Betrothed

Standing anxiously outside her uncle’s imposing office in the church rectory, Amalia tightly folded her trembling hands together. She desperately prayed he wouldn't be angry with her. The frantic rhythm of her heart still battered against her ribs from her terrifying encounter in the shadowed sanctuary just moments ago. The phantom heat of the stranger's breath still scorched her skin, but she forced the illicit memory down, locking it away behind years of ingrained obedience. She had to focus. She was late, and Father Accardi did not tolerate tardiness.

"Are you going to stand out there all day, Amalia?"

His sharp, authoritative voice pierced through the heavy oak door, making her jump. Amalia pushed the door open and stepped onto the worn rug, keeping her gaze respectfully lowered.

"I’m sorry, Father," she murmured immediately.

Her uncle sat entrenched behind his massive wooden desk. Now in his fifties, with silver greying sharply at his temples and a deep, permanent crease wedged between his brows, he radiated a cold, unyielding authority. He stared at her, utterly ignoring her polite pleasantries. "You took your time."

"It was my turn to tidy the practice room. I apologize for the slight delay."

"Sit."

She moved to the hard wooden chair opposite his desk, lowering herself carefully. She arranged her hands primly in her lap, smoothing the fabric of her modest skirt. The office smelled of old parchment and the faint, lingering smoke of church incense. The rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner only amplified the thick tension in the room. Amalia braced herself. She anticipated a routine, harsh lecture regarding some minor religious infraction she might have unknowingly committed—perhaps singing off-key during choir, or lingering too long in the pews.

Instead, her uncle released a heavy, exhausted sigh and finally pinned her with a frigid stare.

"We all come into this world born of sin," he stated bluntly.

Amalia kept her expression carefully neutral, bracing for the lengthy sermon she assumed was coming.

"And you are no exception, Amalia." He leaned forward, steeping his hands together on the polished wood of his heavy desk. His eyes were devoid of any familial warmth. "You know the story. Your mother was coerced by your father to do the unforgivable. To him, it was merely a cruel teenage joke. He was egged on by his malicious friends to seduce the virgin in their class."

Amalia swallowed hard. She had endured hearing this sordid history before, but never with such palpable venom. Her uncle inhaled sharply, his voice dripping with absolute disgust as he regaled her with the horrors of her illicit origins.

"You were born because your father was the worst kind of man," Father Accardi continued, his upper lip curling. "He preyed on a vulnerable, helpless woman. And she? She succumbed to the wickedness of teenage hormones. She lusted like a whore."

"Yes, Father," Amalia whispered. She didn't know how to shut him down once he started on this path. She usually just let the brutal words wash over her, silently reciting prayers in her head until his anger burned out.

But then, he asked a completely foreign question that shattered her sheltered, pious world.

"Do you know the name Valerio Castiglione?"

Amalia blinked, the sharp consonants jarring her out of her submissive daze. "No. Is he... my father?"

Her uncle let out a harsh, bitter laugh. "No. Though I wouldn't be surprised if the man left behind a half-dozen illegitimate offspring from his sick exploits before he died. Valerio is the son of Massimo Castiglione." He watched her face closely, searching for a glimmer of recognition. When she offered none, he pressed further. "Do you know what the mafia is, Amalia?"

A cold chill crawled up her spine. "I know they are criminal organizations. But other than that, no."

"You are far too sheltered here in Providence," he muttered bluntly.

"I choose to live my life to solely honor God," she replied truthfully, looking down at her scuffed shoes. Her entire, isolated existence—from the private all-girls Catholic school when she was five, to the church-affiliated college where she earned her degree as a medical receptionist—had been strictly built around serving the Lord. She knew nothing of the criminal underworld.

"A fat lot of good that is going to do you now," her uncle spat.

Amalia froze. She considered for a moment that she might have misheard him. The vulgarity of the phrase felt wrong coming from a priest. Father Accardi stood up, pacing heavily toward the large window behind his desk.

"I worked hard to be a man of the cloth," he said, staring out at the churchyard. "I always felt strongly that my chastity was of immense value to the Lord. I know it pleases Him. Your mother was weak, letting a man defile her. However, our parents felt differently."

Amalia had never heard him speak so bitterly about her grandparents. The simmering rage rolling off his shoulders was terrifying.

"They felt she was taken advantage of, violated even, despite the fact she parted her legs of her own volition. It didn’t matter that the boy seduced her or made false promises. She chose to get fucked, and then she got knocked up."

Amalia gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. The sheer vulgarity spilling from her uncle’s lips felt like a physical strike.

Her uncle spun around, ignoring her shock. "When you were born, your mother tried to get your father to take responsibility. Instead, he maliciously humiliated her. He caused such a massive scene that she was ready to commit the most egregious of sins. She attempted suicide."

The breath violently left Amalia’s lungs. She did not know this part of her mother’s dark story. A sickening knot formed in her stomach. "She tried to kill herself?"

"Yes. The worm who contributed to your creation told her she should end her life. He said there was no way he would ever accept a child, and he would spend the rest of his days making sure the entire world knew exactly how much of a slut she was. He threatened to release a scandalous, highly damaging video of her online." Father Accardi’s face flushed with lingering outrage. "He was from a high-profile family here in Rhode Island. My father realized the utterly devastating impact this scandal would have on his business, and on my rising career as a man of God. So, he took drastic, violent measures into his own hands."

Amalia gripped the hard edge of her seat, her knuckles turning stark white. What on earth was she supposed to say to this? "Why are you telling me this now?"

"Because you are now twenty-one. Twenty-two in a few months, actually. It is time for you to repay the debt."

"The debt?"

"My father went to Don Massimo Castiglione, the ruthless boss of the Castiglione mafia family, and asked him for help with their situation." Father Accardi sneered in pure contempt. "My father is roasting in hell right now for paying for a man to be murdered simply because his daughter was a modern-day harlot who could not control her own urges."

"Murdered?" Amalia’s voice trembled so violently she could barely form the word.

Her uncle turned to face her completely, his hands clasped tightly behind his back as he glared down at her. "My father asked Don Castiglione to murder your father to save our family from the profound embarrassment of your mother's actions. In exchange for a massive sum of cash and a formal betrothal, the Don accepted the bloody offer."

"Betrothal?" The word echoed in her mind. She sang frequently at weddings in the church, often preparing the delicate banners for announcements of marriage. But in this context, the word sounded like a death sentence.

"Yes. You were offered as a bride to the Don's eldest son and the second-in-command of the Castiglione family, Valerio Castiglione. You have been betrothed to him since you were merely days old."

Pure, unadulterated shock slammed into Amalia's chest.

"Our family was ordered to keep you pure," her uncle revealed, shaking his head.

The horrifying realization crashed over her with the force of a tidal wave. Every harsh punishment, every strict rule, her family's abusive enforcement of her physical purity—none of it had ever truly been for the Lord. It wasn't about faith. It was legally mandated by a deadly mafia contract. She had been raised as nothing more than pristine currency.

"Unfortunately for you," Father Accardi warned harshly, "your husband-to-be does not share any of the Christian values instilled into you since birth. He is corrupted in the most villainous of ways."

Husband-to-be.

Amalia felt as though she were drowning underwater, thrashing blindly against a sudden, suffocating weight crushing her chest. The ringing in her ears grew deafening.

"You will marry Valerio Castiglione in exactly one week from now."

"I don’t want to." She wanted to run out of the room, to flee the church and never look back, but she knew her legs would fail her. She sat glued to the chair, trembling uncontrollably.

"You have absolutely no choice, Amalia." He coldly shut down her desperate plea. "You were part of the very deal used to murder your father and secure the sanctity of our family name. If we renege on this mafia deal, then the three of us—you, your mother, and myself—will all be dealt with."

"Dealt with?" she choked out.

"Killed, Amalia. You don’t mess with a family like this one, and we cannot go against them. They are powerful and dangerous, and frankly, there is absolutely nothing I can do to help you now. The mafia has finally come to collect their long-standing debt." He stood tall, the shadows of the office clinging to his clerical robes. "You will be married next Saturday morning, right here in this church."

He looked down at her small, shaking form. For a fleeting second, his stony expression fractured, offering a final look that bordered dangerously on sympathetic.

"And may God have mercy on your soul."