The Widow Maker

Written by Matilda Valdez (follow this story on Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/story/410557756-the-widow-maker)

[mafiaromance-thewidowmaker]

EPISODE 5: COME TO COLLECT

I whip around to look at my father, horror thinly veiled on my face. 

"Enzo," my father begins, putting on the air of a business man, straightening his shoulders. "So lovely to see you!" He holds out his hand, which is swallowed by Enzo's. 

"Yeah, yeah!" Enzo booms, "Don't skirt the question, now, Abel! I hear the girl fainted to get out of accepting my sons most gracious proposal. Explain!" I have never heard anyone bark orders at my father, and I expect him to refuse, but he does nothing. There is no reaction.

I notice Cesar standing smugly in Enzo's shadow. Jasper, of course, has taken the liberty of closing the door on the prying eyes that bulge into the room. Nobody else needs to see the great and dangerous Abyss bend the knee to anyone. 

"Sir, Lilliana is somewhat delicate," I swallow my pride and let myself sink onto the day bed once more, fanning myself and feigning delicacy. 

"Delicate?" Enzo shouts. 

"She's been just a little ill," My father  emphasizes, "just ill, and she found herself dizzy and overcome on the dance floor this evening." My father turns to look at me pleadingly before turning his placating gaze back to Enzo. "It was not a snub, I assure you."

Enzo lumbers over to wear I am perched on the day bed, praying desperately that I look a little pale and green, and that the heat of my anger hasn't left me flushed. He leans down and peers into my face, cocking his head this way and that. 

"Fine! Get her some water and we'll get her back out there. It'll be done tonight, as agreed." And just as quickly as he arrived, he is gone, barging his way back out through the giant oak doors. Jasper follows him out, his eyes lingering on me as pulls the doors tightly shut again.

We are left in a ringing silence that reverberates in my skull. 

"Lilliana-" My father starts, but I turn on him. 

"I'm not stupid, you know?" I hurl the words like daggers. "I have shadowed you for years, I know exactly how this sort of business works! I know what sells." My voice is a dark whisper now. His eyes go wide and the blood drains from his face. 

I straighten myself, composing my face into a hardened mask. "You sold me, to pay off your debts, didn't you?" 

His mouth opens and closes, like a fish yanked out of water. 

"That's what I thought." I turn to check my appearance in the mirror, since my performance isn't over tonight.

"And what are the terms exactly? Why does Cesar think that he will own me tonight if this is supposed to be an engagement?" 

He clears his throat. "Because, there is a minister here waiting to marry you both, away from the eyes of the crowd. The large wedding planned for next spring is just for appearances. It is the price of making them wait until you were 21, instead of 18."

I am reapplying my lipstick, making sure the red is crisp and set as he says these last words, as if there's any way this is actually a gift. 

"Well, thank you for giving me that, at least." My voice is dripping with a sarcastic disrespect I never would have dared given him before - but the woman I was an hour ago is gone. 

An hour ago I was just the daughter of a Mafia Lord who'd made a good match with a decent man; a match that would secure both family's fortunes. Now, I was no more than a fast car or a yacht. I was just a piece of property to be bought and sold. I am the literal embodiment of debt. 

Not to mention I am still struggling with the idea that my mother had been ransomed, likely tortured, and that her son - my brother - had been so brutally killed out of spite. A mere infant, probably only hours old. It sounds terrible, but I hope my mother was already dead when it happened, so that she didn't have to ever know what happened to him. Somehow I doubt it.

I am an adult now. The veil has been lifted and I have been granted a first row seat to the realities of the world. I have a part on this stage, a script written and a plot all worked out for me. I just have to step forward and follow it. I don't even have to think. 

"What happens if I refuse?" I whisper quietly, watching my painted lips move in the mirror.

"What?"

I turn slowly to face him. "What happens if I refuse to marry him? If I refuse to just be an item they can buy?"

"I don't want to know what they'd do to you, or to me for that matter." My father's voice is small, and his weakness roils my stomach.

For years my father has been my hero, my savior. But now I see he's no different than any of them. He let his grief for my mother break him, let it turn him into a monster.

"If she were still alive, she would be so disgusted by what you've done to this family's name ... and to me."  

[mafiaromance-thewidowmaker]

EPISODE 4: A RIVER IN ITALY

"What do you mean, that's not what happened?" I whisper.

My father runs a hand over his face. "Your mother didn't die in childbirth."

"You said that already - but that doesn't make any sense."

"I had hoped I would never have to tell you this." He says, clearly trying to back out.

"Well it's a little late for that, isn't it." I snap. "Just tell me the truth already!" 

He stares at me long and hard for a moment. Then he begins.

"I got us in trouble." His voice is hoarse, and he turns to look at the little stained glass that peeks out into the garden. "I stepped on the toes of an outfit in Italy. I was young and stupid and I thought I could get us a little further ahead by marking my territory." 

His words fall flat on the carpet, and my mind reels, trying to piece it together. I know the business, but I don't know what this has to do with my mother.

"I intercepted a drug cartel, a group I thought was just a rinky-dink outfit." He pauses, takes a deep breath. "And I was wrong." 

He turns to look at me, and his voice is earnest. "If I had known I never would have interfered, but -" He looks away, "I went in with my whole crew, armed to the teeth, and we were ... brutal." 

"Okay, so you pissed off another outfit - I don't understand what this has to do with anything though." The crowd outside seems to be getting louder, and I'm impatient for an answer that I know I don't want to hear. 

"I didn't just piss off another outfit," my father whispers urgently, "I pissed off the oldest crime outfit in Sicily itself!"

I stare, dumbfounded.

"What is the one rule I have taught you, above all else?" He asks, hoping I will put the pieces together before he has to spell it out for me.

"Never piss off the Sicilian Mafia..."

"Never, and I mean NEVER, piss of the Sicilian Mafia." He echoes me.

"Alright - so you brutalized the Sicilian Mafia, but, I still don't understand -"

"And they brutalized me back." Tears sparkle at the edge of his eyes, and he turns away.

My father has never been like the other Mafia Lords. He's never fit the stereotype of the domineering, abusive, hateful man who would gut his own children to save his business. I may not know all of his secrets, but one thing has never been hidden from the world: He loved, and still loves, my mother. 

Ultimately, he is a kind man - and his ventures as the leader of such a massive outfit are really just a job for him, and security for me.

My tongue runs over the back of my teeth and I sink onto the couch to stare up at him as the reality settles over me. 

"They killed her." My words are a statement, not a question. I am no stranger to the truths of our world and something in me detached from the conversation. This is about my mother, but having no real memory of her, it's somehow abstract.

He doesn't look at me, he just continues to stare into nothing. 

It was several minutes before he broke the silence. "She was ransomed for a sum that I have still yet to make." 

"What did you do?"

"I panicked. I took out every loan I could, I called in every favor. And it still wasn't enough." He turns slowly to face me, head titled down, shoulders hunched under the weight of a truth he had never dared speak of. "She was pregnant, that much was true. She was nearly due when it happened. I forked over the money, every penny I could get, and begged them to give her back to me, to let me pay the rest back to them in time. I might as well have painted a jester's face on, for how hard they laughed at me. 

They kept the money, and they sent her body back to me. She had gone into labor at some point, because there was no baby to be found. I nearly went mad when I found the note pinned to her skirt, saying my one heir had been thrown in the river." 

Involuntarily, I gasped. My composure crumbled - it was too much. Death and brutality I was used to - but this, I was suddenly and violently nauseas. 

I stumble to my feet and lurch towards the door, "I can't hear this!" 

A vice latches onto my arm and drags me back. "Lilliana! There's more."

I whip around and nearly vomit all over him. I just barely manage to compose myself. "I can't take any more!" I am trying to keep my voice down but to know I had a brother who had been so carelessly murdered, when all these years I thought he was stillborn - it breaks my heart more than the thought of my mother. 

As we are standing toe to toe, one empty set of blue eyes staring into the other, a fist bangs heavily on the door.

"Falcone!" The voice is deep, full of gravel and cigar smoke.

"Fuck -" My father whispers, breaking his gentlemen's rule: no vulgarity.

The fist pounds again, and then the door swings open, bright lights flashing through the room and making my head spin. 

Standing in the doorway is the head of the Mancini family, Enzo.

"What's this I hear about your daughter snubbing my son's proposal?"

[mafiaromance-thewidowmaker]

EPISODE 3: WAKE UP AND SMELL THE ROSES

I wake up in a small sitting room, laid out on a day bed. Someone to my left fans me, and to my right, towering over me and shielding me from view, is Jasper. 

"Ms. Falcone," His voice is hoarse, and as my vision comes back around, I can't help but notice his eyes are wide and filled with worry, "Are you alright?"

I try to sit up but he puts a wide hand on my shoulder, pinning me down without effort.

"Jasper, I'm fine." 

"All the same, its best that you stay put until the doctor comes. You hit your head pretty hard." 

There's something in his voice that tells me that this isn't up for discussion. 

"Fine, I'll stay put. But can I at least have a water?"

Without turning his face from mine, Jasper snaps and one of the many servants that blend into the wallpaper jumps to attention and bolts from the room. 

Gently, Jasper puts a hand behind my back and props me up on an embroidered pillow. 

"Thank you." I whisper, adjusting my skirts.

He opens his mouth, about to speak, when the door opens, flooding the room with the anxious muttering of a crowd. My father walks in, followed by Cesar who is followed by the young woman carrying a tray of sparkling waters. Jasper moves silently to stand in the shadows.

"We've called for the doctor, and he will be here shortly." My father says. "What happened out there?"

He crosses the room in a few short strides and sits on the edge of the little sofa. He puts the back of his hand to my forehead, as I imagine any normal, loving parent would. Cesar looms behind him, his eyes devoid of all emotion.

"I'm sorry, father." I hesitate, taking a water from the tray. "It's just," I lean in, "could we speak privately? I don't think it would be proper for a lady to speak so freely in front of her suitor." Please say yes, please say yes.

"Everyone-" My father barks, "Get out."

"Yes sir." Cesar's teeth are gritted, but he turns on his heel and leaves without hesitation. Jasper and the servant follow. The door echoes behind them, and I nearly collapse again from sheer relief. 

"Now," my father says again, gently, "What happened out there? Are you feeling alright?"

"No, I'm not." I snap, standing abruptly, tossing the unopened water onto the bed. "Can you please explain to me why Cesar is under the impression that I was auctioned off, and that he is overdue to take possession of his, well, his possession?"

The color drains from his cheeks. "I don't know what you're talking about." 

"I think you're lying." My voice is cold and hollow. "And I'd think that a man who makes a living off of extortion and money laundering and God knows what else would be a little bit better at bluffing."

He's on his feet in an instant. "Don't you dare insult me." He whispers menacingly, and I see a flash of the man that the world knows as the Abyss. Cold, dark, and ruthless.

But I am his daughter. And, if anything, my temper burns brighter than his. I play my part well, but like him, I keep my emotions on a tight leash, only allowing my anger and viciousness out when absolutely necessary. 

Now is one of those times. 

"No! Don't you dare lie to me!" I rush across the room, my skirt balled up in my fist, my heels propping me up so high that I am nose to nose with him. Angry as I may be, I do not want the ears at the door to hear what I am about to say, so my voice comes out in a dramatic whisper. "Have I not done my duty? Have I done everything I've been told to do in order to preserve what is left of this family? 

I have attended every meeting in your shadow, forbidden to speak. Though you have made it perfectly clear that I will never lead this family or any other, I have learned every lesson you would have taught a son, all while learning how to be the perfect wife so that I could marry the man you chose for me. A man you said you chose because he would be a perfect match for this family - and the natural choice to absorb our empire." 

I am nearly out of breath, and I can feel tears of anger starting to prick at the corners of my eyes. He makes no move to speak. His dark eyes just stare at me, full of sorrow.

"Now, tell me the truth. I have more than earned that much."

"Have I ever told you how much you look like your mother?"

"What?" Now that really knocks the wind out of me. He never speaks about her.

"You look ... exactly like her." His voice cracks a little and I take a step back. 

"Father -"

"Do you know how your mother died?" He asks abruptly.

"Yes - of course - she died in childbirth when I was very young." I was too young to actually remember, but that's what I'd always been told.

"No. That's not what happened."

[mafiaromance-thewidowmaker]

EPIOSDE 2: FACE THE MUSIC

"Excuse me?" I whisper, shocked and pale in the face.

"You heard me." He says darkly, straightening his back as he leads me through the second nature steps of a waltz. He stares down at me hungrily.

Words stick in my throat as I'm caught in the gaze of his hateful gray eyes.

"Tonight is nothing more than our formal engagement," I saw, swallowing the lump in my throat and lifting my chin in defiance, "Our wedding will take place in one year, as planned, and you will have your taste then."

He laughs, a booming, echoing sound that rattles my ear drums. I try not to flinch. The whole of Chicago's society is here to watch the formalities. I cannot appear anything less than a lady in awe and deference of her perfect match. 

And that's exactly what Cesar is - my perfect match. My mother died in childbirth with a younger sibling I never met, before she could give my father any true heirs, and he never could bring himself to remarry. So to secure my future, I must marry - because there is no such thing as a Mafia Duchess. Women are ornaments. And in my case, capitol. 

Cesar is exactly what I need, and what is expected of me. 

I grit my teeth and smile prettily up at him, batting my lashes for the crowd. "What ever do you mean, Cesar? Certainly you wouldn't want to ... sully my honor before our wedding?"

The song is increasing in tempo, coming soon to the close. Cesar's grin is wide and wolfish as he twirls me away and whips me back again so that I am firm against his chest. 

"You know as well as I do, Ms. Falcone, that our engagement will be a legally binding contract. The wedding is a mere formality for the sake of the public." His voice is cold and harsh, and my stomach drops. 

I've known Cesar since I was 14, since our marriage was first arranged. He has courted me for 8 years now, and sure, I'd never been the biggest fan of his ostentatious behavior - but I'd never had reason to truly hate him or even object to the marriage. He has always been a perfect gentlemen. 

Apparently he has been keeping himself on a tight leash.

We are spinning, faster and faster, glued together by momentum and the vice grip he has on my waist. "You are terribly expensive, don't you know?" He whispers in my ear.

My instinct is to pull away, to grind my heels into the marble floor and drag us to a halt. But his grip keeps me adhered to him and all I can do is stare up at him with thinly veiled horror. 

"Expensive?" I breathe, "What do you mean, expensive?"

"He never told you how he chose me as your suitor?" His canines, unusually sharp, graze his lower lip. 

My voice is hollow. "You are the son of our rival, of the next largest organization in Chicago. The choice was a natural consolidation of power." 

"We are not the only Outfit in Chicago, or the U.S., for that matter. No," the music comes to a tumultuous halt and he swings me into a dip so low, my vision swims with the disorienting movement, "you were auctioned off to the highest bidder, Princess."

He pulls me to a standing position and bows deeply before me. When he looks up, his eyes are dark and ravenous, and I wonder where this version of him has been hiding all this time. 

Before I know it, he is on his knee before me, a ring pulled from the depths of his tuxedo. The diamond if massive, the gilded ceiling above reflected back a thousand times from its glittering depths. It is easily 10 carats.

"Lilliana Araceli Falcone," He begins, and I snap into character. A light blush heats my cheeks, a coy smile dimples my cheek. My eyes begin to tear and I hold one hand to my heaving chest. "Will you do me the honor of being my bride?"

I see a movement by the doors. My father. He is already moving into place, ready to congratulate us, to formalize -

Formalize. I can't wrap my head around what Cesar said. Not only was I sold off, but somehow, my promise of marriage will be legally binding. I'm no lawyer, but something feels off. 

What am I supposed to do? I stand alone in the center of the ballroom, surrounded by hundreds of eyes watching as I stall, gawking at Cesar who is still on his knees. His eyes are hardening, and I hear him mutter my name through gritted teeth.

So, I do the only sensible thing a woman can do in that moment. 

I lean into the dizziness brought on by vigorous dancing, I let my knees go out from under me, and my body hits the floor.

Pandemonium erupts. 

[mafiaromance-thewidowmaker]

EPISODE 1: BEGINNING OF THE END

In a few short hours, I will be 21. I have been preparing for this moment for as long as I can remember. I have always known this day would come, and yet still, my hands shake at my sides, and the edges of my vision pulse.

I am the one and only heir to the Falcone empire. With no men left to sire the next generation of Mafia lords, I have no choice but to marry the son of our rival, the Mancini family. The Falcone name will live and die with my father, and Cesar Mancini will, through me, inherit the fortune and power my father has spent decades building.

Since the age of 14, I have been promised publicly Cesar, known to his enemies simply as Cerebus. My father swore to me, though, that I would not be formally engaged until I was 21 – but that was all he could give me. He was getting on in age, and we could not put it off for long. It took time to make heirs.

"Stop fidgeting!" Rosa snaps at me; her sharp eyebrows furrowed in frustration. "Do you want to look like a voo-doo doll at your own engagement? No? Then sit still otherwise these pins will find a home in your little chicken legs!"

I bite my tongue and stand still, watching Rosa work in the mirror. She is putting the finishing touches on an evening gown that has been six months in the making. The fabric clings to my chest and hips, then flares out to create a dramatic silhouette perfect for a ballroom dance – which will be expected.

I look into the gilded mirror, staring at my empty blue eyes. I am made up beautifully, a true doll. My skin is clear and flawless. My high cheeks are perfectly ruddy. My long, dark hair – which I normally wear down, in attempt to hide my face – is contained in an elegant French roll, exposing my long neck.

When Rosa has her back turned, putting away her instruments of torture, I reach up and pull two long strands out to frame my face.

There, I think to myself, a little piece of me still exists.

Rosa dares not correct me too harshly, given who I am, but her eyes narrow when she sees the loose strands. She dutifully holds out the lethal stilettos I am expected to prance in tonight. Black leather, red soles, and a 6-inch heel that could pierce a man's heart.

I hitch my skirt delicately and slip my right foot into the high arched shoe, then slip in the left. I step off the platform and let my skirt fall. Rosa, as usual, has done a perfect job. The hem of the ballgown hovers just above the floor, almost imperceptibly, but it will prevent me from tripping on the fabric – not that I need the help.

From the time I could walk, I have been trained to balance a stack of books 6-high on my head while walking and dancing in all manner of heels and terrain. Even in soft mud, I can float along as though I were a princess come to life.

I don't mean to brag; these are simply the facts. I was born, bred, and raised to be the image of perfection. And I cannot stand it. Behind the mask that has been adhered permanently to my face is a woman who has absolutely no idea who she is or what she wants. Those are luxuries not afforded to someone of my status.

I am perfumed, fluffed, and fussed over one last time. Rosa makes sure everything is in its perfect place. Her fingers hover near the locks that hang in loose curls down to my collarbone, but I glare at her in a way that tells her I will bite those fingers off without hesitation if she tries to "fix" this part of me.

She pulls her hands away and turns to the door. She raises her fist and knocks twice – the signal that we are ready to leave.

The tall, heavy oak door opens slowly and silently. Rosa stands to the side so that I can exit the room first. I keep my head held high, and my eyes forward, though they can't help but notice the knuckles gripping the gold door handle. My heels echo against the marble floor, and I spare a quick glance at the man to my left.

Jasper Thorne, my bodyguard, and the closest thing I have to a friend. He stands ramrod straight, towering above me – despite the heels. His eyes are locked forward, unseeing, but in the slight hesitation of my movements he looks down to meet my eye, peering at me from behind dark curls. He holds my gaze for only a second, but in that second, I see something. Just a hint of something painful before he snaps back to duty, eyes locking forward once more.

The interaction went unnoticed by those around us. The sharp click of my heels on the marble floor never broke stride, and as I descend the stairs, I hear my heavy door fall back on its jam and the steady presence of Jasper follows close behind.

There's nothing there, I tell myself. Nothing. He's certainly never said anything to me, and I would never dare ask.

My father is waiting for me at the base of the stairs. He holds his arm out to me as I approach, and I dutifully take it. I glance up and take in his graying temples and the lines that have hardened his face. Though he has always had a soft spot for me – his only child of his beloved and deceased wife, a mother which I never knew – to the rest of the world he is The Abyss. He is the epitome of death and danger. Children sing cautionary tales about him, and men are careful never to cross him. His widows receive a red rose with their husband's bullet casing tied around the stem as the only notice of their death.

But he is my father, and he has done everything he can to protect me. Now, it is up to me. He will not be around forever, and I have to learn to fend for myself.

As we enter the ballroom, our presence is announced, and every eye in the room turns to look at us.

There he is, young Cesar Mancini. His blonde hair is nearly white in the bright light of the room, and he is adorned in obnoxiously vivid shades of purple and gold. He is truly a peacock. Eight years in his presence has done nothing to warm my heart to him.

He saunters across the room and bows jauntily to my father, who hands me over with a smile. I am whirled across the floor to the sound of swelling music. Cesar leans down to whisper in my ear, "No more waiting, princess. Tonight, you're finally, officially, and dare I say, legally mine. And I'm not waiting any longer for a taste of the merchandise I've spent so much on." His fingers dig hard into my waste, and I let out the smallest gasp of surprise.

His breath reeks and as we spin, my eyes lock with Jasper, who is braced stiff as a board, his dark eyes watching us from across the room.