The Unwanted Mafia Bride

My trembling fingers rise to my head as I pull the sheer white veil over my face. Unfamiliar hands drift across my body, fixing and perfecting the wedding dress, clinging tightly to my skin. Each breath feels like a blessing—shallow and strained—against the suffocating grip of fabric wrapped around my ribs. The dress is two sizes too small, crushing my lungs and my spirit in equal measure. This is not a dress—it’s a shroud, stitched together with lies and desperation. Through the mist of the veil, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the full-length mirror. My breasts threaten to spill out of the corset, heaving under the pressure. It’s a beautiful gown. But on me, it feels like a mockery—like I’ve stepped into someone else’s life. "Can you breathe?" the designer asks, panic tightening her voice. She’s spent two months crafting this masterpiece and now it might collapse into disaster. I nod silently, unwilling to bother with the truth. It doesn’t matter. I have five minutes before I walk down the aisle, and no amount of air can change what’s coming. The dress won’t change. Neither will my fate. I wonder if they’ll notice when I faint halfway through my vows. This morning, I woke up happy. Foolishly happy. Excited, for once, to dress up, to feel beautiful, to be part of something special. This wedding has been planned for months—a grand affair uniting two of the most influential families in America: the Moranis and the De Lucas. Everyone’s watching. The families. The business world. The underworld. This marriage isn’t just a ceremony—it’s a declaration of power. A carefully calculated alliance between empires. A performance of strength. A promise carved in stone and blood. And I am the illusion, holding it all together. The doors creak open, and I turn to find my father and stepmother stepping into the room. Isabel's glare could burn holes through marble. I drop my gaze to the floor, swallowing the lump in my throat. I’ve lived under that glare for as long as I can remember. It's her brand of love—cold, poisonous, and laced with disdain. My father walks to me, and I focus on the shine of his black polished shoes as they stop inches from mine. He lifts my chin gently, forcing my eyes to meet his. "I didn’t want this for you, Phoebe," he says, his voice low, grave. "But it’s what’s best. For the family. For you." Before I can respond, Isabel scoffs. “Spare her the comfort. She’s getting exactly what she wants—snatching Nicole’s crown like a thief.” "Nicole abandoned her crown," he snaps, his voice booming across the room. "I will not hear another word about it." There it is again—my father, defending me in public, even as he offers me as collateral in private. Isabel clenches her jaw and storms out, her heels clicking like gunfire. Dad turns back to me, softer now, placing both hands on my shoulders. "I can’t see the future, Phoebe. But I promise you—no matter what, you’ll be safe there. You’re not alone." I nod, blinking fast to hold back the tears welling in my eyes. I lower my gaze again, because looking at him makes the grief harder to carry. He offers his arm, and I take it. The baroque-style palace outside gleams under golden chandeliers. The very venue Nicole picked. The same one where she imagined herself walking down the aisle. And now… it’s me. The air feels thick—too heavy to swallow. I hear my heels clicking against the marbled floor, like war drums. Heath De Luca waits at the altar, and I can already feel the storm of his fury from here. I don’t need to see his face to know how livid he must be. He woke up this morning to marry the woman he chose. The woman he’s spent six months with. The one he’s called his fiancée. His future wife. That woman was not me. It was Nicole—my sister. I was never supposed to be part of this story. I was the daughter of Alessandro Morani and his first wife. A woman who fell for one of the most dangerous men in the underworld and paid the price for it. My mother didn’t belong here. The elite never accepted her. And after she died, they made sure I knew I didn’t belong either. “You’re not of pure blood,” they whispered. “You’re an outsider.” A stain. Nicole, on the other hand, was perfect. Born of Isabel—pure mafia lineage. She had the name. The reputation. The blood. The crown. So when the Morani and De Luca families decided to forge a lifelong alliance, it had to be Nicole. It was always going to be Nicole. And I had accepted that. I’d made peace with it. I wasn’t made for this world. I was going to live quietly, stay unnoticed, die alone. It would’ve been easier that way. But life has never made things easy for me. Walking into the bridal suite two hours ago, I wasn’t expecting the room to be empty. Nicole gone. No note. No calls. Nothing. Panic erupted. My father’s rage was matched only by King De Luca’s. Guests waited below for a wedding that couldn’t happen. Deals were hanging by a thread. Promises would be broken. Blood would be spilled. And then… Don Castellano stepped in. He walked toward King De Luca, exchanged a few sharp words, and turned to me. I felt the world narrow around me. Silence collapsed in on itself. Everything was decided in moments. Heath De Luca would marry me. Phoebe Morani. No one questioned the Don. Not Heath. Not the King. Not me. The ceremony had to happen. The alliance had to be preserved. The empire had to stand. Only the bride had changed. I hear the bridal entrance music begin—chosen by Nicole, of course—and my lungs lock again. The teakwood doors open, and I start walking. My father beside me. My knees tremble. The whispers from the crowd cut through the silence like knives. Tightening my grip on the bouquet, I keep my eyes on the marble floor. Step after step until we reach the altar. I try not to imagine him—Heath—looking at me like I’m filth in his perfect world. My father untangles his arm from mine and offers my hand to Heath. He doesn’t take it. Even after my father clears his throat, Heath stares past me like I don’t exist. The rejection burns hotter than any slap. Humiliated, I climb the final two steps alone and stand across from him, staring at the floor. The officiant’s voice drones on, drowned out by the chaos in my chest. When it’s time, I lift the thick platinum band and wait. After a tense beat, Heath finally extends his hand—stiff, cold. I slide the ring on and he snatches his hand away as if my touch stung. He repeats the action when it’s his turn. Slips the ring onto my finger without a glance. The ring Nicole picked. The ring I’m wearing. The wrong bride. The wrong life. "You may kiss the bride," the officiant says. I freeze. Another wave of humiliation builds in my gut. I expect him to step back. I expect the crowd to murmur in awkward confusion. But instead, his fingers lift my veil. My breath catches as I meet his eyes for the first time this afternoon. Gone is the boy I once knew. Gone is the warmth that once softened his gaze. His black eyes burn like coal—full of fury. Full of betrayal. And then, with venom in his voice, he says, “I hate you, wife.” He crashes his lips onto mine—cold, punishing, hollow—and I realize... The worst part isn’t the kiss. It’s knowing I used to dream of this moment. And now, it’s the beginning of my undoing.