Arabella

Arabella Farina stood before the gilded mirror in her bedroom, the deep ruby red of her gown clinging to every elegant curve, bold against the cream palette of the room. The rich silk shimmered under the golden light of the chandelier, and she adjusted the bodice with practiced grace. Tonight was her engagement party—to Tomasso Bruni. And though her face held composure, her thoughts turned with restless precision.

She would turn twenty-one next month, but she had known this future since she was a girl. Tomasso had been chosen not for love or charm, but for loyalty. His father had served as her father—Don Farina's underboss for years, and when he died protecting the Famiglia, it had only made sense for his son to step into his place. Tomasso was the natural choice—not just for underboss, but as her husband, the man who would one day lead the Farina legacy.

He was... fine. Dependable, ambitious, hungry for power but not reckless with it. And he had always made it clear how much he wanted her—his glances lingering too long, his hand often straying too close. Arabella had learned how to smile politely and redirect without offending. Tradition gave her an excuse she clung to like armor: no man touched a mafia bride before the vows were spoken.

Thank God for tradition.