Mafia Billionaire’s Forlorn Wife

It is surreal to believe that your own soul becomes so greatly entwined with another that all you can think about is the way their lips curve when they smile, or the way their eyes shine when they look at you. At least that is all I can think about as I step in through the tall black doors of the contemporary-styled mansion that is now going to be my home. The foyer, like the outside of the home, has been designed along the theme of minimalism while keeping black, beige, and gold as the recurring theme. From the checkered tiles on the floor to the single gold vase placed under the edged staircase, adding a flash of green— the foyer could easily tell everything about the kind of decor the rest of the home is going to be. But it is not the home that fascinates me as much as the idea of living here with the man currently holding my hand in his does. I look at him as he leads the way further into his house, his hand still wrapped around mine in a tight grip while he remembers to walk slowly because I am still wearing this massive wedding dress that trails behind me. As we pass the foyer, I find a larger than life living room, scattered with minimalist furniture and a few abstract paintings matching the theme. "Your home is beautiful, Rhys." I tell him, looking at him with the brightest smile that I can muster, unable to keep the excitement out of my voice. He looks back at me and gives me a gruff nod before we take a turn and I find myself standing in front of an elevator. I find Rhys' behavior odd. He was fine till the time we said our vows, but since then, there seemed to be a shift in his mood. Perhaps it was because I was upset since my family did not show up on my special day. Once we step out of the elevator, Rhys takes me to the right side of the hallway and I take in my surroundings, realizing that this will now be my new home and I will curate it with the best of my abilities. This is the place where Rhys and I will grow old in. This is where our children will one day run around, and I'm quite certain, messing up his minimalistic tastes. I myself am a fan of bright and flashy eclectic decor, but ever since Rhys has entered my life, anything else has hardly ever mattered. Rhys walks us quietly to a room in the end of the hallway before coming to a stop in front of a dark coloured door. He pushes it inside and I hold my breath for what is going to be our bedroom. He enters before I do, guiding me in, but the moment I step in through the door and actually get to see the room, my expectations sizzle down by a few notches as I realise that the room does not look anything like it should. For starters, it is smaller than what a master bedroom should look like. But in no shape or form is it insufficient and I know Rhys is not one of the pretentious rich men that I have seen my entire life so I let it subside. But what irks me is the fact that Rhys' room does not look like his at all. It looks nothing like the place I would expect him to spend his nights in. It is bland, and flavourless with beige and cream decors that makes me feel dismayed rather than gleed and satisfied. Realising that Rhys' intense midnight blue eyes are staring at me, watching my expressions and reactions, I plaster a wide grin on my lips as I meet his gaze which always makes my heart race in my chest.  "Is this going to be our room?" I ask him in the best suitable manner, wanting to confirm if this was actually his room or if he was simply giving me a tour of the house. The way he has been silent since the moment we left the reception venue, I have been wondering what exactly has been going on inside his head. Rhys doesn't say anything for a short moment before his hand leaves mine to hang by my side. I don't know why but the gesture feels like a splash of icy cold water to my face as I stare at him wordlessly, unable to comprehend what is going to come out of his mouth next. For the first time since I met him all those months ago, I don't know what he is going to say to me. Even his expression is shrouded and withdrawn, the bright eyed man with a smile charming enough to make me swoon is nowhere near in sight. Standing in his place is a cold and dark shadow, staring at me as if he is repulsed by my very existence. And even analysing every piece of his expression cannot prepare me for the words that come out of his lips next— "Oh, my room is all the way to the opposite side of the house, altogether. I would never stay in a place so..." he scrunches his nose in disgust as he looks around, "...drab. This is going to be your room, Ivy." I stare at him wordlessly, taking in the cruel smirk lining the lips that feel so soft to kiss. His square jaw is pulled taut in a manner that makes him look daunting and harsh, unlike the loving and kind man I had grown to admire. His thick eyebrows are relaxed while his midnight blue eyes shine with tantalising mirth. Rhys has light stubble on the lower half of his face and with his dark hair, slightly longer at the top of his head and trimmed neatly at the sides, he looks like Henry Cavill and Chris Pine had a love child and produced him. With his stunning looks and a six foot five inch height sporting a muscular and chiseled body, he arrived in my life like a hurricane and blew me away with him leaving nothing in the end. But at the moment, the same looks that had once driven me to him, are warning me. My entire body is screaming at me to make a run for it. And I cannot, for the love of everything that is holy under the sun, bring myself to understand why. "What do you mean?" I ask, my voice sounding as afraid as my heart currently feels as we both stare at the man we fell for. His smirk only widens as he takes a step towards me, "you never suspected anything, did you?" He asks me in a dangerous tone. "Suspected what, Rhys?" I question, my voice snapping at the sound of his name as I feel my entire body shaking with fear of the unknown. He reaches out to tuck a loose strand of my hair behind my ear— an action that he has done at least a million times before— but unlike all those other times, my body does not melt in response. Instead, my whole body stiffens. As if it too realizes that this is not the man I fell in love with. "You were always a quest, Arabella." He states in a nonchalant manner. Arabella. Not Ivy. His Ivy. A name that he himself gave me because of the deep and striking green of my eyes. I stare at him, unable to speak or even breathe as he circles around me like a dragon circles his prey. Satisfaction and pride ooze from every step that he takes, like he feels glorious about his accomplishment. "The goal was clear since the day I met you, Arabella. Fall in love with the Mancini heiress and then cut off Dominico Mancini at his knees, along with your foolish brother who prides himself on being his successor." Rhys says, talking about my father and my brother like they are nothing but the scum of the earth as he comes to a stop in front of me, "I mean, I first thought that k********g you was the solution. But when I met you, and realised how big of a romantic fool you were, I knew making you fall in love with me was much easier. It came without the complications of anyone coming to your rescue. And look how wonderfully that worked out." My body is going numb. I am staring at Rhys, I am seeing his face, hearing his voice, but I do not recognise him one bit. I don't see the man who would bring me flowers every time he saw my favourite ones. I don't see the man who danced with me in the rain all those times. I don't see the man who stayed up the entire night when my period pain got so bad that I could not even sleep. I don't see the man who promised me the world on a platter if I ever requested it. In his place is a cruel and vindictive man currently telling me that I was only ever a means to an end for him. I blink my eyes. And still, I don't wake up from this terrible nightmare. "Rhys, what are you talking about? Is this a joke? I swear if this is you messing with me, I will kill you—" I croak as I try to reach out to take his hand in mine but he roughly steps back, leaving my hands hanging in front of me, frozen. He sneers at me, "This is the most serious thing I have ever executed, Mancini!" His voice is so foreign like he...like he hates me. The realisation has my eyes watering but even that sight does nothing to change the harsh lines marring his face. "Your father tried to f**k with the Bratva, Arabella. He tried to f**k with my business. And I will never allow that." He says to me before breaking into a grin, "Fortunately, making you fall for me has estranged your family enough to never come after you, but also, never try anything against me fearing what I might do to you in return." He has a pleased grin curling on his lips as I gape at him in disbelief. "It's a win-win." I stumble backward, like his words are a physical blow to my chest as I watch his face, lacking the love that I saw this morning...hell, even this evening right before saying my vows. We had a sunset wedding because I wanted the golden hour pictures. It was beautiful and magical. But it is only now that I am realising the nightmare that I had stepped into. I shake my head, feeling moisture falling to my lips as I stare at him— the man who once breathed life into me, now staring at me like the messenger of death, all dressed in a black suit and a sharp grin. It was true. Rhys Mikhailov was the head of the Russian Bratva and my father, Dominico Mancini was the head of the Italian mafia. Both the groups had a rivalry spanning generations before them. And in their case, it was my father who had managed to kill Rhys' father, Alexie, because of which Rhys had to take the mantle. When I had first found out about this, it had been because my brother had realised who the man I had begun dating was and had forbidden me from seeing him again. But clearly I didn't listen to him and had believed Rhys when he told me that he was in love with me despite the fact that I was a Mancini. Evidently, I was mistaken. And now, reality sledge hammered its way into the shrine of my love for Rhys and I was left standing on barren soil with no place to call home. "I could still tell my father about all this. He would never spare you for playing with my heart like that." I croak out, my voice heavy. His lips lift up in an amused smile, "you could try. But would he believe you?" He asks me, before snarling, "Welcome to your personal hell, Mancini. You have been of great service." And saying that, Rhys begins to shoulder past me outside of the room.  On instinct, my hand grabs hold of the Glock holstered against his hip as both of us turn to face each other at the same time I swipe his gun out and point it at his head with tears streaking down my eyes. He stares down the barrel of the gun before meeting my gaze for a brief moment as a strange emotion flickers through his eyes before I can pinpoint it. "Go ahead." He accepts, "shoot me. It's not as though I won't deserve it." For a moment I see a sliver of the man I fell in love with, my hand falters and my expressions start contorting into one of relief. But that is when the cruel grin returns, "but the point of making you fall head over heels with me, Arabella, is to avoid exactly this." He says as though he finds it all so amusing and incredible. Incredible that he managed to fool Arabella Mancini. "Go ahead, try pulling the trigger, sweetheart." Even the term of endearment feels like poison to my ears right now. I stare at him with my vision blurring even more as I try to strengthen my resolve to pull the trigger. Like he said, it's not like he won't deserve it. But with immense frustration I realise that I can't. I love him too much to kill him with my bare hands. Even if he has practically buried my love six feet under. A strangled cry escapes my lips as my knees give out from underneath me and I fall straight to the floor. My salty tears stain the ivory dress that I am wearing. Rhys stands there for a moment, I don't know with what expression on his face before he bends down and snatches the gun from my hands. "That's what I thought." And muttering that, he walks out of the room, shutting the door with a bang, and leaving me all alone in this cold and lifeless room. He's gone. He's truly gone. And the realisation does not come easy to accept before a string of sobs and wails escapes through my throat, hitting the walls of the room and probably flitting out the door as well. I cry and I cry and I cry. And when the first rays of dawn begin filtering the room, I realise that I had spent the whole night mourning the loss of a love that was never mine in the first place. That I spent the entire night praying that he would listen to me sobbing and would come running back. Apologise. He never does, though.