MOORED TO AN OUTLAW

"Imperfection is beauty, madness is genius, and it's better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring."

—Marilyn Monroe

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The dining room was lit up with enough candles to guide a ship to shore, because, apparently, nothing says 'classy' like a room full of potential weapons. But I wasn’t admiring the decor—I was too busy having a panic attack. Trapped in this fancy mansion with a bunch of family and strangers, and way too much glassware.

The hum of conversation and clinking of silverware was just background noise to the sound of my own nervous heartbeat.

I sat at the worst angle of the table, wearing a sparkly gown that probably blinded everyone within a five-foot radius. Mission accomplished, Aunt Rosa and Mom.

Their favorite advice was always the same: "You're a star, now make them worship you." Great advice—if I wasn’t about to crack under the pressure. My mom and Aunt Rosa were a deadly duo, pushing me to show off my "Benedetti bestness." Apparently, humility was overrated in our family.

The irony was rich—why bother dazzling when I could just crumble? My "bestness" had turned into a flaking layer of makeup and pure desperation. Desperate to survive this glittering nightmare without losing my dinner—or my sanity.

Guest of honor—yeah, right.

Don Vincenzo, the self-proclaimed king of the table, basked in his own ego like it was a god-given right. His son, Tiziano—the man I was supposed to marry—sat across from me, staring coldly at the world, just like his father. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

I wasn’t just marrying into this family; I was strapping myself into a never-ending roller coaster of narcissism with these people as my personal drivers.

"Smile, Sessie," my mom whispered in my ear, her perfume wrapping around me like a noose. "You're too beautiful to frown. You're a—"

"Save the flattery, Mom," I muttered, not moving as I stared ahead at the men in black. "I'm more like a fallen meteorite—crashed, burned, and over this night."

"Sessie!" she hissed, her voice sharp but low. "Enough. Now chin up, shoulders back, and for the love of all things Benedetti, pretend you're not dying inside."

I managed a smile—more like a grotesque grin than anything else.

I was twenty-three for crying out loud. My life didn’t have to be this miserable.

Mom adjusted a loose strand of my hair like she was preparing a doll for display. In many ways, she was. She’d raised me to be a social doll—just another puppet dancing to society's tune. But dolls have limits. And inside, I was cracking.

The guests—family, business associates, and anyone looking to get on my dad and Don Vincenzo’s good side—were here to celebrate what should’ve been the happiest night of my life. But I couldn’t shake the knot in my stomach. This was for them, not for me. They weren’t here for my happiness; they were here to witness the union of two powerful families.

The classic Benedetti move: marry off a volatile Tiziano and pair him with a "obedient" Sessie, then hope for stability—or at least a decent PR spin. Because what every dangerous Don needed was a doormat with a pulse to manage his temper.

Across from me, my younger sister, Vi, was giggling at something Ariele, the underboss's son, had whispered. Her cheeks flushed with excitement, eyes sparkling with happiness. At least one of us had a shot at happiness. Vi's laugh was contagious, and I hoped she’d be the lucky one to escape the family trap.

My dad sat at the far end of the table, phone in hand, barely paying attention. He only cared if I was still a marketable asset.

And then, there was Tiziano.

Dressed in his usual black, he sat next to me, his cold eyes sweeping the room like he was hunting something—or someone. And when they landed on me, I couldn’t stop the shiver down my spine.

His hand reached out and covered mine, and I had to fight the urge to pull away. His touch was cold, possessive, like he already owned me.

"You belong to me, body and soul, Sessie. Don’t forget that," Tiziano whispered, his voice low and threatening.

The whole room fell silent, watching us, waiting for me to give my usual "everything’s fine" smile. The one that made me seem like a perfect match for him. But his words were a trap, and only Vi could see the steel in them.

I nodded weakly, trying to hide the panic building inside me. Tiziano’s eyes gleamed with something dark, something that made my instincts scream at me to run.

"Cheers to many more years," I muttered under my breath, sipping my wine, hoping it would drown out the taste of regret in my mouth.

Just then, my older brother Cosimo broke the tension with an exaggerated sigh.

"Well, Sessie, if Tiziano doesn’t marry you, I guess I’ll hire you as my personal chef. You make the best lasagna," he said, grinning like he had won some joke.

Aunt Rosa laughed loudly, clearly amused. "Don’t tempt fate, Cosimo," she teased, but her eyes twinkled with affection. "But honestly, Sessie, you'd be better off with someone who knows how to make you smile, like your brother here."

Mom wasn’t amused. Her eyes narrowed at Cosimo. "Enough with the nonsense," she snapped. "This is a serious occasion, not one of your jokes."

Cosimo raised his hands in mock surrender, but his grin didn’t fade. "Just trying to lighten the mood, Mamma. Can’t have a party without some laughs, right?"

"Some things aren't meant to be laughed at." Mom’s gaze flicked toward me, her disappointment weighing on me.

The unspoken words were clear: This is your duty. Accept it.

I felt the weight of it, even though Cosimo had started the joke. I was still the one who had to bear the consequences.

Before I could say anything, my father’s phone rang sharply, cutting through the tension. He looked at the screen, his face darkening as he stood up abruptly. Without a word, he walked out, and Don Vincenzo followed him, signaling that the dinner was over.

Thank God.

As I stood, hoping to escape notice, my phone buzzed in my hand. The screen lit up with a name that made my heart race: Jake.

I froze, scanning the room to make sure no one saw my sudden panic. But everyone was busy, distracted by their own goodbyes.

I took a deep breath and slipped away from the table, heading toward the gallery. As I answered the call, I tried to keep the cheer in my voice.

Just as Jake’s voice crackled through the phone, asking if I’d finally kiss him tomorrow, cold fingers wrapped around my waist, and another hand snatched the phone from my ear. My body froze, not just because of the touch I hated, but because I knew exactly who it was.

Tiziano.

The stench of his breath hit me like a dark omen. "Why are you talking to another man on the eve of our engagement?" he hissed, his voice dripping with venom.

I couldn’t move.