Mafia's Forced Bride

Katherine's Point Of View.

I woke to the faint warmth of sunlight grazing my face, an ironic comfort in the cold, unyielding confinement I had been forced to endure. My, in fact the floor below, always, rigid and hard, had been my unwelcome refuge during the last three days.

Three days. Or at least that’s what I estimated. Time was impossible to measure accurately in this bleak little room. A single small window near the ceiling was my only connection to the outside world, offering just enough light to emphasize the grime on the walls and the hopelessness of my situation.

Even more, I forgot who I am. No name. No identity. I have no memory of how I came to be here, bound to the wall as a creature.

The first day was a fog of panic and panic. I had screamed until my throat was raw, banging my fists against the locked door until my knuckles bled. No one came. I realized quickly that either my captors couldn’t hear me—or they simply didn’t care. Eventually, the fatigue had settled me to a sleepless state on the cold floor.

Since then, a heavy silence had been my only companion. I spent hours staring at that pathetic excuse for a window, cycling through fear, anger, and a growing determination to escape. I had resolved to conserve my strength today and save my fight for tomorrow.

However, as my eyes once again closed, the sound of a key in the lock startled me upright.

The heavy metal door creaked open, revealing a man standing in the doorway. My heart raced as I studied him. He was tall—easily over six feet—with dark hair and eyes so black they seemed to absorb the dim light around him. He wore a black suit and a crisp white shirt, every detail of his appearance meticulously polished.

But his face, if it can be called that, was as emotionless as the surrounding immensity.

He stepped inside, his movements calculated and devoid of hesitation, like a machine performing a programmed task. My instincts screamed that this man was dangerous.

Without a spoken word, he crouched down and broke the chain that held me to the wall. It prickled with anxiety when he stood up and moved back, keeping a safe distance.

“Stand up," He whispered, his voice deceptively comforting and soothing, yet carrying the chill of a blade below its pleasing surface.

“W-who are you?” I stammered, my voice barely audible.

“You don’t get to ask questions, miss," He replied, his tone dismissive. He went back and got toward the open door, without making sure I was left behind.

Shaking, I pulled myself upright on my feet and leaned against the wall for support. My legs wobbled as I followed him out of the room, into a dimly lit hallway.

There was a very noticeable difference between the dungeon-like basement and the domestic world above it. No—not a house. A mansion.

The corridors were wide and long with imposing walls which bore beautiful paintings. Every brushstroke of those artworks screamed wealth and power, but the space itself felt eerily sterile. No warmth, no personality—just an overwhelming sense of control.

I made an effort to concentrate, writing down each turn and every detail in my head. If I managed to escape, I’d need to remember the way out.

The guy brought me to a huge door made of timber at the end of the hallway. He pushed it open, stepping aside like a sentinel guarding a gate.

My breath hitched as I entered the room.

It was an office, but nothing like the kind you’d find in a regular workplace. The space exuded sophistication and dominance. Every piece of furniture was either ebony black or a deep, polished mahogany. The sharp contrast between the dark tones and the glow of the chandelier hanging above created an atmosphere that was both intimidating and breathtaking.

And then I saw him.

Behind the grand desk sat a man who made the rest of the room seem insignificant. His sharp, chiseled features were the kind that belonged on magazine covers. Light brown hair framed the visage of a set of piercing blue eyes which looked right through me.

He wasn’t just handsome—he was magnetic. But there was an air of danger about him, a quiet, calculated power that made it impossible to look away.

He slid back in his chair, the top buttons of his white silk blouse undone, showing a flash of definition in the set muscle below. His eyes assessed me with unsettling calm, as though weighing my very existence.

“Sit,” he commanded, his voice low and firm.

I just obeyed without questions, settled myself in the chair in front of him. My body moved on instinct, as though my will had been stripped away by the sheer authority in his tone.

“Why am I here?” I asked, forcing the words out before he could take control of the conversation.

He cocked his head, a barely visible smirk on his face. “I should be asking you that question.”

His voice was steady, but there was a menacing undertone to his tone.

“Who are you?” He continued, his blue eyes locking onto mine. “What were you doing there? Why can’t I find anything about you?”

“I-I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I stammered, confusion twisting my thoughts. “I woke up in that room downstairs. I don’t even know how I got here.”

His smirk deepened, but it wasn’t kind. It was the grin of a predator playing with its meal.

“Okay, let me hear it, you just walked into that warehouse for nothing's sake, right?” He replied, leaning back in his chair.

Warehouse? The word reverberated in my head, generating more questions than answers. I bit my lip, struggling to make sense of his accusations.

“Yes,” I said finally, my voice trembling but resolute. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t even know you or this place. The only thing I know is that I woke up in here, chained in a basement.”

Still his face didn't change but the pressure of his stare increased. He brought his hands together in front of him, bending forward.

“Good actress," He said, his face reflecting that of an ironic literary character, "good act. “Perhaps I should start looking into aspiring talents in the film industry.

My frustration boiled over. “I’m not acting!” I snapped, my voice breaking. “I’m telling you the truth!”

“No more," he said, his tone piercing as a knife through the heat of my passions.

A heavy, oppressing silence fell between us for a second.

“Fine,” he said finally, his tone colder than before. “If you’re not ready to talk, I have other ways to get answers.”

He pushed a button on his desk and the guy who had picked me up—Lex, he mentioned—came into the room.

“Take her away, the man behind the desk ordered,” His gaze never left mine.

Lex pulled me to my feet by grabbing hold of my arm with a surprising strength.

“Wait!” I protested, struggling against his grip. “You can’t just—”

However, the person seated at the desk just stared, his face unreadable as Lex pulled me out of the room.

I was caught in a game I didn't know the answer to, and facing a player who had already formulated the game and decided on the players already in the game and who already knew the answer.