

And… the black lace thing my dad forced on me, still folded in tissue paper in the smaller suitcase.

“Do you need anything else?” he asks, his tone matter-of-fact.

“I’d like to shower,” I reply.

Nodding, he strides over to yet another door and opens it to reveal the ensuite bathroom. He switches on the light and explains where the towels are.

“I don’t have any female products, but I’ll make sure to get stocked up tomorrow.” Is it my imagination, or is there a tinge of regret in his tone? No, it’s probably just wishful thinking.

“That’s okay,” I hurry to say. “I have everything I need.”

When he exits, I quickly grab the smallest suitcase and carry it into the bathroom. The suitcase hits the marble floor with a soft thud, and I press my back against the door until I hear the latch catch.

The bathroom swallows me whole—black stone everywhere; the vanity stretching wide beneath a mirror that reflects my own panic back at me in high definition. I look like a stranger.

Pushing off the door, I kick off my shoes, and I almost want to moan with pleasure when they’re no longer framing my feet. God, I’ll never again wear heels if I can avoid it. Then I move my hands to the side zipper on my wedding dress. But it catches when I try to work it down.

Blowing out a frustrated breath, I force myself to slow down, to breathe. This dress cost Domenico thousands, and it cost me everything I had left of myself.

The teeth separate inch by inch, and I feel each release like vertebrae unlocking along my spine. I slide the straps off my shoulders and peel the dress down until I can step out of it. I lift the dress carefully, the way I would handle something fragile, and hang it over the towel rack.

With how the dress is designed, I’m not wearing anything underneath, so I’m fully naked in my husband’s bathroom. Refusing to think about that, I move to the shower and turn the handles until water thunders against the glass enclosure.

Before stepping under the spray, I get a towel and hang it on the hook just outside the shower cubicle. Then I grab my shower products from the suitcase. It isn’t much, just soap. I also have my shampoo and conditioner, but I’m not sure I should make Domenico wait that long.

No, it’s better to get this over with so I know Mom’s safe.

With that thought, I hurry through washing myself, finishing the shower much sooner than I want to. Seriously, with the water pressure, I could stand here for hours and not have had enough.

I shut it off and step onto the mat, reaching for the towel. It’s thick, softer than anything in my parents’ apartment, and I press it against my face before working it down my body.

As soon as I’m dry, I find my lotion and squeeze plenty into my palm, working it into my legs, my stomach, and my arms. The scent is familiar, something cheap and floral, and I cling to it as proof that I still exist somewhere beneath this performance.

The toothbrush I packed is still wrapped in tissue. I unwrap it, find the paste in my kit, and scrub until my gums sting. The mirror has cleared enough to show my mouth pink and swollen, and I touch up the makeup I ruined with careful strokes.

My hair takes longer. I work the brush through the waves until they fall smoothly down my back. The rhythm soothes something in my chest, and I let myself pretend for thirty seconds that I’m somewhere else, someone else, a girl with options.

I set the brush down and reach deeper into the suitcase. The tissue paper crinkles, and I know what I’m pulling out before I see it. My dad’s voice accompanies the unwrapping.

“This is what men want, Kira. This is what keeps them interested. You wear this, you make sure he takes what he’s owed, and your mom keeps breathing. You understand?”

I understood then, and I still understand now.

The babydoll dress is constructed of nothing—straps that will dig into my shoulders, a deep V-neck that plunges to the waist, an open front held together by a single clasp beneath where my breasts will sit.

The matching thong is a strip of lace that will leave nothing to the imagination. I hold it up and try to see myself wearing it, trying to find the version of Kira who can survive this.

I step into the thong first, pulling it up until the lace settles against my skin. Then the babydoll dress, working my arms through the straps, adjusting until the single clasp sits beneath my breasts, holding the front open in a way that feels more intimate than full nudity.

Rather than checking my reflection straight away, I procrastinate and smooth the straps, check the clasp, make sure everything sits where it’s designed to sit. Then I lift my head.

The woman in the mirror is someone I don’t recognize. The black lace cuts across her skin like a weapon, highlighting the fullness of her breasts and hips, and the vulnerability of her throat.

Her hazel eyes look too large for her face, and there’s something in them I can’t name—resignation, maybe, or the particular bravery of people who have nothing left to lose.

I hold my own gaze for a long moment, long enough to feel the heat building in my cheeks, long enough to remind myself why I’m doing this.

Deciding that maybe I should make more of an effort, I find the small mascara and add a fresh coat. I don’t bother with more makeup than that, but there’s no denying it makes my eyes pop in a good way.

“Here goes nothing,” I whisper to myself.

Then I pull the door open. “Domenico,” I say as I step back into the bedroom. “I’m ready.” I inwardly cringe at how stupid I sound. But I shouldn’t have cared because the bedroom is empty.

The charcoal duvet hasn’t been disturbed; the pillows are still stacked in their precise arrangement against the headboard. Even though he clearly isn’t here, I call his name again, louder this time.

“Domenico?”

I move to the center of the room and turn in a slow circle, as if he might be hiding behind the drapes or tucked into the closet I saw earlier. The windows reflect my own image back at me—black lace and bare arms, hair falling down my back, the picture of a bride prepared for her wedding night.

Prepared for a husband who isn’t present.

I walk to the bedroom doorway and push the door open, only enough so that I can look down the hall. The lights are dimmed; the path we took from the elevator is lost in shadow.

“Domenico?”

The third time isn’t the charm as I still don’t get a reply.

I force my feet to move, to carry me back through the spaces I barely registered on arrival. The hallway stretches longer than I remember, doors closed on either side, each one a question I don’t want to ask.

When I reach the guest room he tried to give me, I look in there on the off chance he wanted to be away from me badly enough to stay there himself. Nope, that room’s empty.

I continue my walk down the hallway to the elevator, my feet hitting the floor harder with each step I take. Even though the display above the elevator says G, which I assume is for garage, I push the button.

Yep, the elevator isn’t here. As I stand in front of the elevator in nothing but my black lace and bare feet, I let it land. He left. He. Fucking. Left.

The realization carries weight I wasn’t prepared for. Not because I wanted him here—I’m not that foolish, not that desperate for his company specifically. But because this is the second time today a DeLuca man has abandoned me.

Paolo at the altar, choosing to walk away from a marriage he’d never wanted. And now Domenico, hours after marrying me in his son’s place, stepping out of his own home without a word about where he’s going or when he’ll return.

It seems the apple doesn’t fall far from the unreliable tree.

As I spin and walk back to the bedroom, I swear I see movement out of the corner of my eye. “Hello?” I call out. “Is anyone there?”

A tall and broad red-headed man moves toward me with a lazy grin. “Hello there, kitten. Are you lost?”

“Who are you?” I gasp, taking a step backward.

“I’m much more interested in who you are.” He grins. “Are you one of the Don’s whores? Because if you are, you should know he often lets us have his leftovers.”

Letting out a small scream, I turn and sprint back to the bedroom, slamming the door behind me. My heart hammers against its cage as I anxiously pace the length of the bedroom over and over and over again.

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Will he… am I going to have to…

No, I can’t dwell on that. I need to be strong. I need this marriage, and I need it consummated.

That means I need to be practical. Before the accident, Mom always told me, “You assess the situation, you identify what you can control, and you act accordingly.”

What I can control: my location, my appearance, my readiness.

What I can’t control: his return, his desire, his decision about whether this marriage meets whatever standard he holds. And apparently, whether or not he’s going to share me with his men.

No, that last one I will control. I refuse to let that happen.

I climb onto the mattress and position myself carefully—legs crossed at the ankles, one arm resting along my thigh, hair arranged over my shoulder. The pose feels both ridiculous and necessary, vulnerable and calculated.

How I wish there was a clock on the nightstand. Or that I still had my phone. Anything to know how much time passes. Because it feels like hours already, but I’m pretty sure it’s only been minutes.

Trying to distract my mind, I ponder how long I can maintain this posture, how long before my muscles cramp or my eyes grow heavy.

No, I won’t fall asleep. That’s the decision I make, staring at the door, waiting for the sound of his return. I will be awake. I will be ready. I will seduce my husband whenever he deigns to come home, and I will make sure he has no reason to, well, kill me like he did his former wife.

I shift my weight and feel the lace adjust across my skin. The clasp beneath my breasts digs slightly, a constant reminder of what I’m wearing and why. I imagine Domenico’s face when he sees me, trying to predict his reaction.

Will he be pleased? Annoyed? Will he understand the calculation behind this display, or will he mistake it for genuine desire?

The thought makes me want to laugh, but I swallow the sound. There’s nothing funny about any of this. I’m waiting in lingerie like an offering on an altar, hoping the pagan god I’ve been sold to finds me worthy.

My eyes burn. I blink rapidly and refocus on the door. I won’t cry.

I’ve shifted positions three times, trying to find comfort without abandoning the pose entirely. My neck aches from holding my head at an angle that looks alluring rather than practical.

I think about getting up, about finding the clothes in my suitcase and dressing like a normal person, about crawling under the covers and pretending I’m anywhere but here. But my dad’s voice won’t let me.

“You better fuck him, Kira. You better make sure he wants to keep you.”

So, I stay where I am, stay awake, and keep watching the door.

After what feels like an eternity, my head dips forward, and I catch myself, spine straightening with a snap that sends pain through my shoulders. I adjust the pillows behind me, propping myself higher, creating a backrest that will keep me upright.

“I won’t fall asleep.” I repeat the words to myself like a prayer, like the vows I spoke today that meant nothing and everything.

My eyes close again. I don’t remember opening them.

The black lace has twisted around my torso, the clasp digging into my ribs in a way that should hurt more than it does. I’m lying down, I realize dimly, stretched across the charcoal sheets like something washed up on a shore.

I try to push myself up, but my arms have become something else, heavy and distant, not responding to the commands I send them. The ceiling is very far away, or maybe my eyes won’t focus properly.

Sleep pulls at me like a tide I can’t escape, even as I think I hear the door open, but it might be a dream, might be hope, might be my own heartbeat misinterpreted.

“Domenico?” The word comes out slurred, barely sound at all.