THE MAFIA ACCIDENTAL BRIDE

WHO SENT YOU THAT TEXT

The church smelled like white lilies and something underneath it that I couldn’t name until later. Gunpowder. Old money. Fear.

I stood at the end of the aisle in a dress that cost more than my car. White silk. Long sleeves. High neck. Like a bride. Like a hostage.

Three hundred people watched. Three hundred armed men in suits.

And at the altar, Matteo Romano.

He wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at the doors. Like he expected someone to come through with a gun.

When the music started he finally turned. His eyes swept over me once. Clinical. Assessing.

The same way he looked at me when I was bleeding in my Honda.

"Do you take this man—"

"I do."

"Do you take this woman—"

"I do."

The ring was cold. Platinum. A rock so big it felt like a weight.

His kiss was brief. A press of lips. No warmth.

For the cameras.

For the family.

For the contract.

The reception was in the Romano estate ballroom. Marble floors. Crystal chandeliers. Men with earpieces in every corner.

His mother kissed both my cheeks. "Welcome to the family, Aria."

Her perfume was expensive and her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

Camila wasn’t here. I didn’t ask why.

I ate nothing. Drank water.

Matteo’s hand stayed on my lower back the entire time. Not romantic. Possessive. Like if he let go I’d bolt.

Like I was a problem he had to manage.

At 11:03 PM he leaned down. "We’re leaving."

Not a question.

The car ride was silent.

Black SUV. Tinted windows. Driver in front. Us in back with a foot of leather between us.

My clutch buzzed in my lap.

I didn’t check it.

Matteo did. "Who is it?"

"No one."

"Don’t lie to me, Aria. Rule 1."

I pulled out the phone.

Unknown number.

_Room 4. Ask him what happened in Room 4._

My blood went cold.

I shoved the phone back in the clutch.

"What?" Matteo asked.

"Spam."

"Liar."

He didn’t press it. Not yet.

The estate looked different at night. Bigger. Darker.

Guards opened the gates. More guards in the driveway.

Inside, the foyer was empty except for one woman. Older. Diamonds.

"Matteo."

"Mother."

She looked at me. Up and down. "Hospital clothes? On your wedding day?"

"I changed at the church," I said before Matteo could.

"Of course you did." She walked away.

Upstairs, my room wasn’t my room anymore.

The scrubs I’d left on the chair were gone.

In their place: racks of dresses, shelves of shoes, a vanity full of jewelry.

And on the bed, laid out like an offering.

A white lace nightgown. Sheer.

My stomach turned.

The door closed behind us.

Matteo took off his jacket. Hung it up. Took off his cufflinks. One at a time.

"You can sleep here," he said. "Or in the guest room down the hall. Your choice."

"The contract didn’t specify sleeping arrangements."

"No. The contract specified you play my wife." He poured two glasses of whiskey from the bar cart. "It didn’t say how."

He handed me one.

"Drink."

I took it. It burned.

We stood there in silence.

The house was so quiet I could hear the clock downstairs.

My phone buzzed again. Second text.

Matteo’s eyes flicked to the dresser.

"Phone."

"It’s personal."

"Aria." His voice dropped. "Give me the phone."

I did.

He read it. Didn’t react.

Then the third one came in while he was holding it.

_He knows who you are. He knows what you did. Room 4._

Matteo’s jaw ticked. Once.

He set the phone down on the dresser.

"Room 4," he said. Quiet. "St. Mary’s. Last month."

"How do you—"

"I know every death in that hospital." He turned to face me. "Especially the ones that aren’t natural."

"Are you saying—"

"I’m asking who sent this."

"I don’t know. Unknown number."

"And you didn’t tell me because?"

"Because we got married six hours ago!" The words came out louder than I meant. "What was I supposed to say? 'Hey, thanks for the ring, someone thinks you killed a patient'?"

Matteo picked up his whiskey. Drank.

"You think I did it."

"I don’t know what to think."

"Then you should run." He stepped closer. "But you won’t. Because Rule 2: Don’t run."

He was close enough that I could smell him. Whiskey. Rain. Something metallic underneath.

"Did you?" I whispered. "Did you kill someone in Room 4?"

Matteo’s eyes went dark. "Does it matter?"

"Yes. It matters to me."

"Why? You’re a nurse. You see death every day."

"I save people." My voice shook. "That’s my job. I don’t..."

"You don’t what? End them?" He laughed, but it was wrong. "Then I guess we’re very different, Mrs. Romano."

He walked to the door.

"Guest room. Go."

I grabbed my clutch and left.

The guest room was smaller. Colder. The bed was made with military corners.

I sat on it in the lace nightgown and tried not to cry.

Crying was for people who had time to fall apart. I didn’t.

At 3:17 AM there was a knock. Soft.

Then the door opened.

Matteo.

White shirt, sleeves rolled up. Top two buttons undone.

And blood.

Soaking through the bandages on his left side.

"I need you," he said. Simple.

Nurse brain overrode everything else.

I was on my feet. "Sit. Now."

He sat on the floor. Same spot as the first night in the car.

I went to the bathroom. Came back with the kit I’d smuggled in my clutch. Gloves. Antiseptic. Gauze. Suture kit.

"Who did this?"

"Business."

"Did it have anything to do with the texts?"

His muscles tensed under my hands as I cut the bandages.

"Don’t ask me that."

"Then don’t bleed on my watch."

The wound was deep. Clean. Gunshot.

I cleaned it. He didn’t make a sound.

When I started stitching he finally spoke.

"You’re good at this."

"It’s what I do."

"No." His eyes were on my face. "You’re good at this."

I tied off the last stitch. Bandaged him.

When I pulled back he caught my wrist.

"You shouldn’t care."

"Why?"

"Because the people who care about me don’t last."

The room went still.

"Is that a threat?"

"It’s a warning." He let go. Stood. Winced. "Come."

"Where?"

"Our room."

I followed him.

Our room. Our bed.

He lay down on the far left side.

I lay down on the far right side.

A canyon between us.

In the dark he said, "I didn’t kill anyone in Room 4."

"Then who did?"

"I don’t know. But I will."

Pause.

"And whoever is texting you... they want us to hate each other."

"There is no us."

"There is. For 365 days."

Silence.

"Goodnight, Mrs. Romano."

"Goodnight, Mr. Romano."

I stared at the ceiling until the sun came up.

At 6:04 AM my phone buzzed on the nightstand.

_He’s lying. Check the security footage. Room 4. 2:13 AM. He wasn’t alone._

I deleted it immediately.

But my hands were shaking.

Matteo was already awake. Propped up on one elbow, watching me.

"Another text?"

"Spam."

"Liar." He held out his hand. "Give me the phone."

I did.

He scrolled. Found the deleted folder. Read it.

His face went completely blank.

The kind of blank that meant someone was going to have a very bad day.

"New rule," he said. "Your phone stays with me when we’re home."

"You can’t do that."

"Rule 5. I protect what’s mine."

"I’m not—"

"You are. For one year."

He got up. Got dressed. Black suit.

"Breakfast in twenty. Then we have a problem."

"What kind of problem?"

"The kind where someone in my house is talking to someone in your hospital."

Downstairs his mother was already at the table. And Camila.

Of course Camila.

"Matteo, baby," Camila said, standing. "I didn’t know you were getting married."

"Now you do." Matteo didn’t look at her. He pulled out a chair. For me.

I sat.

Camila sat too. "A nurse? Really? That’s... quaint."

Matteo poured coffee. Handed it to me. Black. The way I take it.

He hadn’t asked.

"Watch your mouth," he said to Camila.

"Or what?"

"Or you’ll leave. Again."

Camila left five minutes later.

His mother left ten minutes after that.

Matteo and I ate in silence.

When I finished he said, "You have a shift tonight?"

"Yes."

"I’ll have a car take you."

"I can drive myself."

"No."

"That wasn’t in the contract."

"I’m amending it."

He stood.

"Aria."

"What?"

"Don’t lie to me again. About the texts. About anything."

"I didn’t—"

"You did." He walked out.

I sat there with cold coffee and a phone that wasn’t mine anymore.

That night at St. Mary’s, two men in suits stood by the ER entrance.

"Mr. Romano’s orders," one said. "We’re your security."

"I don’t need—"

"You do."

For 12 hours they followed me. Room to room.

The other nurses whispered.

"Is that your husband?"

"He’s hot."

"He’s scary."

At 4 AM a code came in. GSW to the chest.

I ran. They ran behind me.

We lost him.

I went to the bathroom and threw up.

When I came out Matteo was there.

In sweatpants. Hair wet.

"What are you doing here?"

"Checking on my wife."

"I’m fine."

"You’re not." He looked at my hands. Still shaking. "Come home."

In the car he was quiet.

At a red light he said, "You did everything you could."

"How do you know?"

"Because you’re the best surgeon at St. Mary’s. And because you care."

"Don’t."

"Don’t what?"

"Don’t be nice to me."

He didn’t answer.

At home he went to his office.

I went to bed. Alone.

At 2 AM my phone buzzed. On the nightstand.

How did it get there?

Unknown number:

_Last warning. Get her out of St. Mary’s. Or I’ll get her out myself._

I deleted it.

And I didn’t tell him.

Rule 1: Don’t lie to me.

I was already breaking it.

And he was already breaking Rule 5: I protect what’s mine.

Because he wasn’t telling me the truth about Room 4 either.

The contract said one year.

At this rate neither of us would make it to day 30.