The Lottery of Fate

Every Christmas Eve, the heir of the Marco mafia family—Adrian Marco, must follow the family tradition:

Draw a name to decide whether he’s allowed to marry me.

Because I, Irene Cast, am not mafia-born.

Unless he draws the slip with my name on it, he can’t take me as his wife.

For four years, Adrian has drawn four times.

And not once did he draw my name.

I always thought he fought with his family because of me—

that he was willing to risk losing his position as the Don, just to choose me.

Every time he failed, he held me so tightly and whispered,

“It’s okay. There’s always next year.”

And I loved him so much it hurt.

Hurt enough that I was willing to wait, year after year.

This year, I told myself:

If he still doesn’t draw my name…

I’ll secretly switch the result.

I sneaked to the door of Adrian’s study, and heard his younger brother ask:

“Don… every year you do draw Irene's name. Why do you pretend you didn’t? Is it because you still can’t let Sera go?”

But he simply said, in a flat voice,

“Sera needs me for something urgent.

Do what you always do: swap Irene’s name for a blank one.”

He walked out without looking back.

Instead of swapping, he tossed the blank slip into the trash,

left the one with my name on the table, and hurried after Adrian.

I went inside, picked up the blank slip from the trash, and replaced the one with my name.

Watching my own name fall into the garbage.

Adrian…I don’t want to wait and marry you anymore.

I’ll grant you your choice.

Adrian came back from seeing Sera and found me waiting for him in the living room.

He shrugged off his coat, pulled me straight into his arms, his voice low and aching:

“Waiting this early for the results? My principessa.”

The butler brought over the slip he’d drawn.

And just like every year, Adrian held it with that same careful, heart-aching tenderness, ready to open it for me.

I stared at him in a daze.

All these years, I thought the disappointment in his voice, every time he said “I didn’t draw it”, was real.

I never imagined it was all a performance.

He cupped my face in both hands.

“No matter what it says, my love for you doesn’t change. You know that, right?”

I gave him a smile, soundless, strengthless.

The butler opened the slip.

A blank one.

Exactly the one I had put there.

And I stayed perfectly calm.

Adrian’s brows drew together.

He noticed something was wrong—noticed how I wasn’t reacting like every other year,

not crying, not breaking down, not begging him to hold me.

He tried carefully, almost gently:

“Irene? Why are you so quiet this year?”

He brushed his fingers through my hair.

“We’ll get it next year. If I don’t draw your name, I’m not marrying anyone else.”

I tugged at the