Married to the Billionaire Mafia Don

Ivy's heart pounded in her chest as she knocked on Lorenzo's door.

No response.

She knocked again, this time with more resolve.

The door opened a crack, and then Lorenzo appeared, wearing a black tee and joggers. His hair was tousled, his eyes slightly red.

"Ivy," he said flatly. "It's late."

She looked up at him, hands curled into fists at her sides. "I know. But I need to talk to you," she replied.

Lorenzo didn't move aside. He just stared at her, as if calculating the inconvenience. Then he opened the door wider.

His suite was a contrast of sharp edges and warm lighting. Clean lines, dark woods, leather, and steel. A glass of bourbon sat on the table beside an open laptop.

"Talk," he said, walking back inside and leaving the door open.

Ivy stepped in slowly, arms crossed. "You've been avoiding me," she declared.

"I've been working," Lorenzo countered.

"You could've checked in," said Ivy. "You could've said something. Anything."

Lorenzo turned to her, arms crossed now. "Ivy, this is what we agreed to. A marriage of convenience. I didn't sign up for morning cuddles or nightly check-ins."

"I'm not asking for cuddles. I'm asking for basic human interaction," she snapped.

"Then find something to occupy your time. A hobby, perhaps," Lorenzo retorted unapologetically. "Take Gigi shopping if you're bored."

"Who?" Ivy asked irritably.

"Giulia," said Lorenzo. "She loves shopping. You can join her tomorrow for that. Tab's on me, of course."

Ivy's nostrils flared. "Do I look like someone who wants to spend afternoons comparing handbags?"

Lorenzo smirked faintly, not unkindly. "You're right. You're more of the punch-someone-in-the-face type."

Ivy didn't smile.

Lorenzo's smirk disappeared too. "Look, this is exactly what you agreed to. Don't pretend you didn't know the terms."

"I didn't agree to being treated like a ghost," Ivy snapped.

Lorenzo sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Ivy, this arrangement works better when we both keep our distance. You wanted security. A roof over your head. An escape from whatever mess you came from. I gave you that."

Ivy's jaw clenched. "And in return, I became your invisible bride."

Lorenzo walked to the table and tapped a key on the open laptop. Its screen came to life instantly.

"You wanted to talk," he finally said. "We've talked. Now, if you don't mind, I have work to finish. And next time, don't show up at my door uninvited. Better yet, send a message through Anna."

Ivy blinked at him, stunned. "I didn't think you could be this cold."

Lorenzo met her gaze without flinching and said, "Then you haven't been paying attention."

Ivy was speechless. How did she convince herself that marrying this icy man was a good idea?

"Goodnight, Ivy. You can leave now," Lorenzo said coolly.

It was a dismissal, and it stung. Like crazy.

With nothing else left to be said, Ivy turned around stiffly and walked out of Lorenzo's suite, every step echoing with the sharp sting of his words.

Back in her suite, Ivy stood in the center of the room, too angry to cry, and too tired to scream in frustration.

So, this was her new life.

Married. Rich. And completely, utterly alone.

---------------

The days passed with a cruel sameness that made Ivy question if she'd truly escaped her past or simply traded one prison for another.

Each morning, Anna would knock gently and wake her up with a murmured "Good morning, Signora," followed by the routine of picking out clothes for Ivy to wear.

Ivy would sit at the breakfast table in the Martinelli mansion's formal dining room or the solarium, where either Olivia or Isabella would already be seated, both impeccably dressed and equally cold. Sometimes, Gigi joined them, breezing in and out with barely a glance at Ivy's way.

The conversations around the table rarely included her. Olivia would talk about upcoming charity events or the occasional adjustments she'd made to the family menu for the week.

Isabella would share snide remarks or laugh about people Ivy didn't know, and when Ivy tried to speak up, her comments were met with polite silence or half-hearted nods.

After breakfast, Anna would follow her back to her suite, offering to run baths, choose outfits, or bring her books. Ivy often declined. She didn't want pampering. She wanted purpose. Or at least the presence of her husband.

After that humiliating encounter with Lorenzo in his suite, Ivy had resolved to leave him alone to preserve what little shred of dignity she had left.

Lunch was always a solitary affair. Anna would wheel in a cart with various lunch options that Ivy barely touched. She would eat in silence by the window, watching the trimmed gardens outside and the peacocks strutting along the marble paths.

Dinner was worse. The entire Martinelli clan, except Lorenzo, gathered at the long formal table. Sometimes, Salvatore would join them and sit at the head, his presence sharp and commanding despite his physical frailty.

He would try to include Ivy in the conversations with polite questions, and Giulia would roll her eyes at everything Ivy said. Olivia would snort with disgust while Isabella snickered.

Ken - the oily, arrogant husband of Isabella - would leer at Ivy and make crude jokes that only he found funny. Ivy wondered why the family put up with his nonsense. How did he even convince Isabella to marry him?

The days passed like this, same routine, same cringeworthy family gatherings. By the eighth day, Ivy had had enough.

She stared at herself in the mirror. The woman looking back at her wore silk robes, gold-plated slippers, and diamond earrings. But behind the glamor was a hollow shell. She didn't recognize herself.

"I need air," she muttered.

Ivy dressed in a simple sundress, slipped on flat sandals, and headed downstairs. Anna offered to accompany her, but Ivy declined.

"I'll be fine. I just want to take a walk," she said.

The estate's grounds were expansive, but Ivy didn't want to roam the gardens. She needed to leave. To feel life again.

When she reached the main gates, she smiled at the two guards stationed in the booth.

"I'd like to go out for a bit," she said calmly.

The chief security officer, a tall man with a stony expression, stepped forward and shook his head.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. Mr. Martinelli has given strict instructions. You're not allowed to leave the estate without his permission."

Ivy blinked. "Excuse me?"

The man didn't flinch. "We can contact him if you like," he said.

"No," Ivy snapped, her face flushing. "I don't need permission to take a walk. I'm his wife, not his prisoner."

"I understand, ma'am, but orders are orders," the man said firmly.

Rage bubbled inside her, and just as she turned to storm back toward the house, a sleek black SUV pulled up beside her. The window rolled down to reveal Giulia lounging in the backseat, sunglasses perched on her head like a crown.

"Ivy?" she said in mock surprise. "Why are you loitering like a homeless person?"

Ivy's fists clenched. "Why are you allowed to leave but I'm not?"

Giulia laughed, a tinkling, mocking sound. "Because I'm not in captivity," she said gleefully and motioned to her driver. The gates opened effortlessly for her vehicle.

Ivy stood there seething, watching the SUV glide out like a royal carriage while she was left in the dust.

On the walk back, she fought back tears. Her heart pounded with frustration. Every hallway, every painted wall, every polished floor reminded her that she was trapped.

As she reached the mansion's steps, a tall figure in a red pantsuit descended from the foyer. It was Chloe.

Ivy paused at the base of the stairs. "Do you live here too?" she asked bluntly.

Chloe offered her a tight smile. "Of course. I have my own suite. Lorenzo needs me to be available at all times."

Ivy's jaw tightened. "Right. Of course, he does."

Chloe's gaze slid over Ivy as she asked, "Was there something you needed?"

"Yes," Ivy snapped. "I need Lorenzo's personal number. I don't have it."

Chloe tilted her head and said, "If he wanted you to have it, he would've given it to you."

That statement stung more than Ivy expected. Trying not to show it, she exhaled through her nose.

"Well, since I'm clearly not allowed to leave this place, any suggestions on how I should entertain myself?"

Chloe smiled sweetly. "Why not explore the mansion? Wing by wing. That should keep you busy for a while."

Ivy glared at Chloe. "Did you really just say that?"

Chloe didn't answer. She simply smirked and walked away, her heels clicking like exclamation marks against the marble.

This has got to be a bad joke, Ivy thought.

Was this really her life now? Her, the street-smart girl who has been the only final authority in her life for the past nine years? What had she done to herself this time?

Back in her suite, Ivy slammed the door shut. Anna peeked out from the adjoining room but said nothing.

Ivy threw off her dress, kicked away her shoes, and collapsed onto the bed. Her arms were trembling. Her throat ached. She wasn't the crying type, but the tears forming behind her eyes were real.

She turned on her side, stared at the wall, and let her thoughts go blank until sleep took her.

Ivy didn't know how long she had been asleep when her phone buzzed sharply beside her. She grabbed it.

Hidden Number.

Frowning, she answered.

"Ivy."

It was Lorenzo's voice, cold and controlled.

Ivy sat up. "Where the hell have you been?" she demanded.

"I've been working," he said flatly. "Chloe told me about your attempt to leave the property. That's not part of our agreement."

"Our agreement didn't include imprisonment," Ivy shouted. "I'm not some doll you tuck away in a glass box!"

Lorenzo ignored that. "You're bored. I understand. I've sent you two million dollars. Check your account."

"What?"

"Spend it," he continued calmly. "Order whatever you want. From anywhere. It'll be delivered to the house."

"I don't want your damned money, Lorenzo-"

The line went dead.

Ivy stared at the phone, her heart thudding.

Two million dollars.

She was a prisoner. A well-fed, silk-robed, diamond-draped prisoner.

And for the first time in her life, Ivy experienced the beginning of what some might call depression.