Dark Romance: A Cruel Obsession

“Perhaps,” Vivian said, “the Made Men I know treat their wives like playthings. Being selected for a family alliance through marriage signifies their status within the clan, and the wives they obtain from these unions are trophies to display their position.”

Vivian paused, adding, “My father was that kind of man.”

“Do you think I am that kind of man?”

“More accurately, I’m afraid you might be that kind of man.”

Alajos shrugged, finding Vivian’s naivete amusing, “In fact, I am that kind of man. In the mafia, there are no kind-hearted rabbits, only fierce and greedy wolves. Fighting, tearing, possessing-it’s in our nature. And having an exceptional and beautiful partner is one of the ways we show our strength to the world.”

Vivian took a deep breath.

“As the Capo of Houston, flaunting you to my followers isn’t a wise choice, but I need you, Vivian,” Alajos said regretfully. “Our engagement doesn’t represent you and me; it symbolizes the alliance between Houston and Los Angeles, the union of the Hargraves and the Joneses.”This text is property of Nô/velD/rama.Org.

“I assure you, staying in Houston, your life won’t change much. You can still wear beautiful dresses to parties, lie on the sofa at home eating chips and watching movies, drink and dance in the bars and clubs I own, and you can go shopping with an unlimited credit card-of course, you’ll need to take the bodyguards I’ve arranged for you when you go out. Otherwise, my enemies could take you at any moment, which would pose a terrible threat to my work.”

“This isn’t what I want,” Vivian shook her head.

“What do you want?”

“I want to go to college.”

“That’s certainly possible. I won’t restrict you,” Alajos said. “But I think it’s meaningless, even a waste of your precious time. You won’t work outside; I don’t need you to earn money to support the household. It doesn’t suit your status.”

“What status? A plaything? A gift? Or just a decorative vase you keep in the house?”

Alajos frowned, offended by Vivian’s questioning tone, “You are my wife.”

“But you don’t love me!”

“Love?”

“Yes, love.” Tears fell unconsciously as Vivian cried, “You won’t love me, will you? We hardly know each other and haven’t spent much time together, yet I’m about to marry you. I’m unwilling.”

Alajos gained a new understanding of Vivian’s naivety. He wanted to laugh, but couldn’t. “Are you three years old, Vivian?”

Tears filled her eyes, but they didn’t stop her from glaring at Alajos with indignation.

“I heard from your father that you’re already nineteen,” Alajos sighed, looking earnestly at Vivian. “You’re not a child, Vivian. You should understand that born into our families, we can’t have love. Our union is only for mutual benefit. Not just you, your brothers will also choose brides that bring the most advantage to their family, and even our children in the future. Mafia marriages have always been about interests, with no exceptions.”

Vivian’s eyes widened, and her tears made Alajos irritable. He hadn’t anticipated her reluctance to marry him was for such a foolish and naive reason. Love? No, a Capo couldn’t afford such a weakness.

“I’m sorry.” Vivian covered her face, her tears soaking her palms. She thought she must look ugly since Alajos watched her coldly, his gaze terrifyingly fierce.

Vivian stood up, “I’d like to go to the restroom.” She needed the cold water to wash her face and a solitary space to calm her sorrowful emotions.

Thankfully, Alajos still maintained his genteel demeanor. After Vivian had cried, he handed her a tissue to make her look less disheveled before calling a servant to escort her to the restroom.

The restroom was at the end of the corridor on the first floor, spacious and brightly lit. Through the one-way transparent window, one could see the sunflower field behind the villa, with a winding path cutting through it, leading to a small door in the fence at the end.

Was this a back door?

Vivian shook off the water droplets from her hands, quietly opened the restroom door, and peeked outside through the crack. The servant who had been standing guard was gone; the corridor was empty, echoing a hollow silence.

On impulse, Vivian locked the restroom door and her heartbeat quickened as she climbed out of the window. She lifted her skirt and crossed the sunflower field, opening the small door.

Alajos walked into the rose garden, where his aunt Yazmin was pruning the bushes as part of her daily routine. Despite having gardeners on the estate with salaries in thetens of thousands of dollars, Yazmin preferred to tend to the roses herself. She handled each bloom with tenderness, as if caring for her own children.

“I heard you made your beautiful bride cry,” Yazmin said with a smile, caressing the delicate petals of a rose and looking at Alajos, “Girls are like blooming roses; they need to be gently nurtured. Being too harsh isn’t good.”

Alajos gave a wry smile, “The mafia only knows how to kill, Aunt.”

“I know that. It’s your way of survival, but Vivian is your future wife.”

“She talked to me about love.”

“Every girl dreams of love,” Yazmin said as she searched for the most beautiful rose in the field, “A dashing prince charming, sweet love, passionate kisses. Oh, I must admit, it makes even my heart flutter.”

“Love would make me weak,” Alajos stood in the sunlight, his sharp features glinting with a golden hue, “The Bratva have noses like dogs; they’ll sniff out my weaknesses and aim their guns.”

“That’s no excuse for making your wife cry. You’re meant to spend your lives together. Learning some sweet nothings would make her happy and lighten your load too,” Yazmin clipped a bunch of roses, “Come on, dear. Take these to your fiancee; she will like them.”

Alajos took the flowers, feeling awkward as he’d never courted a girl before.

But his aunt didn’t give him the chance to refuse, urging him to go find Vivian.

Reluctantly holding the roses, Alajos returned to the apple tree, his brow furrowed as he looked around. Vivian hadn’t come back?

He guessed she might need more time to recover her spirits, so he waited another fifteen minutes under the apple tree.

“Where is Vivian?” Alajos grabbed a passing servant and asked, coincidentally the one who had taken Vivian to the restroom. She had just helped move wine from the cellar for the evening’s family meal.

“The restroom in the corridor,” the servant replied respectfully. “Or perhaps the lounge.”

Alajos first checked the lounge, finding no one.

The restroom seemed to take too long?

“Vivian?” Alajos knocked on the restroom door, “What’s the matter? Do you need help?”

He pressed his ear against the door; there was no sound from inside the restroom, which was odd.

He knocked harder and twisted the doorknob, “Vivian, are you there?”

Click, click.

Locked?

A sense of foreboding came over Alajos.