Kiss Marry Kill - A Mafia Romance

1

I watch the smoke trail from the smoldering cigarette between his ringed fingers, curling upward in delicate, ghostly spirals. The scent mixes with the faint polish of his leather shoes, which tap rhythmically against the hardwood, steady and ominous. Each tap feels like a countdown, marking the moments before I lose control over my own fate. My gaze drifts down to my dress—a deep red fringed piece I'd bought just for tonight—now ruined, with a tear at the hem. One tassel dangles, loose and ragged, and I feel a pang of loss for something as trivial as my dress. But it was new, and it had made me feel beautiful, confident. Now, it feels like a costume from a play I never wanted to be in.

I scan my father's suit, looking for anything to focus on, any tiny flaw—a wrinkle, a stray thread, or a burn from one of his endless cigars. But, as always, it's pristine. He's immaculate, an image of control and power, no matter how much destruction lies beneath. I look anywhere but his face, hoping to keep my composure for just a few more seconds.

"Evie," he says, his voice a quiet command, "look at me."

It's the nickname that does it. Only he calls me Evie. In his mouth, it sounds tender, almost loving, a relic of a time when he was just my father and not the force dictating my every move. My vision blurs as I meet his gaze. I can count on one hand the times I've cried in front of him, but I mentally add a finger as a tear slips from my eye, betraying me.

"Daddy—" I whisper, my voice breaking. His face, so like mine, is etched with lines I know by heart. There's worry, there's regret, but also something colder, something resolute. His once-gray eye is now clouded and faded, the scar running through it sharper under the light. That scar always fascinated me when I was a child; he used to tell me stories about the fights he'd been in, the scars he'd earned. His nose is crooked from those same fights, battles I thought were heroic until I realized what kind of man my father truly was.

"Please," I murmur, "send someone else." The words hang between us, a fragile plea that I know he'll ignore. I see the faintest flicker of surprise in his eyes—he didn't expect this resistance from me, his perfect, obedient daughter. I see his jaw clench, his fingers tightening around the cigarette until the ash falls in a soft, gray whisper to the floor. "Darling," he says softly, almost gently, "you were born for this."

"But I didn't know it would be him," I whisper, my voice barely holding together. "And not so soon. Not... not right after—" My voice breaks as I bite down on my fingers, fighting back a sob. I don't want him to see me like this, vulnerable, broken. I want him to see the strong, unbreakable daughter he's always raised me to be.

He watches me, his face unreadable, but I catch the slightest downward tilt of his head, as if acknowledging my pain. "We always planned for this, Evie," he says quietly. "Your mother knew, too. She would've wanted you to be strong, to do what's necessary."

His face softens in a way only I would notice. Anyone else would be reduced to a stammering, wide-eyed child under his scrutiny, but I know the signs of hesitation. His jaw flexes, a muscle twitching near his temple, a small crack in his iron resolve. His eyes drift downward, his head bowing just slightly, as if he's wrestling with regret.

I can tell he wants to comfort me, to pull me into an embrace like a father should. But he doesn't. His hand twitches, and the cigarette snaps, the burnt end falling to the floor, scattering ash. I know that, in some twisted way, he's proud of me. Proud that I'm fulfilling his plans, his vision for our family, even if it means sacrificing my own happiness.

I force myself to look away, focusing instead on the polished silver tray on the side table, where the remnants of his last drink sit—a smudged glass with a single melting ice cube. But his words pull at me, scraping against my heart. He only lets me hear his softer emotions when it's too late—regret, desperation, even love. When my mother was taken by the Morettis in retaliation for our family's business, that was the only time I ever saw him cry. I watched him fall to his knees, begging, pleading, bargaining with anyone who would listen. There are still holes in our penthouse walls from that night, when his fists punched through the plaster in rage and grief. That was six months ago, and he's never been the same since.

As I think of my mother, something stirs inside me, a spark igniting in the hollow space her absence has left. It rises, like the first bubbles in a glass of red wine, delicate but full of promise. I have no other choice. I feed the spark with memories of her warmth, her laughter, her fierce spirit. I let it build, fanning it until it blazes into something darker—something close to bloodlust. I feel it spreading through me like wildfire, a fierce and terrible resolve. This isn't just about duty; it's about vengeance.

The room falls silent, and I feel the weight of his expectations settling around me like a heavy cloak. My decision has been made, the path laid out before me. I feel the fierce spark inside me flare, hotter and brighter. I may be walking into a fate I never wanted, but I'll be walking in with fire in my veins. I'll do what they want, but on my terms. And I'll make sure they all pay for what they've taken from me.

"I'll marry Vincent Moretti," I repeat, my voice as hard as steel.

He nods once more, satisfaction flickering in his eyes. And as he turns away, I feel the enormity of the choice I've just made settle in. There's no turning back now.