I Accidentally Married a Mafia Boss

“I said we’re out.”

  Holding the empty orange bottle in my palm, I watched it as though it may replenish itself with enough time. Already on to the next customer, the chemist hardly turned behind as he left. My knuckles whitened, and my hold tightened around the plastic.

  “Please,” I called after him. “There has to be something you can do. My mother needs that medication.”

  “We don’t do miracles here,” he said over his shoulder. “We do receipts.”

  I didn’t realize how hard I was breathing until I turned around and nearly tripped over the child behind me. The line behind me had grown. Everyone was staring like I was something tragic on the news.

  I shoved the door open and into the heavy evening air. The streets smelt like grease and rain, and the wind bit my flimsy sweatshirt like it was paper. I reached for my phone. No new texts. No calls. Just the glowing reminder: *Low Balance. $3.26 remaining.*

  A bus screamed past, dousing my trainers with a wave of soiled water. I bit my jaw. I didn’t cry.

  Not here.

  Not yet.

  I walked the five blocks home like I was floating above my own body. Our building always looked like it was one kick away from collapsing. The door handle stuck—again—and I had to shoulder it open.

  Inside, the smell of boiled rice and rubbing alcohol welcomed me.

  “Izora?” My mother’s voice was thin, almost a whisper.

  I dropped my bag by the couch and hurried into the bedroom. She was propped up with three pillows, looking smaller than she had yesterday. Her skin was pale, and her lips were dry.

  “I’m here,” I said, forcing a smile. “Just ran into some traffic.”

  She smiled weakly. “Did you get it?”

  I sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand. “They were out. I’ll check another pharmacy tomorrow.”

  She didn’t argue. She just closed her eyes like it took too much energy to pretend.

  That made it worse.

  After tucking her blanket in tighter, I went to the tiny kitchen and stared at the cracked tile above the sink. My stomach growled. There were three eggs left in the fridge, some rice, and a can of beans. I’d stretch it.

  I always did.

  The phone buzzed. I lunged for it.

  Unknown Number: FINAL NOTICE. Your overdue rent...

  I deleted the message and dropped the phone onto the counter.

  She was going to die.

  Not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But soon. I could feel it. And it wasn't enough regardless of how hard I worked, how many evenings I skipped meals, or how many shifts I pleaded for at the diner.

  I inhaled, attempting to stifle the scream wriggling up my throat. Then I engaged in behavior I said I would never do once more. 

  Opening the kitchen drawer, I retrieved the little black envelope bearing a gold crest stamped on it. I'd never thrown it away. I should have.

  My hands shook as I slid out the thick card. Benedict Eryx. My mother’s brother. My uncle. A man who hadn’t spoken to her since the day she married my father. A man who’d shut the door in my face two years ago when I first asked for help.

  *If you ever show your face here again, it won’t be me answering the door it’ll be my guards.*

  I’d promised myself promised my mother I would never go back.

  But this wasn’t about pride anymore. Or promises. This was survival.

  I stood there for five more minutes. Then I pulled on my sneakers, grabbed the bus fare out of the jar under the sink, and left.

  ---

  By the time I reached his estate, the sun had dipped behind the trees and the gates looked more like prison bars than ever. Security had doubled. Cameras followed me from the moment I stepped off the bus.

  I approached the intercom and pressed the button.

  “Name?” a bored voice crackled.

  “Izora Draven. I need to speak to Mr. Eryx. It’s urgent.”

  A pause. Then laughter. “You again?”

  “Please. It’s about my mother Odeliah Draven Eryx.”

  “I don’t care if it’s about the Queen of England. You’re not getting in. Turn around.”

  I pressed the button again. “Tell him it’s his niece. Please.”

  Silence.

  Then static.

  Then nothing.

  The gates didn’t open.

  I stepped back. Looking up at the home on the hill, my heart thud against my ribs. Lights swung behind the lofty windows. Laughing drifted across the evening like smoke. 

  Not sure what it was, I hid behind the hedge and started sprinting alongside the side wall. There had to be another way in. A gap. A weakness.

  I found it a small maintenance gate slightly ajar.

  I slipped through before I could change my mind.

  The garden was massive. Everything smelled of expensive fresh roses, trimmed hedges, and earth untouched by poverty.

  Then I heard the shouting.

  “Hey!”

  A flashlight beam hit my face.

  “Don’t move!”

  I bolted.

  Before I slammed into a set of strong arms, I ran maybe in seconds, perhaps in hours not sure how long. I dropped hard, the wind pushed me off.

  Boots stepped into view. Suits. Earpieces. One of them grabbed my arm.

  “She’s trespassing. We’ll toss her out.”

  “Wait,” said another voice. “Someone’s coming.”

  One sleek black automobile slid into the drive and stopped next to us. The door opened.

  A man stepped out.

  He was dressed in all black. Impeccable. Sharp jawline, colder eyes. Everything about him screamed danger and money.

  The guards straightened immediately.

  “Sir,” one said. “We were just removing”

  "Who is she??" Not glancing at me, the man questioned the guards.

  "Nobody, sir. a disturbance. We'll” 

  "I'm Izora Draven," I answered, getting to my feet quickly.

  "Please, I need help.". He passed me without looking twice. The guard yelled, 

  "Shut her down and get her out of here," once more grasping my arm.

  “Mr. Benedict. I’m your..your niece.”

  His cold eyes snapped to mine, brows twitching just enough to register that he’d heard me. But his tone? Ice.

  “Don’t call me that, little girl.” 

  “Let her go,” he ordered.

  The guard holding me by the arm built like a refrigerator—glanced at Benedict before reluctantly releasing me. I staggered forward a little, the thick carpet snagging beneath my worn-out shoe bottoms. The only thing left of me that wasn't breaking apart was my hands securely on the straps of my bag. The man who used to carry five-year-old me on his shoulders, Benedict Eryx, promised me I would grow up to be queen, but he was not the same man today. His hair was slicked back, nary a strand out of place, his suit a costly shade of charcoal with a silk black tie fastened exactly at his throat. He smelt somewhat like smoked oud and mint, the kind of perfume that suggested danger in a boardroom. With a flat voice like paper, he questioned, "What are you doing here?"

  I whispered, suppressing the panic growing in my breast, "My mother. She's ill. I need you.”

  His lip twisted, almost amused. “I am not a medical practitioner. Go. Leave.” He spun exactly like that. Brushed me like dust from his sleeve. Hands clasped behind his back took two steps toward the enormous glass wall behind him. Long, fragmented shadows created by the city lights glitter like frost on the marble floor. I thought I would vanish.

  Quieter this time, I murmured, attempting to keep my voice steady, "Please.. sir," "I'll do anything to pay you back. I promise.” I said. 

  He moved his head slightly, the corner of his mouth flickering as though he was deciding whether I was worth another second of his life. "What could you possibly do to pay me back?."

  I didn’t let myself hesitate. “I’m a good cook. I can clean. I.. I’m good with people.”

  A low breath slipped from him, humorless. “I already have all that. And better. If you’ve got nothing useful, then leave.”

  I blinked fast, trying to keep the tears from falling, but they came anyway. Hot. Angry. Helpless. I dropped to my knees, the stone floor biting into them through my threadbare jeans. I crawled toward him and gripped the leg of his polished dress pants. My voice cracked. “Please. Her condition’s getting worse.”

  He didn’t move.

  “My mother… your sister. She’s dying. I don’t know what else to do.”

  His voice came down like a gavel. “Your mother made her decision when she married that poor pig you call a father. And now he’s dead, leaving the two of you with nothing.”

  His words slammed into me like a punch to the ribs. I couldn’t breathe. My knuckles tightened against the fabric of his pants. My father might not have been rich, but he loved us. He worked until his hands bled. He died trying to provide for us.

  I wanted to scream at him, claw at his face, curse every inch of that high-and-mighty attitude. But my mother was dying. I didn’t have the luxury of pride. So I bit my tongue, tasted blood, and let the silence stretch between us.

  Benedict sighed and stepped back, forcing me to let go. Looking down at me like I was a stain on the floor, he murmured at last, "Fine. On One condition. When your mother recovers, you two will come to work for me.” he said

  "No," I responded fast, forcing myself up from the floor with painful knees.“Take just me.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You alone can’t pay back what I’ll give you.”

  “Then I’ll do both jobs,” I said, chest heaving. “Just… just save her. Please.”

  There was a pause. Then he smiled.

  Not kindly.

  “Okay. No problem.”

  I ought to have realized his easy agreement was not quite right. I was too exhausted, too terrified, and too desperate to challenge it though. He urged, 

  “Come with me,” he said.