“I Shouldn’t Want You”—the Mafia Princess Confessed to Her Family’s Sworn Enemy
I never thought I would ever see him again. The world I was born into did not allow for second chances, nor did it forgive the crossing of invisible lines drawn in blood and tradition. My father had raised me from childhood to view the Russians as sworn enemies, dangerous and entirely forbidden. Yet, three years after that unforgettable night in Monaco, the piercing look in Maxim Volkov’s grey eyes still haunted the quietest corners of my memory.
At the time, I was engaged to another man, bound to an ally of my family in an arrangement designed solely to protect our surname and secure our territories. It was a union meant to suffocate any personal desire before it could even take root, wrapping me in a gilded cage of mafia obligations. But the moment Maxim walked into that grand hall, every instinct inside me rebelled against the destiny mapped out for my life. I knew that yielding to him could set two powerful families ablaze, yet marrying a man I despised would destroy me from the inside out.
The heavy burgundy fabric of the dress squeezed tighter than the family expectations, the rigid corset biting into my ribs as if it possessed a cruel intuition of its own. Bianca, my closest confidant and sharp-witted friend, stood nearby holding a glass of cheap wine, watching the engagement fitting with a cynical expression. She remarked that an arranged marriage was the ultimate birth control of the century because it extinguished a woman’s spirit long before she ever had the chance to live. Outside the tall studio windows, Manhattan burned under a late afternoon sun that sliced the Fifth Avenue skyscrapers into sharp amber slivers.
None of it belonged to me, neither the restrictive dress, nor the uncomfortable shoes, nor the life being constructed around my name. The seamstress smoothed the fabric over my hip with discreet, practiced fingers, treating my body like an unwanted package wrapped for delivery. I refused to look into the mirror because I already knew the reflection waiting there: the obedient princess of the Italian Mafia, the future Mrs. Ferretti. Burgundy was the sacred color of our house, and hidden deep within the lining was our olive crest, a reminder that what mattered most in our world always stayed buried where nobody else could see.
Bianca noticed my sudden paleness and urged me to run, reminding me that her father was a lawyer and we still had time to disappear before nightfall. But the event venue that was rightfully mine by inheritance remained locked away in my father’s safe because my mother had passed away before signing the final transfer over. If I ran away, Salvatore Bellavita would simply hand the entire operation over to someone else, leaving me with nothing. The armored car waited at the curb outside, sent by a father who delivered his own daughter to a gilded noose while expecting gratitude for the ride.
When I stepped down to the lobby, my father was already waiting with the unmistakable scent of old cigarettes and Piedmont wine clinging to his dark suit. He told me I looked beautiful, though his eyes remained fixed on the tinted window rather than my face, noting that Rocco would certainly approve. Every contract surrounding my existence was designed to cement our dominance, including clauses that handed our lucrative New Jersey routes to my groom if I happened to die in childbirth. I had read every line of those dense legal documents since I turned eighteen, painfully aware that I belonged to a family that routinely buried its daughters for convenience.
The sprawling Long Island mansion appeared at the end of the private drive, lit up like a stranded ocean liner surrounded by black security cars and guards in sharp suits. Rocco Ferretti waited at the top of the grand marble staircase, wearing a flawless black suit and a smile measured precisely for official photographs. His hands gripped my elbow with an unnecessary firmness, his fingers digging into my bones with an overfamiliarity he had not yet earned. The main hall swallowed us whole with its brilliant crystal chandeliers, white-draped tables, and six hundred guests half-known to my father’s inner circle.
Rocco handed me a glass of bitter Piedmont wine, proposing a toast to our future while smiling like a man who already claimed absolute victory. I forced a polite smile and took a small sip, mentally counting down the agonizing hours until I could finally shed the suffocating corset in the privacy of my bedroom. Without warning, the heavy main doors swung open, violating the rigid script of the evening as security guards froze in place. A tall figure stepped into the hall, standing six-foot-two in a sharp black suit with no tie, his white shirt open at the collar.
Maxim Volkov surveyed the room with effortless authority, the orthodox cross tattooed on his forearm visible beneath his cuff as my grip on the crystal glass loosened completely. A small drop of burgundy wine spilled onto the pristine white marble floor, staining the surface while my heart hammered frantically against my ribs. Three years had passed since our fleeting encounter on that Mediterranean balcony, yet his cold, closed grey eyes remained entirely unchanged, instantly reviving every suppressed heartbeat. Rocco noticed my sudden paleness and demanded to know if I recognized the uninvited intruder, his voice carrying the dangerous tone of an auditor inspecting a flawed ledger.
My father marched across the room with Don Alberto right behind him, exchanging a brief, intense sentence with the Russian before pointing firmly toward the exit. Maxim tilted his head with mocking politeness, spoke a final few words, and my father’s gaze swept the hall until it locked directly onto mine. Rocco tightened his grip on my elbow into a punishing vice, demanding confirmation while Maxim slowly turned his head to watch my fiancé’s aggressive hold. The string quartet continued playing their cheerful waltz, oblivious to the fact that the entire atmosphere had just turned glacial.
Needing air before the suffocating corset or Rocco’s possessive grip completely broke my resolve, I excused myself and slipped through the rear French doors onto the dark stone terrace. The cold night air of Long Island rushed over my skin, smelling of wet grass, distant sea salt, and an honest winter breeze that contrasted sharply with the suffocating artificiality inside. I rested my empty glass on the ice-cold marble railing, closing my eyes to steady my spinning thoughts as muffled waltz music drifted through the glass doors. A familiar low voice broke the silence from my left, noting quietly that I had almost dropped my glass.
Maxim Volkov leaned against the railing two meters away, loosening his tie slightly while holding a glass of whiskey with absolute calm. He told me my life had two weeks left before Rocco’s trap closed entirely, mentioning the marriage acceleration, the fabricated arms shipment crisis, and the cynical contracts designed to steal my inheritance. I tried to deflect his warnings with the rehearsed family dogma that every Russian was a liar, but he remained utterly unfazed by my hostility. He reminded me of the terrifying reality of Rocco’s grip, my father’s deliberate blindness, and the lethal clauses written into our engagement papers.
When I asked why he was involving himself in my destruction, Maxim simply stated that he remembered every single second from our night in Monaco and had never forgotten me. The realization sent a shiver straight down my spine that had nothing to do with the freezing coastal wind sweeping across the terrace. He repeated his warning about the two-week countdown before walking away into the shadows, leaving me alone with my racing pulse and the chilling truth of his words. As I returned to the hallway, Rocco intercepted my path, his fingers digging painfully into my wrist while he plastered on a fake smile for a passing couple.
He reminded me in a low, venomous whisper that I was no longer a single woman and had no business disappearing without his explicit permission. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Maxim leaning against a distant marble column, silently observing the red imprint of Rocco’s fingers forming against my delicate skin. Maxim vanished into the night just as Rocco released my arm with patronizing condescension, adjusting my dress strap like a master inspecting property. I fled up the service stairs to my bedroom, shedding my heels and collapsing into the vanity chair as the heavy silence of the mansion finally enveloped me.
My phone flashed with a casual message from Bianca, but I ignored it as my fingers brushed against an unexpected folded piece of paper tucked inside the inner lining of my dress. No engagement gown had pockets, and the seamstress certainly hadn’t added one without my knowledge, meaning only one person could have slipped it there. Opening the paper revealed a sequence of ten handwritten digits written in damp black ink, unaccompanied by any signature or warning. The weight of those numbers burned in my palm, confirming that Maxim was still orchestrating his quiet chess move against my impending doom.
By Monday afternoon, the November sunlight slanted through the tall windows of my event venue in Chelsea while the sweet scent of test floral arrangements filled the hallway. Bianca burst into my office with a giant cup of coffee, immediately pressing me about the mysterious note and whether I had dared to dial the ten digits. Before I could formulate a response, the internal office phone rang with a summons from my father’s mansion delivered through the formal voice of Don Alberto. A mandatory family dinner was scheduled for eight o’clock that evening at our private restaurant in Little Italy, requested specifically by Rocco Ferretti.
The dark marble facade of the family restaurant in Little Italy always functioned as a theatrical stage where my father executed major decisions without any outside audience. Arriving at eight-two in a fine autumn drizzle, I adjusted my severe black dress that signaled absolute obedience before stepping into the warmly lit interior. Rocco waited near the entrance in a dark grey suit, offering his arm with practiced charm while his fingers dug uncomfortably into my glove. Ten people occupied the central table, with my father sitting firmly at the head and several senior captains flanking the edges of the room.
Between courses, Rocco raised his glass to make his triumphant announcement, declaring that there was no logical reason to wait until spring and moving our wedding up by six weeks. The sudden declaration stole the breath straight from my lungs, leaving me paralyzed as the captains offered polite toasts and Rocco’s hand found my knee beneath the tablecloth. Before I could find my voice, the heavy dining room doors swung open and Maxim Volkov walked in, flanked by his silent associate Yuri Kozlov. My father rose slightly from his chair, demanding an explanation for the uninvited intrusion into a private family gathering.
Maxim calmly pulled out the empty chair directly across the table from me, sitting down with total disregard for the tension vibrating through the room. He pointed out with chilling casualness that the wine steward looked nervous and advised changing my glass because the rim contained suspicious residue. My father immediately ordered the glass replaced, while Rocco attempted to laugh off the interruption with forced bravado and increasing irritation. In that suffocating moment of realization, the dark pieces of the puzzle clicked violently into place within my mind.
The dinner had been meticulously scripted by Rocco to make me violently ill in front of both families, creating the perfect sympathetic narrative to rush our marriage under the guise of medical necessity. Maxim had casually dismantled the entire poison plot with a single sentence, protecting me without ever raising his voice or revealing his true hand. Following the tense conclusion of the dinner, I slipped out through the side exit into the rainy parking lot to avoid Rocco’s clinging presence. Maxim stood waiting near a marble pillar, stepping out of the shadows to remind me about the hidden files documenting Rocco’s financial crimes.
He explained that Rocco had been systematically embezzling funds for two years while building a fraudulent frame against the Volkov family to provoke a devastating corporate war. Returning to my secondary apartment in Chelsea rather than the mansion, I retrieved a dusty brown leather folder from the very back of my bedroom closet. Sorting through old bank statements, suspicious supply contracts, and offshore routing slips from Singapore confirmed every single word Maxim had spoken. The evidence proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that Rocco was a thief and a traitor, setting the stage for my complete destruction.
On Wednesday afternoon, I executed my dangerous plan to retrieve the original physical documents locked inside the administrative archive room at the Chelsea event venue. Using my master key, I slipped into the dimly lit back hallway while workers bustled around the main rooms preparing for upcoming events. The archive room smelled of aged paper and neglect, housing towering steel cabinets filled with historical contracts and financial ledgers. Locating the heavy padlock Rocco had installed on his designated cabinet, I forced the latch open with a small tool from my bag, exposing the yellow New Jersey file.
I frantically photographed transfer slips showing three hundred thousand dollar disbursements alongside detailed lists of unauthorized arms shipments routed through rival ports. Midway through photographing the incriminating pages, heavy footsteps approached the outer door and low voices rumbled through the concrete hallway. Before I could escape, the door unlocked and Maxim slipped inside, swiftly locking it behind him and pressing his solid frame against the wood to block any sound. We stood breathlessly close in the dim light, the familiar scent of rain and cold asphalt washing over my senses as we listened to the guards test the door handle outside.
Once the footsteps faded down the hall, Maxim turned his intense grey gaze toward me, asking how I managed to uncover the trap so quickly. The electric tension in the cramped archive room reached a fever pitch as I confessed that I should not want him, yet found myself utterly drawn to his steady strength. He confessed that he had spent three agonizing years trying to forget our brief encounter in Monaco, realizing he had utterly failed. When his hand rose slowly to cup my face, I closed the remaining distance, meeting his lips in a brief, perfectly measured kiss that defied every rule of my existence.
We spent the next two hours shoulder-to-shoulder organizing the physical documents, determining what evidence I would take and what decoy papers would remain in the cabinet as bait. Maxim arranged for Yuri to secure Rocco’s corrupt accountant by Thursday, ensuring we had an eyewitness ready to testify before both families on Saturday night. As we parted ways through the service stairs, the blueprint for our final confrontation was fully established, leaving no room for error or hesitation. When Saturday morning finally arrived, the heavy atmosphere inside my apartment felt charged with an electricity I had never experienced before.
Bianca arrived promptly at eleven with fresh coffee and the exhausted expression of someone who had barely slept, confirming that the accountant was fully prepped and protected. We reviewed the master plan step by step: during the engagement dinner, through the formal toasts, right before dessert was served, I would seize the microphone and broadcast the truth. At eight o’clock that evening, the grand event venue was packed with elite mafia figures, allied politicians, and senior captains draped in expensive suits. Rocco greeted me at the entrance with an obnoxious public smile, his hand settling possessively against my waist as we stepped into the brilliant hall.
My father kissed my forehead, smelling of expensive cologne and vintage wine, whispering compliments about my appearance while remaining completely oblivious to the impending explosion. The string quartet began playing softly as Salvatore delivered his opening speech, praising the union of our two powerful names while guests sipped their premium burgundy wine. When the microphone passed to Rocco, he launched into a self-satisfied speech about tradition and future dominance, pronouncing my name with ownership. As he raised his glass for the final toast, I stepped forward, calmly requested the microphone, and stepped directly into the spotlight.
The entire hall fell dead silent as Bianca remotely activated the projection screens behind us, illuminating massive spreadsheets, Singapore offshore accounts, and incriminating financial transfers. I looked directly at my father, stating clearly that while he taught me to protect our family surname, I had discovered that my fiancé had stolen sixteen million dollars from our accounts. The second projection displayed signed contracts and arms shipment manifests diverted through fraudulent channels to frame the Russian families for an impending war. Rocco laughed nervously, calling the presentation a ridiculous joke, but his face drained of color as the corrupt accountant stepped forward from the crowd to confirm every detail.
Salvatore stared in stunned disbelief, his fingers gripping the edge of the table as the gravity of his future son-in-law’s betrayal finally registered in his mind. Enraged and cornered, Rocco lunged forward with a wild expression, his hand instantly reaching inside his jacket to draw a hidden firearm. Before I could even react, the grand doors burst open and Maxim rushed forward, placing his body directly between us as a loud gunshot echoed through the grand hall. Maxim spun slightly from the impact as a bullet tore through his left shoulder, while Rocco stumbled backward from his own aggressive momentum, dropping his weapon onto the marble floor.
Instinct took over completely as I dove forward, scooping up the heavy metal gun and leveling the barrel directly at Rocco’s chest with steady, unwavering hands. My father’s early shooting lessons in our private courtyard returned with absolute clarity, transforming my fear into cold, calculated precision as I ordered Rocco to back away. Recognizing the lethal determination in my eyes, Rocco panicked and retreated against the wall until two senior Italian captains seized his arms and dragged him screaming from the room. My father walked over slowly, staring at the blood on Maxim’s shoulder and the firearm clutched in my trembling fingers before ordering Rocco’s permanent exile from our alliance.
Yuri rushed to Maxim’s side, efficiently assessing the clean pass-through wound on his shoulder while maintaining his characteristically stoic expression. Salvatore offered no warm embrace, but he commanded the room that no harm would come to Maxim that night, granting a fragile, unspoken permission for our survival. Bianca squeezed my arm in silent solidarity before I turned away from the stunned crowd, taking Maxim’s uninjured hand as we walked out of the venue together. We climbed into the waiting dark car, escaping the chaos of Manhattan as the vehicle sped toward the airport and safety.
Arriving at Maxim’s minimalist, high-rise apartment in the predawn hours, a private doctor treated his shoulder wound right there in the warmly lit living room. Once the physician departed, the heavy silence of the apartment settled over us like a protective blanket, finally breaking the emotional dam inside my chest. I wept silently for the mother I lost too soon, the father who caged me in gold, and the years I spent begging for permission to exist. Maxim did not offer empty platitudes or attempt to fix my broken pieces; he simply sat beside me, anchoring my erratic breathing with his own steady rhythm.
We stepped out onto the glass balcony to watch the dark waters of the Hudson River flow silently beneath the glittering lights of New Jersey. Maxim spoke softly about his three-year struggle to forget our brief encounter in Monaco, confessing that watching me stand my ground tonight cemented his absolute devotion. I admitted my uncertainty about navigating this new reality of choosing my own path without asking for permission. He gently rested his forehead against mine, promising to learn the vital difference between toxic control and genuine protection, asking if I truly wanted to stay.
Looking at my reflection in the glass door, wearing a stained burgundy dress but standing with unbroken strength, I gave him my unequivocal answer. We spent the remainder of the night in quiet, profound intimacy, leaving behind the heavy ghosts of our respective mafia dynasties. Sunday morning arrived with bright sunlight streaming through the expansive windows, warming the pristine white sheets of the wide bed. I woke up wrapped in his familiar scent, donning a clean white shirt before wandering barefoot into the sleek kitchen. Maxim stood by the marble counter holding a cup of black coffee, his bandaged shoulder hidden beneath a dark t-shirt as he greeted me with a calm, steady gaze.
As we shared our morning coffee in peaceful silence, his phone buzzed on the counter with an incoming message from Salvatore Bellavita. The brief message read simply: Take care of her, signed with a single initial. It was not a grand blessing or a formal surrender, but it was the only concession my father was capable of offering in the wake of our revolution. Maxim placed the phone aside without immediate reply, focusing entirely on the warmth of the moment as the morning sun illuminated our new beginning. I looked at the man who had risked everything to dismantle my cage, realizing that for the first time in my life, I belonged to no one except myself.
