Mated to the Mafioso

[ 1 ] - Ritual Gone Wrong

[ D A N T E ]

We're underwater, or maybe suspended in the air; bodies wound around, against, one another. Our movements are serpentine. Calculated. Smooth. We're laying against each other, only floating aimlessly in a cool, calm mist; all slate gray. I can't make out her face yet, but I know it's Bianca. Her breath is warm against my neck, her soft skin abuzz. That's how this long-standing werewolf ritual works: it's a glimpse into the future. A brief one. The male meets with his pack's spirit guide—in this case, me meeting with my Nonna—and after hours of ritual preparation, I go under, into this spirit realm—

And I dream of the woman I'm fated to love forever.

We watch our bodies, kiss, whatever—nobody knows or sees this but us, me and Bianca, my mate. It's important. Especially when we're two alphas, two pack leaders, joining as one.

But this is a quiet, intimate, special moment. It's a time for us and the spirits. Two mates, exposing themselves to each other, naked and ready, for the first time.

She dips her head into my chest and sighs, deeply. She's never this affectionate, not even when we're playing it up for our families. Does she think this is a test? That my Nonna can peer in?

No. She trusts me. She's letting me in.

Maybe she's changed her mind. Maybe she now realizes that she loves me. That she wants me. Maybe she's given into the wolf. Into tradition. Into our history, and our fate.

The curtain will drop in any moment. The fog over her face, body—it'll be Bianca.

Closer, closer, I slip—hands into each other, her warm, small palm in mine, fingers locked into fingers, breath in, out, eyes widening, opening, because she sees me and I see her and I hold her, hand brushing against her cheek, her neck, her chest, and the world seems to spin faster, movements quickening, blinks speeding, breaths in, out, in, out. Energy slips through the air, crackling and sizzling.

I'm blinded by the bloom of pale light. As the vision clears, I see more of her. The fog lifts.

The woman's shape becomes unfamiliar. Wide hips, full chest, body slick with pale light, skin sienna. Every second, I see more of her—and less of who I thought she was.

No.

I'm not staring at my mate, at the woman I've been fated to love; the woman who's fated to love me, no.

I'm watching a stranger.

She sees me, and her hand snaps away from mine, eyes widening further. She pushes against my bare chest, slipping backwards, hands covering her large breasts, legs locked, trying to cover herself. I don't dip my gaze past her neck. I don't. I focus, shaking my head. I try to tell her to calm down, to breathe, but my voice is muffled, distant. It's like I'm talking into a cloud, talking underwater. It dissipates almost immediately; I can't even make sense of it.

She won't understand me. She won't understand any of this.

She's yelling at me, but I can't hear her either. She's screaming, crying—pushing further and further away. The vision shudders. The spirits shift. The world around us darkens. A cloudy sky deepens into storms. I can hear something snap, faintly—it's getting harder to breathe. Air thickens in my lungs.

This is only a vision, one summoned by ancient stregheria del lupo mannaro, magic of the werewolves. It's not real. But she's not listening. She's frantic; she doesn't know that. And she wants out.