The Don’s Rose

-Mia-

-Palermo, Sicily-



As I stare into the mirror of the vanity unit in my hotel suite, I finish applying my blush pink lipstick, then sit back and sigh.

Because while a bride should be happy on her wedding day, this is a wedding I don’t want.

And no amount of money, luxury lace, or bespoke designer dresses could make me want it either.

I’m about to marry a man 50 years my senior who is in no way rocking some kind of George Clooney silver fox vibes.

It’s more like George Washington.

And that’s being generous to my groom and insulting to a Founding Father.

I close my eyes, breathe deep, and push down the now near-constant nausea bubbling away in my stomach as I think through what awaits me.

I’ve only met him once, and he tried feeling me up—the guy was like Mr Octo-Tickle, and for a geriatric, he can’t half move fast...

“Stop frowning, Mia."

My self-pitying thoughts at my forced arranged marriage today are broken by my step-mom’s voice, as I look up to see her glaring at me in the reflection of the mirror while she puts the finishing touches to my hair.

Her hair is black, like mine. But hers is dyed. Overly so. Now coarse and brittle—much like the woman herself.

"You'll get wrinkles," she sneers.

Wrinkles?! Like, face creases are what I’m worried about right now?! Not the Sicilian mafia lord with a walking cane and a bus pass waiting at the end of the aisle to take his teeth out before ‘you may now kiss the bride’?!

“Oh, for God’s sake, Mia. Wipe that tear from your face before I slap it off”.

Her hushed words are more like a serpentine hiss as she shoves a tissue into my hand, and my husband-to-be’s guard, positioned at the door, raises a brow.

“There a problem?” He growls in a thick Sicilian voice.

“No, no, these are tears of joy." She insists with a false smile. “She's very excited about the nuptials, aren’t you, darling?”

Her last word is snarled at me through gritted teeth, as I swallow hard to try and suppress the extent of my fear.

Because while the inevitability of a forced mafia marriage has loomed over me like a dark, snarling shadow haunting my steps, my sleep, and my very soul for my entire life —it doesn't make the reality of facing it today any easier.

For I am the only daughter of Vittorio Caruso, a Sicilian mafia enforcer with his sights set on moving up the chain of command, and I am therefore expected to do my duty on behalf of the family—and marry who I’m told.

And I'm painfully aware that the consequences of my refusal would be…severe.

I bring my hand to my side, but do not touch it—wincing at just the memory of the blade my own father stuck there not long ago.

But, it is not just my life at stake. That, I believe, I could handle. It is being responsible for something happening to my little brother that I could not bear.

Because even though I’m only 21, my dad made it clear when I tried to run before that if I disappear this time, my groom will kill us all.

“Owww…!” I cry out, flinching from my step-mom’s sharp pinch inside my armpit.

“Right, darrrling?”

I look up and meet her vicious gaze in the mirror. Realising now I'd drifted off in thought. And so, I quickly blink back more tears, knowing they won't do any good on her iron heart, as I force a smile instead.

“Of course, signora.” I tell her, my Philadelphia accent unmistakable despite my soft tone as I try to play the part of good mafia daughter. “Signore Ezra is a gentleman of great repute. And I’m honoured to be marrying such a respected corpse…”

The guard’s face rises in shock, then falls in anger, while my step-mom can only stare at me in horror.

“Capo…I mean…I meant Capo!” I hasten to correct my inadvertent slip, but— “Oww!”

She digs a hairpin sharply into my scalp as I quickly drop my head. The guard shaking his head and scowling all the more now while I chastise myself for letting my nerves make me so stupid.

Trust me to mess up.

‘Corpse’. Ergh.

I know better than that.

‘Capo’ is short for ‘caporegime’—part of a mafia Don’s elite entourage. They’re next down in the pecking order to the Don himself, and his family. And, unfortunately for me, my father is now set to take his place as part of the Capo for Ricardo Grimaldi, Don of Sicily.

Well…I say 'Don of Sicily', but from what I gather, the Grimaldi rule is once again being challenged by the other mafia family on the Island—the Falcones. Which is a big part of the reason why my father dragged me here from Philly now. Marrying one of his soon-to-be fellow Capos reinforces allegiances, because it seems there's another war looming.

I'm not sure exactly what’s going on, but I overheard something about someone’s son rising up, or fighting back, or…Ergh, I don’t know, I couldn’t really follow while Ezra-octo-creepy was pawing at me.

“Head up.” My step-mom snaps. And I take a deep breath and do as I'm told so she can spray my hair—looking at myself in the mirror while she does it. And, as always when I need to survive this family, I lift my chin high, and try to find some light in the dark with some positive thinking.

At least the war between Grimaldi and Falcone meant that my father sent me and my brother away to stay with cousins in America when we were kids.

And although father’s told me time and again, and even more so since I learned of this betrothal, that he only did that so we could be useful to him later in life—it was nothing to do with love—at least Tomaso and I got something of a ‘normal’ life before…this.

“Is she ready yet?” The guard barks.

My step-mom puts the hairspray down and nods respectfully to him. “Sì, signore.”

The guard keeps his gaze on me, talking almost silently into his earpiece as he relays the information.

Waits.

And then, ignores the unshed tears glistening in my eyes when he receives instructions. “You’ve got five minutes.”

She nods to him again before he steps out of the room, and I blow out a long breath to try to compose myself once more. But, as I stand, I double up and clutch my side in pain, the recent stab wound there still healing.

“Argh, stand up straight, girl—stop slouching!” My stepmother complains.

“I’m trying, but—“

She grips my cheeks firmly in her hand before I finish and draws me back up to standing so she can snarl into my face. “Then try harder, because you got off lucky, girl.”

Her eyes move to my side, where she redressed the wound not an hour ago—her lip curling up into an ugly sneer. “If I’d had my way, your father would have taken more than a cut of flesh when he caught you attempting to run. Vittorio and I worked too hard and risked too much to see you throw it all away now. So, do your duty without further complaint, you little bastard, or I swear to God, Mia—I’ll kill you myself.”

She squeezes my cheeks harder, before pushing me away so roughly I stagger back and have to grip the vanity table behind—rattling the bottles of perfumes, creams and mists and puffs. But not even a container ship of Chanel could mask the stink of this whole day.

This whole arrangement.

This whole…family.

And so, with as much dignity as I can muster, I swallow back the bile threatening to rise and seek to lift my chin high.

I then hear the pounding at the door, signalling that our time—my time—is up. My step-mom snarls and scoops up my bouquet of pure white lilies, my least favourite flower, and thrusts them against my chest. “Let’s go.”