MAFIA’S WRONG BRIDE

Mafia’s Wrong Bride Chapter One: Her Wedding I was marrying a man I didn’t even know. A man who thought I was someone else. The chapel was beautiful. Expensive. Exclusive. The kind of place my sister would choose, the kind of place I didn’t belong. But today I was her. My hands trembled as I held the bouquet. White roses, because Mariana loved white roses. The dress was too tight in the shoulders. Mariana was thinner, taller, prettier. Everyone said so. But today she wasn’t here. She was somewhere safe, probably celebrating her escape while I stood in her place. What choice did I have? I’d agreed to it. I needed the money for Mom’s surgery. My father clasped his hand with mine as we headed toward the altar. I hadn’t seen him in ten years. Should I hate him? I didn’t see him as my father anymore, not since he divorced Mom. He probably thought I was Mariana. My heels clicked against the floor. Each step brought me closer to the man waiting at the altar. I kept my eyes down, scared to look at him, scared he’d find out the truth. The wedding march played. Classical, elegant. A perfect mask for a lie. I forced myself to look up. Adrian Moretti stood at the altar like a king. Six-foot-three, dangerous, perfect in a black suit that probably cost more than everything I owned combined. Dark hair swept back, sharp jaw and cheekbones, a mouth that had never learned to smile. His eyes looked like they’d seen death. Like they’d probably caused it. They said he killed his first man at seventeen. Looking at him now, standing there like an executioner, I believed every rumor I’d heard. This was the man my sister ran away from. The man she sent me to instead. His gaze locked on mine. I noticed something. Confusion. Did he know? Oh God, I’m dead. But then his expression smoothed into cold indifference. I reached the altar. My father—her father—released my arm without even looking at my face. He’d barely looked at me during the entire ceremony prep. To him I was just Mariana, the daughter he’d chosen, the daughter he knew. He had no idea he was giving away the wrong one. Adrian’s hand reached out. Large, scarred knuckles. A hand that had hurt people. I placed mine in his. His grip was warm and firm, like a cage closing around me. The priest spoke in Italian, then English. About love, commitment, forever. Each word felt like another stone pressing on my chest. This was wrong. All of it. But three hundred miles away, in a hospital bed, my mother was alive because of this lie. The surgery she needed, the treatment she couldn’t afford—paid for, taken care of. All it cost was me. “Do you, Mariana castellano, take this man…” My sister’s name in the priest’s mouth. Not mine. Never mine. I opened my mouth. The word caught in my throat. Adrian’s hand tightened slightly on mine. Not painful. A reminder. An expectation. “I do.” The words came out steadier than I felt. The priest turned to Adrian. “And do you, Adrian Moretti, take this woman…” “I do.” His voice was deep, certain. A man who’d never doubted anything in his life. If only he knew what he was agreeing to. A man I didn’t know—maybe Adrian’s brother or second-in-command—handed us two white gold bands. Simple and beautiful. Adrian took my left hand, his thumb brushing my knuckles. I tried not to flinch. He slid the ring on slowly, eyes locked on mine. It fit perfectly. Of course it did. It was made for Mariana, the one meant to be here. My turn. My hands trembled as I took his ring. Adrian’s hand was steady while I slipped the band onto his finger. A mark, a claim, a promise I had no right to make. “I now pronounce you husband and wife.” The priest smiled as if this were love. “You may kiss the bride.” My heart stopped. The kiss. Oh God, the kiss. They’d dated, barely. “Just a few weeks,” my sister had said. “He’s not interested in me like that. It’s business.” But the way Adrian looked at me now—the heat in his eyes, the way they lingered on my lips—told me she’d lied. Or maybe he’d just never looked at her the way he was looking at me. His hand lifted, fingers brushing under my chin, tilting my face up. He was taller, commanding, unshakable. I had to lift my gaze to meet his. “Nervous?” His voice was low, meant only for me. “No,” I whispered, though the word caught in my throat. A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. “Liar.” Then he kissed me. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t tender. It was a claim. His mouth moved against mine with the same certainty he’d said his vows. Firm, possessive, final. One hand tangled in my hair, the other pulled me closer until I could feel the steady, dangerous rhythm of his heart against mine. The room erupted in applause. Cheers, laughter, approval. But I didn’t hear any of it. Because all I could feel was him. Adrian Moretti was kissing me like he wanted to own the moment, like he wanted to memorize me. Or destroy me. Or maybe both. When he finally pulled away, his eyes lingered on mine. Dark, searching, suspicious. “You taste different,” he murmured, so quietly only I heard. My blood ran cold. Before I could breathe, before I could even react, he turned to the crowd, his arm wrapping around me as if I belonged there. “My wife,” he said, voice rich and certain. The word burned through me. Wife. His wife. Adrian Moretti’s wife. But the truth clawed at the back of my mind. I’d signed the marriage papers with my sister’s name, worn her dress, kissed her husband. The man beside me had no idea. Because the woman he’d married wasn’t her. It was me.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​