Sofia had always known that her life was not her own.
It was a quiet understanding that lived beneath her skin, like a secret tattoo inked on her bones. It showed itself in the way she sat still at dinner, eyes lowered, words measured. It breathed through every chore she did without being asked, every smile she forced when guests came to the house, every question she swallowed down before it ever made it past her throat.
She didn't know when she learned to disappear like that—maybe around the time she realized her father looked at her the way someone might look at a broken clock. Annoyed, but resigned. A waste of space that couldn't be fixed.
Still, nothing could have prepared her for this.
"You're getting engaged," her father said, his voice flat and unfeeling.
The words floated in the air between them like ash.
Sofia sat across from him in the sitting room, her fingers curled around a porcelain teacup she hadn't touched. Outside the window, the sun spilled like gold onto the olive trees, and birds chirped as if nothing in the world had changed. But inside, everything felt suspended—like a painting where the subject knew it was being watched.
She blinked slowly. "I'm sorry?"
"I said," her father repeated, placing a folder on the coffee table with a soft thud, "you're getting engaged."
"To who?" she whispered, even though a part of her already feared the answer.
He opened the folder and slid a paper toward her. "To the Moretti heir."
The name hit her like cold water.
"The Morettis?" she breathed. "You can't be serious."
Her father's face was unreadable. "I am."
"But—they're—" She shook her head. "They're mafia."
He looked bored. "They're powerful. That's all that matters."
A strange buzzing filled her ears. "I just finished school. I don't even know how to—how to be engaged. I've never even had a boyfriend."
"That's irrelevant," he said sharply. "This is about business. Politics. Reputation. You'll do what's necessary."
"But why me?" Her voice cracked, humiliated by how small it sounded. "Why not Viola? Or anyone else?"
He gave her a long, withering look. "Because you're the only one worthless enough to trade."
The words knocked the air out of her chest.
He continued, as if he hadn't just gutted her. "Viola is already married to someone useful. Your brothers are men—they have futures. You? You're a girl with a degree in literature and no purpose. At least now you'll be useful to someone."
She flinched, her throat burning. "You always hated me."
He didn't deny it.
Instead, he stood and straightened his sleeves like he'd finished a dull business transaction. "You'll meet him tomorrow. Don't embarrass me."
She didn't speak. There was nothing to say.
When he left the room, the silence closed around her like a noose.
---
That night, Sofia lay awake staring at the ceiling, watching the light from passing cars flicker against the walls like ghosts. Her suitcase sat in the corner of the room—half-packed, untouched. She hadn't dared look at it since the maid brought it up.
Engaged.
To a stranger.
Not just any stranger—a mafia heir. Someone feared. Dangerous.
Alessandro Moretti.
She knew the name, of course. Everyone in Sicily did. He was rumored to be cold-blooded, cruel, calculating. A man who didn't blink twice before breaking bones or making enemies disappear. The Morettis controlled most of the southern region—shipping, casinos, high-end real estate, and whatever else lived beneath the surface of polite society. And now… he was going to be her fiancé?
Her stomach twisted.
She got up, padded to the bathroom, and splashed cold water on her face. Her reflection stared back—pale skin, soft brown eyes, and a frightened girl who didn't look like she belonged to this kind of story.
She wasn't brave. She wasn't cunning. She wasn't the kind of woman men like Alessandro Moretti wanted.
But maybe that was the point.
Maybe he didn't want anything at all.
Her phone buzzed on the sink.
Unknown Number: Be ready at 9.
No greeting. No name. Just an order.
Sofia stared at it for a long time before turning the screen off.
---
The next morning, Sofia dressed in silence.
She wore a simple white dress—clean lines, modest cut, the kind of thing her father approved of. She tied her hair back into a low bun, pressed flat to her neck, and applied a little mascara with trembling fingers. Nothing too dramatic. Nothing that might make her look like she was trying.
At exactly 9:00, a black car pulled up in front of the villa.
The driver didn't speak as he opened the door for her. She slid into the back seat, heart pounding so hard she felt it in her throat.
The car was silent except for the low hum of the engine.
It took her through winding roads outside Palermo, past olive groves and old stone walls until they reached a gated estate with tall iron gates and armed guards. As the gates creaked open, Sofia swallowed a wave of nausea.
This was real.
This was happening.
The car pulled into a gravel driveway lined with marble statues. A villa stood at the top of the hill—modern but cold, like a museum of secrets.
The driver opened the door.
Sofia stepped out, the gravel crunching beneath her flats.
Then she saw him.
Alessandro Moretti stood on the front steps, watching her.
He was taller than she expected, dressed in black slacks and a charcoal shirt rolled at the sleeves. His hair was dark and neat, his jaw sharp, and his eyes—cold. Icy. Unreadable. He looked like a painting come to life. Beautiful. Dangerous.
He didn't move.
Didn't smile.
Didn't offer his hand.
"You're late," he said.
"I'm not," she replied, before she could stop herself.
His eyes narrowed.
Sofia's heart dropped. She was going to die right here on the steps.
But instead of yelling, he smirked—just barely—and turned toward the door.
"Come inside."
She hesitated. Then followed.
The villa was immaculate. Stark. Walls of glass and stone, expensive art, no warmth. It didn't feel like a home. It felt like a place built to keep people out.
He led her into a room that looked like a study, then sat in a leather chair behind a desk. She stood awkwardly near the door, unsure what to do with her hands.
"This isn't going to be a fairytale," he said, cutting straight to it. "I don't want this engagement. You don't want it. So let's keep things simple."
Sofia blinked. "Simple?"
"You do what's expected. Public appearances. Family functions. You smile and nod and pretend this is real. In return, I give you security. Money. Whatever else you need."
Her chest tightened. "And when the custom is satisfied?"
He shrugged. "We end it."
Sofia nodded slowly.
This wasn't marriage. It was a performance. A transaction.
"Okay," she said quietly.
Alessandro studied her for a moment. "You're not what I expected."
She met his gaze, her voice small but steady. "Neither are you."
Something in his expression shifted. Just for a second.
Then it was gone.
"Driver will take you home. We'll meet again before the party."
She turned to leave but paused at the door. "Why me?" she asked, almost in a whisper.
Alessandro didn't look at her. "Because you look like someone who does ask questions."