Chapter 4: Next.

I paced the room, my blood boiling.

What exactly did Mario Santiago think he was? Some kind of god? Some untouchable tyrant? This was human trafficking, plain and simple. I was being sold off like a piece of meat.

If I could just get out—just once—I’d march straight to the police station, slap a report on his head, and watch the whole empire crumble.

I stopped by the window, yanking at the latch. Locked. Of course. It was sealed tighter than my chances of escaping this nightmare. The sunlight taunted me through the glass, bright and warm, reminding me of what freedom felt like—what it looked like.

The door creaked open behind me, snapping me out of my thoughts.

Two women entered, their faces grim. They carried baskets, and one pushed a trolley with what looked like clothes and makeup. The taller one—her sharp features framed by dark hair pulled back into a tight bun—immediately scowled when she saw me.

“So it’s you,” she sneered, her voice dripping with disdain. She gave me a once-over, her lip curling like I was some kind of bug she wanted to squash.

I raised an eyebrow, folding my arms over my chest. “And you are?”

She laughed—a hollow, mocking sound—and turned to the other woman. “This is what he’s marrying? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Mariam, enough,” the other woman muttered, though her tone lacked conviction. She barely glanced at me as she adjusted the items on the trolley, like she didn’t want to get involved.

But Mariam wasn’t done. She stepped closer, her eyes narrowing. “Just so you know,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, “he doesn’t even like you. I slept with him yesterday. You should’ve seen the way he was pounding me from behind.”

My stomach twisted, but I refused to let her see the impact of her words. I knew exactly what she was trying to do—rattle me, put me in my place. And it pissed me off.

I scoffed, meeting her glare head-on. “Congratulations,” I said dryly. “You must be so proud.”

Her smirk faltered for a second before she leaned in closer, her voice dripping with venom. “You’re just another toy to him. Don’t get too comfortable in that dress, sweetheart. You won’t be wearing it for long.”

“Mariam,” the other woman hissed, grabbing her arm. “Let it go.”

Mariam rolled her eyes but finally stepped back, muttering something under her breath. I turned my attention to the quieter maid, who was fidgeting with the hem of her uniform, avoiding eye contact.

“Is the wedding really happening?”

She nodded, still not looking at me. “Yes. It’s set for tonight.”

Tonight.

Everything was happening so fast. Too fast.

I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. “And what happens if I refuse?”

The quiet maid’s eyes darted to Mariam, who smirked again. “Oh, Piccola,” she purred, mimicking Mario’s nickname for me. “You don’t have a choice.”

I didn’t reply to Mariam. I didn’t even look at her. Instead, I turned away, peeling the itchy fabric of my clothes off my skin with deliberate slowness. Let her stew in her own bitterness. Picking up a towel, I walked into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me for good measure.

If she wanted a reaction, she wasn’t getting one. At least, not yet.

***

The Wedding

Standing at the altar, I felt like I was walking into my own funeral.

Across from me, Mario looked like the happiest man alive—grinning ear to ear, like he’d just won the damn lottery. And maybe he had. Thirty grand for me, right? I wondered if he’d gotten me gift-wrapped.

The worst part? He looked good. Stupidly good. The kind of good that made me want to punch him just to mess up his stupidly perfect face.

And with Mariam’s words still replaying in my head. I wanted to punch him more than ever. “You should’ve seen the way he was pounding me from behind.”

I cringed.

Great. Now I was standing at my own wedding, staring at my soon-to-be husband, and picturing him in bed with Mariam. Perfect. Just perfect. My blood boiled, and—God help me—I couldn’t tell if I was furious or... jealous?

No. Nope. Absolutely not. I was not jealous. That would be insane.

The priest’s voice jolted me back to reality, and I realized everyone was staring at me. Mario raised an eyebrow, his grin widening like he could see right through me.

I cleared my throat, forcing the words out of my mouth. The words that would officially seal my doom.

“I do.”

The rest was a blur. The vows, the exchange of rings, the applause—it all passed by in a haze, like I wasn’t even there. An out-of-body experience, except the body I was floating away from was now legally tied to him.

Before I knew it, Mario had his arm around me, leading me through the crowd. He greeted people, shook hands, introduced me like I was his trophy wife—which, I guess, wasn’t far from the truth.

I plastered on a fake smile, nodding politely as people congratulated us, all while internally screaming.

“You okay?” Mario asked suddenly, leaning in close enough that his breath tickled my ear. “You’re unusually quiet.”

I shot him a glare. “What? You don’t like me when I’m quiet?”

He chuckled, the sound low and amused. “Weirdly, no. I kind of like it when you throw a tantrum. Makes you look really sexy.”

I stopped walking, turning to him with a glare that could’ve melted steel. “Sexy?”

“Very.”

I groaned, but before I could stop myself, the words tumbled out of my mouth. “I’m sure you find Mariam sexy too, especially when you’re pounding her from behind.”

The second the words left my lips, I wanted to die. My eyes widened, my brain short-circuiting. Did I just say that out loud?

Mario’s grin froze, his arm tightening around me like a vise. For a moment, his expression was unreadable, and I braced myself for an explosion.

But instead, he laughed. A deep, booming laugh that turned heads. “You’re jealous,” he said, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “Admit it.”

“I’m not jealous,” I snapped, my face heating.

“You are,” he teased, leaning closer. “Don’t worry, Piccola. Mariam could never make me feel the way you do. If you want, I would stop meeting up with her.”

“Oh, really?” I shot back, rolling my eyes. “And how exactly do I make you feel? Annoyed? Trapped? Like a babysitter for an uncooperative pet?”

He smirked, clearly enjoying himself. “All of the above. But mostly... alive.”

I blinked, caught off guard by his answer. For a split second, the world around us seemed to fade, and I almost—almost—believed him.

Then he ruined it by adding, “Also, Mariam’s got nothing on you. Her ass isn’t nearly as beautiful as yours."

I groaned, shoving his arm off me. “I hate you.”

“Good,” he said, his grin returning. “Hate keeps things interesting.”

I turned away, muttering under my breath as he followed me, still laughing.

God, I was going to strangle him. If this was marriage, I wasn’t going to survive a week.

I froze, my entire body stiffening as Mario’s infuriating words echoed in my head.

"My big Italian cock is all yours."

Heat rushed to my face so fast I thought I might explode. I turned slowly, glaring daggers at him, but he was grinning like he hadn’t just said something absolutely mortifying.

“Mario,” I said through gritted teeth, “you’re never touching me. Ever. Make no mistake about that.”

His grin faltered for a split second, but then he chuckled, raising his hands like he was surrendering. “We’ll see, Piccola.”

I wanted to kill him. Right here, in front of everyone. But before I could respond, the wedding planner’s voice chimed in, announcing it was time for the first dance.

Great.

We stepped onto the dance floor, Mario taking my hand like this was some kind of fairytale. His touch was warm, steady, but I pulled my hand away almost immediately. If he noticed, he didn’t show it.

“Relax,” he whispered, leaning in with that infuriating grin of his. “Everyone’s watching. Smile, wife.”

I shot him a glare. “I hate you.”

“You say that, but your eyes tell a different story.”

“My eyes are screaming help me.”

His chuckle rumbled low in his chest, but before he could say anything else, a hush fell over the crowd.

Something wasn’t right.

The silence was wrong—heavy and buzzing, like the moment before lightning strikes. Whispers rippled through the room as the crowd parted, and then I saw him.

A man stepped forward, his face contorted with rage, a gun raised and pointed directly at us.

My stomach dropped.

“As long as I live, Mario,” the man spat, his voice cold and venomous, “you’ll never be happily married.”

“Oh, fantastic,” I muttered under my breath. “Even your enemies have issues with commitment.”

“Not the time, Sylvia,” Mario said, his hand twitching at his side. "Get behind me! Fast!"

Before I could come up with a scathing retort, the first shot rang out, sharp and deafening.

I flinched, but the pain didn’t come. My heart slammed against my ribs as the man fired again, and this time, a grunt tore through the air.

My eyes widened, my head snapping toward Mario just in time to see him stumble forward, clutching his chest.

And then he fell.

“Mario!” I screamed, but my voice was drowned out by the chaos erupting around us. Guests screamed, chairs toppled over, and people scrambled to get away.

I dropped to my knees, shaking, as Mario hit the floor in front of me. Blood seeped through his white shirt, spreading like an ugly red flower. His breathing was shallow, his face pale, but his hand reached out, grabbing my wrist with surprising strength.

“Run, The shot was meant for you, not me!” he rasped, his voice barely audible over the noise.

But I couldn’t move. My legs felt like lead, my brain refusing to process the scene in front of me. All I could do was stare at him, at the blood pooling around him, at the man who’d bought me, held me captive, infuriated me just minutes ago and now lay crumpled on the floor.

“Mario… I'm not leaving you here to die!”

His grip on my wrist tightened, his dark eyes locking onto mine. “Run, Sylvia. Please!”

And then, just like that, his hand fell limp.

The world tilted, my vision blurring as tears filled my eyes.

I couldn’t tell if he was alive or dead. Blood pooled beneath him, my hands trembling as they pressed against his chest.

Then I heard it—the cold, click of a gun behind me.

"Any last words Mrs Santiago?" a cold voice whispered behind me, pressing the nuzzle of a gun against my head.