When Shadows Fall in Love

The Lamborghini roared away like a storm disappearing into the distance. Its red taillights flickered against the massive iron gates that slowly closed behind them.

The girl stood there, motionless, fingers curled tightly around her grandmother's shawl. Her lips were pale from the cold, or maybe from fear. Behind her, a soft voice broke the silence.

"Miss," said a tall maid dressed in satin grey, her head bowed. "Please come inside. I'll show you to your rooms."

The villa was nothing short of majestic. Black marble floors reflected the golden chandeliers above. Every hallway smelled faintly of roses and sandalwood. Silent staff lined the edges like statues, nodding politely as the girl and her grandmother passed.

Two doors opened. One large, one smaller. The maid turned to the girl. "This is for your grandmother," she said gently, nodding to the grander room. "Yours is just beside. Both have everything you need."

The girl looked at her grandmother — tired, frail, but finally breathing a little easier.

"You'll be okay?" she asked.

Her grandmother nodded slowly. "Go rest, my dear."

So, very reluctantly she stepped into her room.

It was... beyond anything she could have imagined. A canopy bed with silk drapes. A reading chair in the corner. A window bigger than her entire old room. Everything creams and lavender. Soft. Safe. But beside all this the most shocking thing was the wall, filled with journals and sketches beyond imagination.

But she still cried herself to sleep.

The next morning, the sunlight streamed in through the sheer curtains. She hadn't even gotten out of bed when the door slammed open.

He was back.

The mafia man.

Hair tousled, shirt slightly unbuttoned, and those silver-grey eyes unreadable. She jolted upright. "W-What are you doing in here?!" He stepped closer. "Checking on you."

"Leave." Her voice trembled. "Let me go back. I want to be with my parents and grandma. I want my old life back." He stared at her like she'd just stabbed him.

"You want to go back to them?" he said coldly. "The same people who sold you?"

"They're still my parents!" she snapped, standing now, her fists clenched. "I don't know you. You're just a stranger who thinks money gives him control!" She crossed her arms and eyed him. "I'm not just a stranger," he said quietly. "I'm someone who—" He paused. "I saw something in you that day. You're not just another girl to me."

She shook her head. "Don't say that." she snapped. But he stepped closer.

"I love you," he said.

That was the last straw. She screamed and punched him, hard — the kind of punch born from years of repressed rage and heartbreak. His head snapped to the side. His jaw clenched. He raised his fist in reflex — eyes sharp, chest rising — but when he saw her back away, arms folded over her chest, scars visible, trembling, his own hand stopped mid-air.

Silence.

Then he did something he never thought he'd ever do to the people who punched him. He dropped his long, muscular arms. And hugged her. Strong, warm, protective. She froze. Her body stiffened, unsure how to react, but guilt rushed in too fast — her hands slowly raised to hug him back— but he pulled away before she could. He walked to the bed, dropped a pile of shopping bags — designer brands, clothes, shoes, silk fabrics and jewellery wrapped boxes. Then, without another word, he left and shut the door. She stood there, stunned.

Then the thoughts began.

Why did he hug me? What kind of man does that? He almost hit me. He could have. But he didn't. Was it guilt? Pity? Or was it something else? What does he mean he loves me? He doesn't even know me. No one knows me. Maybe he thinks he's saving me. But from what? I was surviving just fine—wasn't I? No. No, I wasn't. But still— Oh God, why did I cry in front of him? Why did I even let myself break like that? Do I look weak now? Do I look like a movie he's interested in watching for entertainment? A wounded bird he wants to fix. But why would he be interested in a stranger.

Is he always like this? Harsh one second, soft the next? What kind of person does that, unless he's not human? Pfttt, wake up girl, this is reality. But am I really safe here? Is Grandma safe here? Or is this just a prettier cage? Why did my parents let me go so easily and why didn't they chase after me? But they never loved me did they?? Wait, what if he's actually not lying and speaking from his heart? No, that can't be. But my parents are like what he's saying, what if he's actually helping me, but then why would a billionaire mafia help me? Ughhhh. Here I am stuck again. Why do problems come knocking at my door without invitation? Then leave me in a tangled mess of poisonous thorns wrapped around me like clothes.

She cried again. Not loudly, not because she was sad. But it was too much anger and resentment inside of her.

Later that afternoon, she walked into her grandmother's room, bringing the tray the maids had delivered — lentil soup, bread, warm rice, herbal tea.

Her grandmother smiled weakly. "You brought it, not the servants?"

"I didn't trust them," the girl muttered, adjusting the cushions. "Only trust you."

They ate slowly, silently. Until her grandmother spoke.

"Who is this man?"

She paused. Then, slowly, she told everything. About the trade. The pain. The scars. The tears. And the strange softness he carried only when no one else was looking.

Her grandmother's eyes watered. "Children who abandon their parents are cursed. But you... you're the blessing they threw away." With that she caressed her head and kissed her forehead.

Just then, a knock. A man in formal black stepped in, papers in hand.

"I'm Brian. Head of operations here," he said politely. "Sir has instructed me to inform you: there will be a special dinner tonight."

The girl narrowed her eyes. "What kind of dinner?" He smiled faintly. "One where he proposes. Formally."

Her heart stopped.

"No."

"He will propose either way, I am sorry. But you're expected to attend."

He left.

That night, the villa transformed.

Golden lights glittered across the walls. Thousands of flowers—white orchids, dark red and black roses, scattered petals on the stairs. The grand hall shimmered with candlelight on the extravagant chandelier. Long tables were set with silverware that sparkled like the stars. Trays of roasted chicken, creamy pastas, saffron rice, chocolate fountains, noodles, nuggets, lobster, shrimp, sushi and crystal glasses of wine waited. Dozens of guests had arrived—mafia allies, all dressed in sleek black, whether man or women. Some looked like royalty, others like devils in disguise. Laughter filled the halls, deep voices echoing.

She stood at the top of the stairs in a mermaid silhouette dress, V-necked, shimmering with pearls and frost-pink beads.

The moment he saw her — the mafia man froze. His lips parted slightly in shock.

The room went silent— dead silent, before exploding into cheers and hoots.

But he never took his eyes off her, it was her beauty that possessed the once dangerous man. When she reached the bottom, he extended his hand. Her grandmother, in a silver shawl, stood beside her, hesitant. Trembling. The girl turned to her. And with one silent, tear-filled nod — that gives permission. Her grandmother took her hand gently, kissed it, and placed it in the mafia man's palm. He gently caressed her hand with his thumb and pulled her closer to him. He didn't know why he did that. Why it felt...natural. He wasn't gentle with anyone. But her trembling fingers felt like something he'd break if he wasn't careful. Her large, bead eyes stared into his grey demon eyes. But there was something different in those eyes, some warm light. "Will you Mr. Lucien Vade accept Miss Seraphine as your—" "Yes" the guy answered before the priest even managed to finish. "Very well, Will you Miss Seraphine accept Mr. Lucien Vade as your husband?" questioned the priest. So, he didn't even tell me his name nor asked mine and just made us get married? But how did he even know my name? My parents didn't tell him either. Could it be that I know this—

"Miss Seraphine?"