The Mafia Dons Pet (Masha and Luciano) novel Chapter 3

Masha

My brows furrowed, but I stayed silent until Luciano’s footsteps faded.

I turned to my mother. Her perfectly made-up face looked flushed, unsurprising since she was already on her third glass of wine.

“What did he mean by post-wedding arrangements?” My voice came out sharper than intended, but the night had already been too much. I didn’t have the strength to mask my emotions anymore.

Jimson leaned back with that maddeningly patient smile—one that belonged to a man who always got what he wanted.

“Every Sunday,” he said casually, though his tone left no room for argument, “you’ll have dinner with the family. You’ll attend social events with Luciano, Emma, and Kol. It’s important.”

My stomach churned. Important to who? Certainly not me.

I wasn’t like them. My mother had adapted easily to this world, but I… I just wanted my quiet life, my camera, my scripts. I didn’t want to be paraded around like some accessory to a world I never asked to join.

What if I’m busy? What if I have a project due?

I opened my mouth to object, but Jimson lifted a hand, and—just like the waitress earlier—I stopped.

“That’s not all, Masha.” He cut into his steak like he was discussing the weather. “Starting tomorrow, you’ll have two bodyguards.”

I glanced around the table, waiting for someone—anyone—to react. But everyone kept eating, unbothered, like this was completely normal.

“And,” Jimson continued after a sip of wine, “you’ll be married soon. Naturally, the family will choose the groom.”

I froze.

No. This can’t be happening.

My gaze fell to the half-eaten tiramisu on the next table. Its delicate layers suddenly felt as suffocating as the future being forced on me.

Jimson was trying to turn me into a mafia princess.

A couple at a nearby table laughed softly, blissfully unaware of the storm at ours.

His smile never faltered. That’s when I knew—this was already decided. My opinion didn’t matter.

“This is the twenty-first century,” I muttered under my breath. An arranged marriage? Like I was a bargaining chip, my life reduced to a transaction?

Emma’s hand rested lightly in Kol’s. She threw me an apologetic look. Was her marriage arranged too?

I shook my head. I couldn’t let this happen. I had to fight for my freedom.

Gathering every shred of courage, I started, “It’s not right to control my—”

The sharp scrape of Jimson’s chair against the floor cut me off. He stood, his calm cracking just enough for a glimpse of the temper I’d only heard about.

“This is non-negotiable,” he said, voice like a blade. “From now on, you do as I say.”

No. He couldn’t—

I turned to my mother, silently begging for help. But her expression told me I was on my own.

She gave me a soft, encouraging smile—the same one she’d offered whenever Alice bullied me as a child.

Back then, I’d excused Alice’s cruelty, claimed my broken bones were just clumsiness. Alice hadn’t been just a cousin—she was a predator.

And now, I was facing another predator. Losing. Again.

My mother’s fingers brushed mine. “Only one social event a month,” she offered gently, trying to ease the tension.

But that wasn’t the problem.

It wasn’t about one dinner or ten. It was about control. My life would no longer be mine.

“You’ll get used to it,” she whispered, pulling me into a hug.

For a fleeting moment, surrounded by her perfume, I felt like a child again—protected from the chaos outside.

But when I looked past her shoulder, Emma and Kol gave me polite, sympathetic smiles.

I forced a calm voice. “Okay.”

I turned to Emma. “It was wonderful meeting you.” Then to Kol. “Both of you.”

They nodded, smiles still in place.

I stood and walked out of the restaurant without another word. Not to my mother. Not to Jimson.

The moment I slid into my car, the suffocating calm shattered.

My fingers curled into fists, nails digging into my palms.

I needed to do something. But what?

I hated their marriage. Hated what it meant for me.

Because once she married him, my autonomy was gone.

Driving home, Jimson’s words echoed in my head. An arranged marriage.

I still couldn’t believe it was a real conversation. Couldn’t believe my mother silently agreed.

Back in my apartment, I shut the door like I was slamming a barrier between myself and the Vincenzonis.

The sight of my cluttered desk, scattered film journals, and half-finished screenplay brought me a small breath of relief. This was my sanctuary.

But then it hit me—Father’s inheritance paid my tuition. Mother covered my living expenses.

Once she married Jimson, he’d use that to control me.

Not on my watch.

I powered on my computer.

I needed a job. Any job. Production assistant. Freelance videographer. Editor. Anything to give me independence.

No one was going to define my future.

Not Jimson.

Not his family.

Not even my mother.

Just me.