Housewife

Two months flew by so quickly. It was just endless tears, screaming, and sleepless nights as I counted the days for my wedding day.

Today is the day. August 22nd.

The last time I heard from Saint was two months ago when he nearly suffocated me to death. After that, he disappeared like a ghost. I have not heard from him. Seen him. Or the mentions of his name from me or anyone else in the house. It was as if it’s forbidden to say his name without his presence.

I stand in front of the mirror, staring into the eyes of a lost girl.

The dress I wore was carefully picked out by Krzysztof, the elusive middle Nowak brother. With his busy work schedule, it’s rare to see him, so when he does make an appearance, it’s always a special occasion. And this dress is nothing short of special.

As I slip into the stretchy white fabric, I’m struck by how well it hugs my curves. The silhouette is divine, fitted through the bodice before flaring out in a flattering triangular pattern at the waist. The off-the-shoulder sleeves add an elegant touch to the overall design.

And when I step back to admire the finished look, I can’t help but notice how the dress compliments my light brown skin perfectly. I decided to forego heavy makeup, opting instead for a light dusting of blush and concealer followed by just a bit of mascara. And the finishing touch? A gorgeous rosewood lipstick that brings out the natural beauty of my skin tone. When I saw my uncles earlier they noted that I looked more innocent and submissive to my husband.

Now that I look the part of a submissive housewife all I had to do was play the fucking part.

As I gazed at my reflection in the mirror, I couldn’t help but feel the flutter of butterflies in my stomach, a sense of nervousness that threatened to consume me. Most women would consider this the happiest day of their lives, but to me, it was more like a nightmare.

Anatol had promised to teach me the ways of the mafia wife, and true to his word, each day was filled with lessons on how to be the perfect partner.

His relentless teachings drilled into my mind the five traits I was expected to embody religiously –

obedience, silence, sweetness, purity, and of course, physical beauty.

It was suffocating, the thought of being confined to these rigid expectations, but I knew that the consequences of falling short would be dire.

So I tried my best to suppress my emotions and learn how to play my role in this dangerous game.

Despite my skepticism towards marriage, I reluctantly became a pawn in this game, bending to the will of Saint and avoiding any potential consequences. My happiness seemed secondary, a mere afterthought in the pursuit of appeasing my husband’s ego. According to them, I was merely a tool for their pleasure; as a woman, my needs and desires were deemed unimportant.

Lost in my thoughts, I was interrupted by a gentle knock on the door.

‘Come in,’ I called out wearily. The door creaked open to reveal the figure of Gloria, an elderly woman whose hair bore the marks of time in its powdery whiteness and whose eyes were etched with fatigue. Her appearance was that of a weathered parchment, aged and creased, yet her clothes were pristine – a crisp white blouse and a long, delicate floral dress adorned her frail frame.

Her thick sandals made a soft shuffling sound on the hardwood floors as she approached me with a knowing look in her eyes as if she understands the weight of my troubles.

‘Miss, it’s time. The ceremony is about to begin,’ whispered Gloria, her voice trembling with fragility. I let out a heavy sigh, feeling defeated before even starting.

‘Don’t worry, Gloria. I’ll be there in a minute,’ I reassured her, giving her a warm smile that softened her tired eyes.

‘You look simply radiant, Miss. Saint Dé Leon is a lucky man,’ Gloria beamed, making my heart flutter with venom. ‘Thank you, Gloria. You’re too kind,’ I replied, feeling my cheeks flush with gratitude as she closed the door behind her.

Gazing at my reflection, I couldn’t help but ponder how I ended up here.

Today was the beginning of a new chapter in my life.

As I stepped out of the room, every step felt like a journey towards my destiny, the moment I would say ‘I do’ and start anew.

I clutched the bouquet in a white-knuckled grip, unable to bear even a glance at the crowd before me. The sweet strains of Le cygne by Camille Saint filled the room, slicing through my nerves like a blade. Slowly, slowly, the double doors creaked open, revealing a path leading to my soon-to-be husband, ready and waiting.

‘Be careful, Irena. Mess this up and there’ll be serious consequences,’

murmured Grzegorz, his hand slipping around my arm in a sickeningly familiar gesture.

I shivered at his touch, bile rising in my throat. With each step down the pitch-black carpet, a tidal wave of panic threatened to crash over me. The guests murmured and whispered amongst themselves, a low drone that echoed in my ears. But I gritted my teeth, determined not to let my fear consume me. My gaze remains fixated on the bouquet, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. I whisper a silent mantra to myself, urging my composure to hold strong amidst the emotional whirlwind brewing within.

I can feel the lump in my throat growing, threatening to unleash a gut-wrenching cry. I’ve been holding on for so long, but now it feels like I’m on the brink of crumbling.

The notes of the music mingle with the sound of my pain as a stifled sob escapes my lips. It’s a fleeting moment, but it seems to hang over the congregation like a cloud.

This day was supposed to be a celebration of love, but all I can feel is the weight of loss. The realization that my freedom is gone hits me like a ton of bricks.

As Grzegorz takes hold of my hand, he lifts my veil and presses a kiss to my forehead. I fight back the instinct to recoil, my stomach turning inside out.

The feeling of being violated repeatedly takes over, and I fear I may not be able to hold it in much longer.

As if from nowhere, gleaming shoes appear before me. Saint clasps my hand and guides me with a gentle arm around his as we approach the priest.

But inside, I am falling apart.

‘Today, we come together to witness the holy bond between Saint Dé Leon and Irena Rabia Nowak,’ the priest announces.

Despite the words, all I hear is a fuzzy hum in my ears. Time ticks by with each pulsating thud of my heart beating. The seconds are slipping through my fingers like sand cascading through an hourglass.

Turning to meet the gaze of my betrothed, tears blur my vision. The world around me fades into shadow as my heart aches with a deep, black emptiness.

My stomach tightens into a taut knot, tears roll down my cheeks in a silent torrent, and my breathing becomes rapid and harsh. My heart beats harder against my ribcage, while my throat closes up with an uneasy catch.

As I blink, my gaze zeroes in on the man standing before me.

Saint.

The way the light plays on the scar that stretches across his face amplifies his already daunting aura. In that moment, realization dawns on me—I am the one responsible for that scar.

The priest’s voice breaks my trance-like state, and I hear him utter the words that shake me to the core. ‘Saint, repeat after me.’ I can’t help but shudder. My breath catches in my throat, and my heart seems to stop beating.

‘I, Saint Dé Leon, take thee, Irena Rabia Nowak, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward… for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish. Till death do us part.’

As he finishes, I can’t help but feel like he’s delivering a twisted promise.

One I don’t think I’m ready to keep.

His eyes are laser-focused on me, a piercing gaze that could cut through steel. His features are hard and unyielding, like chiselled stone. There’s a dangerous aura emanating from him, a warning to anyone foolish enough to come too close.

As I stand at the altar, tears streaming down my face, I can feel his stare on me like a weight. I know that he takes pleasure in my pain, that he relishes in the thought of making my life a living hell.

The priest’s voice echoes through the chapel, his words ringing in my ears.

I feel like I’m under some sort of evil spell, one that’s driving me towards my own destruction. My lips part mechanically, and I begin to recite the haunting vow that will bind me to this man for eternity.

Saint’s eyes glinted with an emotion I couldn’t discern as I uttered the fateful words, ‘Till death do us part.’

His silence hangs heavy in the air, a question hovering between us.

‘Do you take Irena Rabia Nowak as your wife?’ the priest repeats, breaking the silence.

For a moment, we’re frozen in time, staring at each other. I can feel his gaze boring into me, searching for something I can’t quite name. And then, with a slow nod of his head, he speaks the words that will seal both our fates.

“I do.”

“Irena, do you take Saint Dé Leon as your husband?”

My heart danced a wild rhythm in my chest, threatening to burst from the immense tension. I stood there, wide-eyed, brimming with incredulity and horror, my mouth agape, ready to utter the damning words that would shackle me forever.

A feeble droplet trickled down my cheek, as I surrendered to my fate with a barely audible whisper, ‘I do.’

The holy man raised his voice, his words ringing with finality, ‘I now declare you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.’

As the congregation erupted into applause, Saint, my new husband, laid his gentle hands on my quivering shoulders and leaned in. I squeezed shut my eyes as his lips collided with mine, a scream caught in my throat.

But, in that instant, seething fury engulfed me, the tears drying on my face.

I held back a shudder as my skin crawled with abhorrence.

Saint pulLs back, peering down at me with a curious expression. A volley of emotions bombarded me, as my fury for the man battled with the magnetic attraction that pulled me towards him.

‘Smile Doe, wouldn’t want everyone to notice that the bride is in a grumpy mood,’ he murmured, enfolding his arm around my waist. I recoiled with rage, shaking off his touch. ‘Don’t you dare touch me,’ I spat at him.

Saint arched an eyebrow, looking amused. ‘Well, well, the little bird does have a voice,’ he teases. ‘I hate you, Saint,’ I fumed, turning to leave him waiting at the altar, unfazed by the attention from everyone.

All I wanted at that moment was to escape, to be as far away from the crowd as possible – especially from my new husband.

“Drink. You look tense.” Saint’s mellifluous voice caresses my ears like a lullaby, as he slides me a drink, the bottom of the glass fogging up immediately. Cast in a sea of jabbering guests, I feel choked, like I’m wading through a swamp, my exhaustion palpable.

“I hate these things,” I remark coldly, relishing the stony look on Saint’s face.

“Why are you staying if these things are such an agony to you? You could run away,” he said calmly. My lips pressed together as I looked at him intently. “It’s not that easy, Saint. I don’t have that luxury like you do.”

Without paying attention to his retort, I snatched the drink from his hands and downed it in one swift gulp. The burning sensation trickled down my neck, and I savoured every bit of it. Crossing my arms, I continued to gaze at the guests, ignoring Saint’s presence.

Awkward silence loomed over us as we sat at the bridal table, staring at the folks who attended this cursed wedding. Suddenly, a male voice exclaimed,

“There’s the star of the night!” I turned to look at Saint, only to find a man with a beaming smile headed our way.

His lustrous locks are slicked back, framing those captivating jade eyes that beam with unadulterated confidence. The chiselled jawline and light stubble adorning his face bear an uncanny resemblance to Saint – it’s clear they share the same gene pool.

“That’s my younger brother, Abel,” Saint whispers to me, his eyes fixated on the approaching figure.

As Abel walks over and shakes Saint’s hand, my heart races with anticipation. He leans in to plant a kiss on my cheek, but I quickly dodge it, much to his chagrin. An expression of mild confusion spreads across his face as he tilts his head to the side, searching for an answer.

But I’m only left squirming in discomfort, darting my tongue out to moisten my dry lips.

“Germaphobe,” I mumble sheepishly, as Abel stares at me dumbfounded.

And all the while, I feel Saint’s watchful gaze fixed on me with unwavering intensity.

Abel’s demeanour shifted abruptly as he turned to Saint, his once-soft features contorted into a stern mask. Saint, taken aback by the sudden change, furrowed his brow and quizzically inquired, “What’s the matter?”

Abel’s urgent tone betrayed the gravity of the situation. “I need to speak with you in private,” he exclaimed. With a wry grin, he quipped, “Don’t worry, lil sis-in-law, I’ll be back soon.”

Saint stood up, cinching his tie tightly before leaving. As he left, I remained at the imposing dining table, exasperatedly fiddling with my fork.

With a deep sigh, I muttered, “I can’t wait to go home and get some rest.”

As I lounged in my own company, a soothing ambiance shattered when I noticed my tense uncle Grzegorz sauntering my way, his fake smile ready to deceive. His fixed gaze, however, betrayed his intentions as he dashed to the vacant seat beside me, his smile fading as his pace hastened.

“Where’s Saint?” he inquired, his patience running thin.

I glared at him, my voice dripping with animosity. “He’s not here, so go bother someone else.” I could’ve sworn Anatol’s torment had rubbed off on me, making me want to tell him to piss off in more colourful words.

Grzegorz’s grip on his wine glass tightened as his jaw twitched. “Irena,” he warned, inching closer to me. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. “I don’t know where he is,” I asserted bluntly.

Within a hair’s breadth, he stooped low to my face, spraying alcohol fumes at me. “You little brat, if you don’t tell me where Saint is, I will-”

My eyes went wide when Grzegorz was snatched away from me by his neck.

Saint’s words dripped with a quiet rage, as he confronted Grzegorz with a grip that yanked his hair. “You must have some massive balls to threaten her,”

he said softly, almost lovingly. Yet his eyes, dark and penetrating, promised a level of violence that would make the bravest man tremble.

I shuddered at the sight, watching as Saint leaned in closer, his grin a predator’s baring of fangs. “Threaten her again and I’ll show you just how little those fingers of yours matter,” he said, his voice a low rumble in the tense air. My skin crawled with goosebumps as Saint stared down at Grzegorz, savouring the fear he saw there.

It was then I realized something that chilled me even more. Saint didn’t merely tolerate pain – he relished it, revelled in it. The knowledge that he enjoyed the sight of suffering made my heart stutter and my palms slick with sweat.

The memory of that evening in the study from two months back still sends shivers down my spine. I vividly remember his grip on my neck, tight and unyielding, almost as if he was savouring the sensation of my pulse beating beneath his fingers. And when I dared to scratch him, the pleasure on his face was undeniable – my pain seemed to fuel his delight.

Now, as I watch him with a mix of disgust and fear, I can see the same twisted satisfaction in his eyes as he threatens Grzegorz’s life. The thought that such horrors could bring him pleasure sends a cold chill down my spine.

Saint is a sadist.

The darkness within him is far more twisted than I ever could have imagined.

“I wasn’t threatening her I-I was just asking for you,” Grzegorz stammered, his voice quivering. “Saint, back off,” I commanded, guarding Grzegorz from further harm.

Even though a twisted part of me wanted to watch Grzegorz suffer, I knew it would lead to consequences. After all, Saint wouldn’t take kindly to his brutal beating. Which will lead to Grzegorz not taking kindly to beating the shit out of me and blaming me for getting beat up by Saint.

Saint’s eyes darted towards me, a glimmer of amusement dancing in their depths. My gaze never wavered, only fueling his curiosity. With a swift blow to Grzegorz’s face, Saint released his grip on Grzegorz. My fists clenched with fury. “I told you to let him go!” I seethed.

The hush of onlookers lingered in the air, witnessing our intense confrontation. Saint readjusted his jacket, taunting me. “But I did let him go,”

he teased. “Saint, he’s my uncle!” I howled in anger.

Saint loomed over me, his presence almost suffocating. I couldn’t help but inhale his intoxicating scent, a heady blend of spicy smoke and musk. My mouth watered, and I fought to keep my composure under his intense gaze.

His eyes darkened, and he spoke with a low, dangerous edge. “I don’t like him, and no one threatens my wife and lives to see another day.”

I trembled slightly, caught off guard by his sudden protectiveness. But before I could reply, he added, “And don’t you dare raise your voice at me, Irena.”

Saint silenced my protest with a swift glare, his stern gaze enough to make my words wither away on my tongue. He acted fast, shedding his jacket and draping it over me, shielding me from the icy air. I couldn’t help but notice how he seemed to avoid any contact with my skin.

“Let’s go,” his voice cut through the tense atmosphere, commanding me to follow him.

I took one last look at Grzegorz, sprawled on the floor, and fought the urge to laugh. With a shaky breath, I stepped behind Saint as we made our way out of the ballroom. The weight of countless eyes followed us, their judgement was palpable.

I cleared my throat nervously, preparing to exit the grand ballroom trailing behind Saint. It felt as though every pair of eyes in the room followed us as we made our way out. Stepping into the bitter winter air of Poland, I pulled Saint’s coat closer around me. The sky above was a vast expanse of midnight blue, with twinkling stars that seemed to dance and a bright moon that shone like a heavenly eye.

As we stepped outside, we were met by two muscle-bound guards. One had long, flowing hair styled in a risky mullet, while the other boasted a wild mane of ginger curls. “Your flight to French Polynesia is ready, sir,” the ginger-haired guard announced, his Irish accent adding a hint of charm to his words.

Saint was quick to take charge, pulling out his phone and issuing orders.

“Take Mrs. Dé Leon with you,” he instructed. “I have some important business to attend to first, but I’ll catch up with you both later.”

“One last thing. Don’t touch her.” My eyebrows furrow in response to his declaration, a subtle sign that he remembers the smallest details about me. Of course, it’s not every day that you confess to being a germaphobe to someone you barely know. But as far as he’s concerned, I’m a woman who values hygiene above all else. Little does he know, it’s just a white lie.

As we stand there, two powerful SUVs glide up to us, bringing with them two of Saint’s most reliable and trusted men. His voice cuts through the air before I can even process what’s happening. “Noel and Tyler will keep you safe. We’ll meet at the airport,” he assures me, not giving me a chance to argue. And just like that, he’s gone, leaving me to watch in awe as the car carrying him disappears into the horizon.

“Let’s go, Mrs. Dé Leon,” the brunette guard enunciated, trying to take charge of the situation. I can’t help but scrunch up my nose at the way he addresses me. Who knew that a simple title could be so off-putting?

“I am Tyler and that is Noel.”

“Nice to meet you Tyler,” I say with a gentle tilt of my head. Noel, on the other hand, shuffled eye-rolls like a deck of cards before clamouring into the vehicle. “Enough with the tea party manners, let’s go,” he barked upon slamming the door. Tyler coughs apologetically to break the ice.

“Don’t take him personally. He’s about as sociable as a brick wall,” Tyler quipped while offering me the backdoor. I slide into the backseat, gratefully thanking him as I fasten my safety belt. As soon as Tyler takes his spot, Noel abandons the curb and peels out of the parking lot.

With a heavy sigh, I glance at the towering brick building. It represented one of my worst days ever. My shoulders drop and I press my weary head against the cool glass window, wishing for a quick reprieve. Within moments, my eyes drifted closed, succumbing to the slumber that promised to be a temporary refuge from the mess I found myself in.

As a loud clamour disrupted my peaceful slumber, my eyes slowly fluttered open.

Suppressing a yawn, I shielded my face from the intrusive light as I stumbled out of the vehicle while Noel courteously held the door ajar.

Moving forward, my heart raced as Tyler materialized by my side, gesturing towards a luxurious jet that sat in the distance. ‘Mr. Dé Leon awaits your arrival,’ he announced with a solemn expression. Nodding, I expressed gratitude to the watchful guards and followed the crew member into the private jet.

The opulent interior of the aircraft made me feel as though I had been transported into an alternate universe. Plush seats crafted from sumptuous leather lined the perimeter, while the floor was so polished that I could even glimpse my own reflection. The walls were adorned with impressive smooth wood and the ambiance was illuminated by delicate tulip-shaped lights, casting an amber glow upon the space. Despite being overawed by the lavish surroundings, a familiar scent assailed my senses, causing my body to go rigid.

Saint.

“Did you enjoy your nap?” Saint’s deep, throaty voice sent a chill down my spine. My mouth went dry and my heart raced as I tried to resist his intoxicating scent. A part of me was drawn to him, while the rest screamed to push him away.

Despite my loathing for him, I kept my cool and walked over to a plush seat next to the window. Gazing out at the dark night sky, I watched as the plane ascended into the heavens. Suddenly, a glass of bourbon appeared on the table next to me, followed by Saint taking a seat opposite me.

‘I didn’t ask for a drink,’ I uttered, my eyes still fixed on the outside world.

‘I’m aware, but your expression told me otherwise,’ he remarked bluntly, causing me to roll my eyes in annoyance.

“Why did you lie?”

With a furrowed brow, I turned to face him, ready to put this conversation to rest.

‘What?’ I asked, my mind racing with questions. Saint shot me a sly glance before speaking, casting a shadow over our once playful banter. ‘At the wedding, you disrespected my brother,’ he said, his words sharp and calculated.

My arms wrapped tightly around me, I licked my lips nervously, taken aback by his sudden coldness. ‘What are you talking about?’ I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

With a slow and deliberate sip of his drink, Saint’s eyes never left mine.

‘You know exactly what I’m talking about, Irena,’ he said, his tone heavy with disappointment. ‘If we want this marriage to work, we need to be honest with each other. And your behaviour is going to be a problem.’

“You’ll have to be more specific, Saint.”

Saint’s eyes flickered behind his veil as he addressed me with a hint of hesitation. ‘You evaded my brother’s greeting at the wedding,’ he said, his voice carrying with it a sense of curiosity. ‘I told you already, I’m a germaphobe.’

He raised an eyebrow, skeptical. ‘You call yourself a germaphobe, yet you had no problems drinking from my glass earlier.’ He set down the glass on the table and began to loosen his tie. ‘So, what’s really going on, petite biche?’

Nervously, I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and looked away. His gaze was intimidating, to say the least. ‘I just don’t like being touched,’ I murmured. He leaned in, his voice deepening with interest. ‘Why not?’

I shut down the conversation as quickly as it had started. ‘I just don’t like it,’ I snapped, my thoughts lingering on my previous husband and the abuse I had endured at his hands.

Saint’s piercing gaze met mine and I found myself lost in his striking features once again, his scar only adding to his rugged allure. ‘You like pain,’

I blurted out, my eyes locked on his.

He took a long sip from his glass, his jaw tight with frustration. ‘Who said I like pain?’ he retorted, his voice laced with annoyance.

Despite his protests, I couldn’t help but feel drawn to him – the danger that seemed to hover around him like an electrifying force, the way he wore his scars like badges of honour. I knew I was playing with fire, but I couldn’t seem to tear myself away from the heat.

With a scoff and eye roll, I brush off his question. ‘Saint, do not mistake my appearance for ignorance. Remember our first encounter when you nearly ended my life? It is that very moment that defines you-‘

“I didn’t almost kill you, Irena. Don’t insult me like that, I was simply putting you to sleep.” he shrugs.

He can’t be serious.

As my eyes darted towards the oppressive figure in front of me, I felt a flicker of disgust and fury stirring inside me. I took a deep breath and made a firm decision – I wouldn’t subject myself to his toxicity for another second.

Without a word, I release myself from the shackles of my seatbelt and strode towards the opposite end of the plane, my eyes searching for any possible escape. Finally, I spotted a seat that was – as far away from him as possible.

It was time to assert my strength and independence. This man might be my supposed ‘better half,’ but he couldn’t control me like a puppet on a string. I deserved more than that. I deserved respect, adoration, love – everything that bubbled inside me but withered in his presence.

He might be a ruthless mobster, but I wouldn’t let that diminish the fire within me. Not now, not ever. And so I vowed to stand up to this bully –

not just for myself, but for every woman who had been burned by toxic masculinity. History would not repeat itself.

Not again.

Someday, Saint will wake up and realize that I am not some meek little housewife to be bossed around. It’s a lofty ambition, but one that I am determined to achieve. But as always, the obstacle to my dreams stands before me, a grin stretched wide. ‘You really are something else, Irena,’ he states, his voice grating on my nerves. I try to ignore him, but he continues to loom over me, taking a seat with all the grace of a bull in a china shop. ‘I don’t want you here,’ I spit out, my patience wearing thin. A wicked glint flashes in his eyes. ‘You know, people who give me attitude tend to end up with broken bones,’ he warns.

‘Well, I guess I’m lucky then,’ I spit back, refusing to be intimidated.

‘Should I also thank you for your generous offer to not fracture my bones?’

Saint’s jaw tightened as he impatiently flicked back his unruly hair. ‘I’m trying to have a civilized conversation with you, but you’re acting like a bratty child,’ he growled with frustration.

Huffing incredulously, I shot him a withering look. ‘Do you ever stop to think that I didn’t sign up for this? That there is nothing in this world that would make me want to be married to you? Nothing! But, here we are, and I am stuck in this arrangement. So pardon me if I’m not skipping around, singing your praises. You want me to kiss your ass, just because we’re married? Fine. But don’t expect me to be happy about it. Because none of this makes me happy.’

As I vented my frustrations, hot tears spilled down my cheeks, betraying my true emotions. Saint observed me in silence, his expression unreadable.

I quickly wiped away the evidence of my vulnerability, refusing to meet his gaze.

As I sat there, broken and messed up, I couldn’t help but feel embarrassed when his eyes met mine. My heart ached with shame as I whispered, ‘Ju-just leave me alone.’ At that moment, all I wanted was to curl up and disappear.

Without a word, Saint rose from his seat and walked away, leaving me to confront my feelings on my own.