The Mafia Billionaire's Replacement Bride

The bride was missing. I stood in Sofia’s hotel suite, staring at the wedding dress that hung like a ghost against the window. White silk. Delicate lace. A fortune in fabric that my sister would never wear. “Isabella, please tell me she’s in the bathroom.” I turned to face my mother. She clutched her rosary so tight her knuckles had gone white. Behind her, my father sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands. He’d aged ten years in the past hour. “She’s gone, Mamá.” The words tasted like ash. I picked up the note from the dresser for the hundredth time, as if the words would change. I’m sorry. Run. Don’t trust him. - S “What does it mean?” My mother’s voice cracked. “Who shouldn’t we trust?” I knew exactly who. Dante Blackwell. The man Sofia was supposed to marry in three hours. The billionaire who held the deed to our family’s restaurant, our home, everything we’d built in this country over twenty years. The man who would destroy us if his bride didn’t show up. “We need to call him,” my father said. His accent always got thicker when he was stressed. “Explain. Maybe he’ll understand...” “He won’t.” I smoothed the note against my thigh. “You know he won’t.” My father had told me the terms of their agreement. Sofia’s hand in marriage in exchange for clearing our debts and securing our citizenship applications. It wasn’t legal, wasn’t right, but it was survival. Dante Blackwell didn’t make deals out of kindness. He collected assets. People. Power. And my sister had just cost him all three. “He’ll report us,” my mother whispered. “Immigration will...” “No.” The word came out harder than I intended. “No, they won’t.” I walked to the dress. It was beautiful. Sofia would have looked like a princess in it. She always looked like a princess—soft and sweet with those big brown eyes that made everyone want to protect her. I was the opposite. Sharp edges. Blunt words. The sister who asked too many questions and trusted too few people. The sister no one ever looked at twice when Sofia was in the room. “What are you doing?” my mother asked. I unzipped the dress from its garment bag. “Buying us time.” “Isabella” “I’ll go to the church. Walk down the aisle. Say ‘I do.’ That gives us what? A day? Two? Enough time to find Sofia and figure out what she meant by this note.” My father stood up. “You can’t. It’s fraud. If he finds out...” “He won’t.” I held the dress against my body. It would fit. Sofia and I were the same height, same build. Twins, though we’d never acted like it. “We’re identical, Papá. He’s barely spent time with her. A few dinners, always in public. He won’t know the difference.” That was a lie. I’d done my research on Dante Blackwell after the engagement was announced. The man noticed everything. He’d built his empire by reading people, finding weaknesses, and exploiting them. But what choice did we have? “This is insane,” my mother said, but she was already moving toward me, already helping me out of my clothes. Maybe it was insane. But I’d been told my whole life that I was the smart one, the practical one. Sofia got to be the dreamer. I got to be the problem-solver. Time to solve the biggest problem of my life. ----- The church was smaller than I expected. Intimate. Only about fifty guests scattered across the pews. I’d imagined Dante Blackwell would want something ostentatious. A display of wealth and power. Instead, this felt almost… private. I waited in the vestibule, bouquet clutched in my sweating palms. The wedding planner, a severe woman named Claire, adjusted my veil for the third time. “You seem nervous,” she said. “Wouldn’t you be?” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Mr. Blackwell is a good man. Demanding, but fair. You’ll be happy with him.” I doubted that. But I smiled back, playing the role of blushing bride. The music started. Wagner. Here we go. The doors opened. I’d seen photos of Dante Blackwell. Magazine covers. Forbes articles. Grainy surveillance shots from my own investigation into his business practices. But nothing prepared me for the reality of him. He stood at the altar in a black tuxedo that probably cost more than my car. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair swept back from a face that looked like it had been carved from marble. Sharp jaw. Straight nose. And eyes... God, those eyes. They locked onto me the moment I appeared, and I felt the impact in my chest. Dark. Intense. The kind of eyes that saw too much. I forced myself to walk forward. One step. Another. The aisle felt like it stretched for miles. Don’t look at him. Look at the flowers. The candles. Anything but... He was smiling. Not a big smile. Just a slight curve of his lips, almost invisible. But it was there, and it made my stomach twist because Dante Blackwell never smiled in photos. Never showed emotion at all. Why was he smiling now? I reached the altar. My father lifted my veil and kissed my cheek, whispering in Spanish: “Be careful, mija.” Then he was gone, and I was standing across from Dante Blackwell. Up close, he was even more overwhelming. He had at least six inches on me, and I was five-eight. His cologne was subtle but expensive. Cedar and something darker. His hands, when he took mine, were warm and calloused. Not the soft hands of a man who only worked behind a desk. “You look beautiful,” he said quietly. His voice was deep, rough around the edges. “Thank you.” The priest began speaking. I barely heard the words. My heart was pounding so loud it drowned out everything else. This was crazy. Insane. He was going to figure it out any second and... “Do you, Sofia Elena Martinez, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?” The church went silent. I opened my mouth. Closed it. My tongue felt thick, useless. Dante’s thumb stroked across my knuckles. Once. Twice. The touch was gentle, almost soothing. “It’s alright,” he murmured. “Take your time.” Why was he being kind? Everything I’d learned about him suggested he was cold, ruthless. A man who crushed competitors without mercy. But his eyes… they weren’t cold at all. “I do,” I whispered. His smile widened. Just a fraction. The priest turned to him. “And do you, Dante Alessandro Blackwell...” “I do.” He didn’t wait for the full question. His eyes never left mine. “Absolutely.” Something about the way he said it made my skin prickle. The priest laughed. “Well then. By the power vested in me.” “Wait.” Everyone turned. A man stood up from the third pew. He was older, maybe sixty, with silver hair and a cruel mouth. He looked at Dante with something like hatred. “This is a mistake,” the man said. “You’re making a mistake, nephew.” Nephew. This was Dante’s uncle. I’d seen his photo too. Marcus Blackwell. CFO of Blackwell Enterprises. “Sit down, Marcus.” Dante’s voice had gone cold. Dangerous. “She’s not who you think she is.” My blood turned to ice. He knew. Somehow, he knew. “I know exactly who she is.” Dante squeezed my hands. “Now sit down, or leave. Your choice.” Marcus stared at us for a long moment. Then he smiled, and it was the most chilling thing I’d ever seen. “On your head be it.” He walked out. Several other guests shifted uncomfortably, but no one else moved. The priest cleared his throat. “Shall we… continue?” “Please,” Dante said. The rest of the ceremony passed in a blur. Rings. Vows. The priest pronouncing us husband and wife. Dante lifting my veil with steady hands. His eyes were so dark they were nearly black. I couldn’t read the expression in them. Couldn’t tell if he was angry or amused or... He kissed me. It wasn’t gentle. His hand cupped the back of my head, fingers tangling in my hair, and his mouth claimed mine with an intensity that stole my breath. Heat flooded through me, shocking and unwelcome. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. I was supposed to feel nothing. This was a transaction, a con, a desperate gamble. I wasn’t supposed to kiss him back. But I did. When he finally pulled away, his thumb brushed across my bottom lip. “Hello, wife,” he whispered. And I knew, with absolute certainty, that I’d just made a terrible mistake.