The Mob Boss's Reluctant Bride

Sera Alvarez's pager buzzed for the third time in ten minutes, vibrating against her hip like an angry wasp.

She ignored it, keeping her focus on the patient chart in front of her. The fluorescent lights of Boston Memorial's emergency department hummed overhead, casting everything in an unforgiving glow that made her eyes ache after fourteen hours on shift.

"Alvarez!" Dr. Mercer's voice carried across the crowded nurses' station. "Your pager's having a seizure. Deal with it or silence it. Please."

Sera nodded, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. "Sorry. Just finishing Baldwin's l' discharge papers."

The senior resident's expression softened slightly. He'd always had a soft spot for the hardworking med students, especially ones like Sera who never complained despite the crushing workload.

"Five minutes," he said. "Then I need you on the GSW coming in."

Sera nodded, finishing her notes before checking her pager. All three messages were from Helena at Golden Oaks Care Center. Her stomach clenched as she dialed the number.

"Sera, thank God," Helena answered on the first ring, her normally calm voice now worried. "It's your dad. He's gone."

The world tilted for a moment, the bustling ER fading to background noise. "What do you mean, gone?"

"He wasn't in his room for morning meds. We've searched the entire facility. Security footage shows him leaving around 2 AM. He somehow got past the night staff."

Sera pressed her palm against her forehead, feeling a headache forming. "Did he say anything to anyone? Leave a note?"

"Nothing. But Sera..." Helena hesitated. "There was a man who visited him yesterday. Not on the approved list. By the time security noticed, he was already gone."

"What did he look like?"

"Tall, dark suit. Security said he had a distinctive scar along his jawline."

Sera's blood ran cold. She'd seen that man before, months ago, watching from his black sedan as she'd helped her father from the car to the care facility entrance. She'd thought nothing of it then.

"I have to go," she told Helena. "Call me immediately if he comes back."

She hung up and rushed to find Dr. Mercer, her heart hammering against her ribs. The GSW was being wheeled in, paramedics rattling off vitals, but Sera could barely process the words.

"Dr. Mercer," she interrupted, hating herself for it. "Family emergency. My father's missing from his care facility. He has advanced Alzheimer's. I need to-"

"Go," he said, not looking up from the trauma patient. "Wong can cover. Family first."

She didn't wait for him to change his mind, sprinting to the locker room to grab her bag.

Outside, the late October air bit at her cheeks as she fumbled for her car keys, her breath forming small clouds.

The drive to her father's apartment took twenty minutes, each second stretching like elastic. She hadn't been there in weeks. Not since she'd moved him to Golden Oaks after finding him wandering the streets at 3 AM, confused and terrified, for the third time that month.

Her father's building was in a neighborhood that had seen better days.

Graffiti crawled up the sides of once-grand brownstones, and trash collected in the corners of stoops. She parked haphazardly, ignoring the no-parking sign, and rushed up the steps to the third floor.

The door to apartment 3B was unlocked.

Sera paused, her hand on the scratched doorknob.

Her father might be forgetful, might be slowly losing himself to the disease eating away at his mind, but Miguel Alvarez had been a cop for thirty years. He never left doors unlocked.

"Dad?" she called, pushing the door slowly. "It's Sera. Are you here?"

The apartment was silent, but something was wrong. It took her a moment to realize what it was: the place was immaculate.

No dishes in the sink, no newspapers scattered across the coffee table, no half-empty mugs collecting dust.

Her father had always been meticulously neat, but his condition had changed that. The last time she'd been here, the place had been in disarray -a physical manifestation of his deteriorating mind.

Someone had cleaned.

Recently.

She moved through the small space, checking the bedroom and bathroom. No sign of her father.

In his bedroom, the dresser drawers were partially open, clothes jumbled inside as if someone had rummaged through them in a hurry. On the nightstand, a framed photo of her mother lay face down.

Sera picked it up, running her fingers over the cracked glass. Gloria Alvarez smiled up at her, beautiful and vibrant in her nurse's uniform, just months before cancer had stolen her from them.

Sera had been twelve then. Old enough to understand death, but too young to shoulder the responsibilities that had fallen to her in the aftermath.

Her phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

"Hello?" she answered.

"Serafina." Her father's voice, clearer than it had been in months. "Mija, don't come looking for me."

"Dad! Where are you? Are you okay?"

"Listen to me." His voice dropped to a whisper, the familiar Spanish accent thickening with stress. "Some things from before...before your mother. They've come back. I made mistakes."

"What mistakes? Dad, please tell me where you are. I'll come get you."

"No!" The sharpness in his voice made her flinch. "Stay away from the Morellis. I thought it was over, but nothing ends with them. Nothing."

"The Morellis?" The name was vaguely familiar-an old case her father had worked on, perhaps? "Dad, you're not making sense. Let me help you."

A shuffling sound came over the line, followed by muffled voices. Then her father again, words tumbling out in a rush: "The blue box in the closet. The key is-"

The line went dead.

Sera tried calling back, but it went straight to voicemail. Her hands trembled as she dropped the phone into her pocket and went to her father's closet. She pushed aside worn suits and button-down shirts, looking for anything blue.

There, on the top shelf-a blue metal lockbox.

She dragged the desk chair over and climbed up, pulling it down. It was surprisingly heavy. The keyhole was small.

The key is- what? Where had her father hidden it?

Sera closed her eyes, trying to remember if he'd ever mentioned a hiding place for important things.

Before his diagnosis, Miguel had been organized, paranoid even. A habit from decades on the force, he'd told her.

The photo! Her mother's photo.

She rushed back to the nightstand and turned the frame over, prying open the backing. A small silver key taped to the inside fell into her palm.

The key slid perfectly into the lockbox. With a soft click, it opened.

Inside was a jumble of items: old photographs, newspaper clippings yellowing at the edges, a small leather notebook, and an envelope stuffed with cash -more money than Sera had ever seen in one place.

Beneath it all lay a badge, not the Boston PD shield her father had carried, but something else. She picked it up, turning it over in her hands.

FBI.

"What the hell, Dad?" she whispered.

The notebook contained pages of cramped handwriting-notes on surveillance operations, names, dates, locations. Many of the entries mentioned the Morelli family.

One name appeared repeatedly: Victor Morelli.

As she flipped through the pages, a photo slipped out and fluttered to the floor. Sera picked it up, her blood freezing in her veins. It showed her father, much younger, in a suit she'd never seen him wear, standing next to a handsome, dark-haired man with a cruel smile.

Both men were holding champagne glasses, toasting the camera. Written on the back in her father's handwriting: Miguel and Victor, 1998. Operation Blackfish.

A sharp knock at the door made her jump, papers scattering across the floor. Sera scrambled to gather them, shoving everything back into the box and sliding it under the bed.

The knocking came again, more insistent.

Heart pounding, Sera approached the door. "Who is it?"

"Delivery for Serafina Alvarez," came a man's voice.

She hadn't ordered anything, and no one delivered packages this late. This wasn't even her apartment!

Sera engaged the chain lock before opening the door a crack.

A tall man in a black suit stood in the hallway, his face impassive. He was young, maybe early thirties, with close-cropped dark hair and eyes like ice.

"I don't have any deliveries coming," she said, her voice steadier than she felt.

The man smiled thinly. "This isn't Amazon, Ms. Alvarez." He reached into his jacket and produced a black envelope, sealed with dark red wax. "From Mr. Morelli. He says it's about your your father."

He held it out, and Sera hesitated before taking it, her fingers barely brushing his cold hand.

"Where is my father?" she demanded.

"I'm just the messenger." He turned to go, then paused. "Oh, and Ms. Alvarez? Don't bother calling the police. They can't help with Morelli business."

Can't or won't?

He walked away, footsteps echoing down the stairwell. Sera shut the door, sliding the deadbolt into place with shaking hands.

The envelope was heavy. The wax seal bore an intricate design- a stylized "M" surrounded by what looked like thorns.

She broke the seal and pulled out a single card, cream-colored and embossed with the same symbol. Written in elegant script were five words:

Your father's debt is due.

The sound of tires on wet pavement drew her to the window. A black sedan had pulled up outside the building. As she watched, the back door opened, but no one emerged.

Her phone buzzed with a text message from another unknown number: Come down, Miss Alvarez. He's waiting.

Sera stared at the car gleaming under the streetlights, the blue lockbox still on her mind. Whatever her father had been involved in, whatever debt he owed -it had found them.

And now she had to choose: run from it, or face the man her father had warned her about.

The sedan's engine idled patiently in the dark.

They weren't leaving without her.