Mafia Boss’s Arranged Bride by Bella King

Chapter 2

Annika

Alight rain threatens to break as I step out the front door of the building my family and I call home.

Road noise breaks my thoughts into fragments and shards as I walk down to the Ukrainian corner shop my mother has frequented since I was a girl. They are the only shop within walking distance that carries my mother’s preferred brand of wine.

Occasionally they sell pirozhki and fresh soups. During my childhood, there was a period of time when their takeaway meals were the only thing I ate while my parents established themselves in the city. In a way, the shop owners felt like a family to me, in a para-social kind of way.

The air in the city feels charged today. Whether it is an impending storm or my own trapped inner energy, I don’t know. What I am certain of is that I have been met with bursts of frustration in my chest that beg me to scream out loud at the most inopportune times.

I don’t, of course, but I am so taken back by them that I feel they are almost visible to those around me, like a radioactive stone glowing in my chest.

As I approach, the shop is quiet, the lunch rush dying down as nearby tourists and workaholics dissipate back into their concrete holes. As I enter, a familiar chirp is heard to my left, and the shop cat, Myshka, lifts his paw to greet me from his perch in the window. I give him a few ear scratches, for diplomacy’s sake.

“Annika! How are you?” says Irina, the owner. “It feels as though it has been ages since I have seen you in here.”

I nod. “Yes, things have been a bit unpredictable for us lately. We’ve definitely missed your food,” I reply, attempting to pull my hand from Myshka as he begins to grab my arm, biting aggressively.

“I heard you are getting married?” Irina asks, adjusting the packages of sweets near the register obsessively.

I freeze.

Irina knows my family well, but not well enough for me to explain that my upcoming marriage is the result of a terrifying mafia superpower taking over the entire east side of the city.

My life is so insular, I either have not had to explain to anyone, or they have not asked. Stupid as I am, I have not formulated a generic response to such a simple conversation.

“I am,” I say, feigning excitement. “His name is Michail. I’m very excited, but I’m also a bit overwhelmed.” At least the second part is true.

Irina looks right through me, unconvinced. “You seem a bit hesitant,” she says, uncertain whether or not she’s prying too deep into my personal life.

My heart leaps into my mouth, and my face becomes pale. “It’s not like that,” I stammer. “It’s just that it all happened very quickly; it doesn’t feel quite real to me yet,” I speak in half-truths.

I can do this. Not for much longer, but I can do this.

Irina shrugs. “Alright, just remember this feeling when you begin to look at your bank statements and you see charges to the strip clubs. You will not feel comforted by your uncertainty then either,” she says casually but with a note of deadpan understanding. She’s been here before, and that makes me nervous all over again.

“Anyway! Don’t let this bitter old lady get you down. Go pretend to look around for a bit before you buy three bottles of your mother’s wine,” she says, smiling warmly.

My heart slows a bit, the dagger of panic subsiding. I laugh. “You certainly know my family well at this point.”

Irina smiles and begins to walk toward the back office of the store.

I scan the aisles for my mother’s wine. It’s always in the same place, but I like to pretend I’m looking for something else, something for myself. Maybe for a date.

Another pang of regret sets in as I remember. There won’t be any more dates. No more unexplored sexual tension, no more danger, no more mystery. I am resigned to a lifetime of begging a man to notice me when I get my hair cut or wear extra makeup.

On impulse, I grab a bottle of sparkling wine alongside the bottles I have already procured.

Fuck Michail, for now. I’m going to date myself; I hear my inner self saying.

I approach the register where Irina’s nephew Dimi stands idly, half-watching a video about radiation sickness on his phone.

“Just these?” he says, jumping a bit as he notices me standing in front of him.

“Yeah, just these,” I reply, smiling at his sudden vulnerability.

I pay for the wines and leave wordlessly.

The rain has started to fall a bit, and I can feel the droplets gather in my hair, falling down my face and streaking my makeup. There is something uniquely romantic about walking through the rain with a bottle of wine through New York City.

A warmth inhabits me, contrasting the chill of the raindrops on my clothes. I choose to simply revel in it. If I can choose to identify and keep this feeling, to hold onto it all for myself, I can survive the prospect of my marriage to Michail.

I briefly choose to relive the naïve fantasies of a man better than Michail, someone who would sweep me off my feet and pour his heart and soul into our interactions. Now, I am saying goodbye to those fantasies. It won’t be appropriate to have them when I’m married. I must behave myself.