The Mafia's Substitute Bride

The Luca Caruso

I climbed the stairs slowly, losing my will to live with each step. My legs felt like they might give out beneath me, but I kept going. This was it. No turning back now. I reached the top and stepped into the open space, my eyes scanning the area. It was quiet, the soft chirping of the birds from the garden blew across the room. But the air felt heavy, like the whole place was holding its breath.

I was looking for him. The man I was supposed to marry. Replaying the image I've created of him in my head, the image I built up over time: an old man, maybe with silver hair, wrinkles that hinted at his age and the life he’d led. Someone cold, distant, who would see me as little more than a transaction or s*x slave. I had prepared myself for that, for the worst-case scenario.

But then, I heard him.

A voice. Low, deep, and unmistakably angry. He was talking to someone on the phone, he sounded sharp and irritated, but there was something about the way he spoke that immediately threw me off. That voice didn’t sound old. It was commanding, sure, but there was youth in it—an intensity that made my stomach tighten.

I turned my head, searching, and then I saw him.

He was standing in the corner, by a window overlooking the garden. His back was to me, and he hadn’t noticed me yet. His head tilted slightly, one hand resting on the window, and earpods in his ears. His hair—god, his hair—wasn’t gray or thinning like I’d imagined. It was jet black, thick, and so shiny it almost looked unreal, like he’d just stepped out of some magazine shoot.

I stood there for a moment, just staring. This wasn’t Luca Caruso. It couldn’t be. He didn’t fit anything I’d been told or what I thought I knew. My mind raced as I tried to reconcile the image I’d held in my head with the man sitting just a few feet away from me.

Where was the older man, the one who would match the rumors and thoughs? I scanned the room again, expecting to see someone else—someone older, someone who looked like they belonged in a contract marriage. But no one else was there.

I shifted my weight, trying to make sense of it all. My nerves were all over the place, a mix of confusion and doubt swirling in my chest. I was prepared to meet a man I could tolerate for a year, but the broad shoulders in front of me, the confidence in the way he stood—none of this made sense.

I waited for his voice to change, for him to sound tired or strained with age, but it never came. He sounded like he was about to finish his call with a calm, almost casual tone, and I knew I couldn’t just stand there any longer.

Taking a deep breath, I cleared my throat softly, just enough to let him know I was there.

He turned around slowly, still on the phone, his voice was low now, the anger from earlier fading into something more controlled. But I didn’t hear the words anymore. The moment he faced me, the world seemed to narrow down to just him, as if everything else faded into the background.

I wasn’t prepared for this.

His eyes were the first thing I noticed—sharp, intense, and such a shade of blue they almost looked like an ocean. They held a kind of quiet power, like he was used to being in control without having to say much, and like having visitors right now was not on his plans. They locked onto mine for a moment, and I felt my breath hitch. I couldn’t look away.

He wasn’t just handsome. That word didn’t feel strong enough. He was beautiful, in a way that made my mind go blank. His face was all sharp angles—defined jawline, high cheekbones, the kind of face that looked like it belonged on a magazine cover, not in some dark deal for a contract marriage. His skin was tan, like he spent time in the sun but didn’t care much about it. His hair, still so dark and glossy, fell over his forehead just slightly, giving him an almost casual, effortless look.

I stood there, completely lost in him. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure he could hear it. I wasn’t supposed to feel like this. I wasn’t supposed to be staring at him like I was. But I couldn’t help it. Everything about him was magnetic, pulling me in without even trying.

He shifted, still talking into his earpod, his voice a soft murmur now. But his eyes hadn’t left mine. There was something there—curiosity maybe, or just awareness. I couldn’t tell. All I knew was that this man, the one standing in front of me, was nothing like the version of Luca Caruso I had built in my head.

Where was the older man with graying hair, someone cold and distant who would tolerate me for a year and nothing more? Where was the man who fit the stories of danger and old money, the one people called fat fool when the news of his evil reached them? This wasn’t him. This couldn’t be him.

I felt my pulse race, my throat dry. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. The way he looked at me, like he was sizing me up, reading me in a way I couldn’t even understand—it made me feel small, vulnerable, but at the same time, something deeper, something warmer.

I had braced myself for someone else entirely. Someone who wouldn’t stir this kind of reaction in me. But this man, Luca Caruso... he was a storm I hadn’t anticipated.

This, again, was totally, definitely, absolutely not who I was expecting to see. Not the man I thought would ick me and make me throw up.