Page 19 of The Mafia Marriage Contract

The woman looking back at me has tired eyes and a tightening ache in her chest. The kind of hollowness that won’t ease with luxurious surroundings and a new name because I know exactly how loveless marriages end.

And the quiet, aching solitude that comes with surviving fills me with dread.

I spot my phone on the bathroom counter where I’d tossed it earlier. The screen lights up and Roman’s name appears.

Despite knowing I shouldn’t answer, I swipe the screen and lift it to my ear. “Hey.”

“You okay, Liv?” he asks.

I close my eyes, gripping the phone tighter. “You shouldn’t call me.”

“Liv—”

“It’ll cause trouble,” I say, cutting him off. “And we both know Kingston’s just looking for a reason. My da would cut you off for good, Roman.”

I can practically hear him grinding his teeth through the line. “I’m allowed to check in with you. You’re still his daughter even if you’re married to that son of a bitch.”

“Do you know anything about the Red Tribunal?” I whisper.

He goes silent for a beat. “No.”

One thing about Roman Keane is that he doesn’t hesitate unless he’s choosing his words. And he knows everything my father knows. He has to be one step ahead of the game to know what’s coming before it happens.

“Fine. Don’t call again,” I say, forcing strength into the words. “Not unless you want this shit show to get worse.”

I hang up before he can respond, pausing for a breath before stepping back into the quiet bedroom.

Crossing to the closet, I pull one of Kingston’s T-shirts from a hanger, the cotton soft and oversized in my hands. I hadn’t exactly planned for a sleepover, or for my father to get behind the absurd idea of me living with a Viacava.

My clothes are still at my place. All I have is a wedding dress I wouldn’t be caught dead in again. Tomorrow morning, I’ll burn the ugly thing.

The city glows beyond the windows, its lights glittering like distant jewels. Once, I thoughtthey might lead to happiness. Now I know better. That kind of life was never meant for a woman like me.

I drift toward the glass, pressing my palm against the cool pane, eyes tracing the silvery moon suspended in the ink-black sky.

The truth settles over me like a flurry of ash. Standing here, barefoot and alone in the home of a man who hates my family, I understand something I’ve always tried not to think about.

This deep loneliness is the real reason why my parents had children.

Not for love or family bonds. They raised me for this very day, as leverage for power. I was born to be traded and married off when the time suited them.

Letting out a slow breath, I turn my back on the city I thought would be my savior and slip under the covers, sighing from the exhaustion of it all. The sheets are cool, the space beside me empty.

I lie on my side, staring at the pillows on the floor, wishing someone would tell me the truth.

Because in this world of shadows and kings, I’m not sure what to expect in the morning.

I wake to an unfamiliar ceiling and a bed that smells of my husband.

The space beside me is untouched. The cotton sheets are smooth, the pillow undisturbed.

Not that I’m surprised. The man I married doesn’t sharespace unless there’s something in it for him and now that we’re married, I’m just an object he thinks he owns.

I scoot out from under the covers and rise from the bed, the soft cotton of his stolen T-shirt brushing against my bare thighs when I stretch.

The penthouse is just as still and silent as it was the night before. No voices, no footsteps, not even the comforting waft of coffee brewing from the kitchen. There’s no sign of life at all—only sleek surfaces and shadows.

I let out a slow breath and smile to myself, grateful for the small blessing of peace and quiet. For a fleeting second, I wonder how beautiful my violin would sound in this space, the notes rising to meet the high ceilings, echoing through all this empty elegance.