MAFIA’S WRONG BRIDE

Chapter 4 becoming her

I’d never been on a plane before.

That’s the first thing I thought when Mariana handed me the ticket. JFK to some private airport I’d never heard of. First class. Of course it was first class.

“The car will pick you up at your apartment tomorrow morning at six,” she said, like she was giving me directions to the grocery store. “Pack light. Everything you need is already at my place.”

My place. She meant her penthouse. The one I’d be living in for the next two weeks while she taught me how to be her.

I looked at the ticket in my hand. One way.

“What about coming back?”

She blinked. “What?”

“After. When this is over. How do I get back home?”

Something flickered across her face. “We’ll figure that out later. Right now, we need to focus on getting you ready.”

Later. Everything was always later with her.

I folded the ticket and put it in my pocket. “Fine. I’ll be there.”

“Thank you.” She reached out like she might hug me, then stopped. “Really. Thank you.”

I left without responding.

Mom was awake when I got back to the hospital.

Actually awake, not that half-asleep drugged state she’d been in for weeks. She was sitting up a little, and there was color in her cheeks. Real color.

The surgery had worked.

“Baby!” She smiled when she saw me. “I was wondering when you’d get here.”

“Sorry. I had some things to take care of.” I sat in the chair next to her bed. The same chair I’d been living in for the past month. “How are you feeling?”

“Better. So much better. Dr. Patel said the surgery went even better than expected.” She took my hand, squeezed it. Her grip was stronger than it had been in weeks. “They think I might be able to go home in a few days.”

Home. Our tiny apartment with the broken heater and the bathroom that leaked.

But home.

“That’s amazing, Mom.”

“It is. It really is.” Her eyes got wet. “I don’t know how you did it. How you came up with the money. But thank you. You saved my life.”

Guilt hit me like a punch to the stomach.

She thought I’d saved her. Thought I was some kind of hero.

She had no idea what I’d actually done.

“Mom, I need to talk to you about something.”

Her smile faded a little. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. It’s good news, actually. I got a job offer.”

“A job? Where?”

“New York. It’s with this consulting firm. Really good pay. Great benefits.” The lies came easier than they should have. I’d been practicing them all day. “But I’d have to start right away. Like, tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” She sat up straighter. “That’s so soon.”

“I know. But it’s a really good opportunity. And the money—Mom, it’s enough to cover everything. Your treatment. The follow-up care. All of it.”

She was quiet for a long moment, just looking at me.

“You’re leaving,” she said finally.

“Just for a little while. A few months, maybe. But I’ll call you every day. And you’ll be taken care of. I made sure of that.”

“Elena.” She squeezed my hand tighter. “You don’t have to do this. We’ll figure something out—”

“There’s nothing to figure out. This is good. This is what we need.” I forced myself to smile. “I want to do this.”

Another lie.

She studied my face, and for a second I thought she could see right through me. See everything I wasn’t saying.

But then she smiled. Tired but real.

“I’m so proud of you. You know that? You’ve taken care of me your whole life. Now you get to take care of yourself too.”

The words hurt worse than any accusation could have.

“I love you, Mom.”

“I love you too, baby. So much.”

We sat there for a while, just holding hands. I memorized everything. The way her hand felt in mine. The sound of the machines beeping. The smell of hospital disinfectant that I’d gotten so used to.

Because I didn’t know when I’d see her again.

Or if the person who came back would still be me.

The plane landed at JFK at noon.

I’d spent the entire flight staring out the window, watching clouds and thinking about nothing. My brain felt too full and too empty at the same time.

A driver was waiting at baggage claim. Black suit. Sunglasses. He held a sign that said “Castellano.”

I almost walked past him. Almost forgot that was supposed to be me now.

“Miss Castellano?” He took my sad little duffel bag before I could protest. “The car’s this way.”

The car was a black Mercedes that probably cost more than I’d make in five years. The seats were leather. Real leather. There was bottled water in the cup holders. Fancy water with Italian words on the label.

This was normal for Mariana.

This was insane for me.

We drove through Manhattan, and I pressed my face to the window like a kid. I’d been here once before, years ago, before the divorce. Vague memories of tall buildings and crowds and Dad holding my hand so I wouldn’t get lost.

Now I was back. But everything was different.

The car pulled up in front of a building that looked like it belonged in a movie. Glass and steel and a doorman in a uniform.

“Miss Castellano.” He opened my door. “Welcome home.”

Home.

Right.

Mariana’s apartment was on the fifteenth floor.

She answered the door in yoga pants and a silk tank top, hair in a messy bun, no makeup. She looked softer like this. More like the sister I remembered from when we were kids.

Then she spoke and the illusion shattered.

“Finally. I was starting to think you changed your mind.” She stepped aside. “Come in.”

I walked in and just… stopped.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park. White furniture that looked like no one ever sat on it. A kitchen with marble counters and appliances that probably cost more than a car. Art on the walls—real art, not posters from Target.

“It’s a lot, I know,” Mariana said, closing the door. “I barely notice it anymore.”

Of course she didn’t.

I set my bag down and it looked pathetic on her perfect hardwood floor. Everything I owned fit in one duffel bag. Everything she owned filled this massive apartment.

“Want something to drink?” she asked. “Water? Coffee? I have this amazing espresso machine—”

“I’m fine.”

She nodded. Awkward silence filled the space between us.

“So,” I said finally. “How does this work?”

“Right. Okay.” She grabbed her phone from the counter. “We have twelve days. The wedding is on the seventeenth. That’s not a lot of time, but it should be enough. Adrian’s only met me a handful of times, and he barely paid attention.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true. Our dads set up these dinners, and Adrian would show up, sit there on his phone half the time, answer questions in one-word sentences. He’s not interested in me. This marriage is just business to him.”

I wanted to believe her. Needed to believe her.

“Okay. So what do I need to know?”

She pulled up photos on her phone. “This is him.”

Adrian Moretti.

I’d seen the photos before, at the café. But looking at them now, knowing I was actually going to marry this man, made everything feel more real.

He was handsome in a dangerous way. Dark hair, sharp features, eyes that looked right through the camera. He wore a suit like armor.

“He’s twenty-eight,” Mariana said. “His dad runs the family business. Adrian’s being groomed to take over. He has a younger brother, Marco. Their mom died when Adrian was sixteen—don’t bring that up. Ever.”

“Okay.”

“He’s not much of a talker. Especially about personal stuff. The few times we went out, he mostly just asked about Dad’s business. What deals he was working on. Who his partners were. Stuff like that.”

“So he was using you to get information about Dad.”

“Pretty much, yeah.” She scrolled to more photos. “These are some of Dad’s business associates and their wives. You’ll meet them at the wedding. Try to remember faces.”

She showed me dozens of photos. Names and faces that all blurred together.

Then she showed me photos of herself. “This is how I dress for events. This is how I do my hair. This is how I—”

“Mariana.” I stopped her. “I look exactly like you. I think I can figure out the hair.”

“It’s not about looking like me. It’s about being me.” She set her phone down. “The way I talk. The way I move. The things I like and don’t like. The people I’m friends with—well, the people Dad thinks I’m friends with. All of it.”

“That’s a lot.”

“I know. But you can do this. You have to.”

She said it like it was simple. Like becoming a completely different person was just a matter of practice.

Maybe for her it was.

The next ten days were a blur.

Mariana drilled me constantly. How to hold a wine glass. How to make small talk at fancy events. How to laugh at jokes that weren’t funny. How to exist in a world I’d never been part of.

“You’re too stiff,” she said on day three, watching me walk across the living room. “I don’t walk like I’m apologizing for existing. Shoulders back. Chin up.”

I tried again. Failed again.

“Better. Keep practicing.”

On day five, she quizzed me over lunch.

“Dad’s lawyer?”

“Robert Chen.”

“Adrian’s brother?”

“Marco. Younger than Adrian. Supposedly the reasonable one.”

“Good. Adrian’s father?”

“Dominic Moretti. Don’t call him Dom. Always Dominic or Mr. Moretti.”

“Perfect.” She took a bite of salad. “You’re getting better.”

Better at lying. Better at being someone else.

Better at forgetting who I actually was.

On day seven, Mom called.

I was in the middle of practicing Mariana’s signature when my phone rang. Her name on the screen made my chest hurt.

“Hey, Mom.”

“Hi, baby. I’m home!”

She sounded so happy. So alive.

“That’s amazing. How are you feeling?”

“Tired, but good. Really good. The nurse who’s coming by says everything looks great.” She paused. “How’s the new job?”

The new job. The lie.

“It’s good. Busy. But good.”

“I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

“When do you think you’ll be able to visit?”

I looked around Mariana’s apartment. At the life I was about to step into. The lie I was about to live.

“I’m not sure yet. Things are pretty crazy right now. But soon. I promise.”

Another promise I didn’t know if I could keep.

We talked for a few more minutes. She told me about her nurses, her medications, the neighbor who’d been checking on her. Normal life stuff.

The life I’d left behind.

When we hung up, I sat there holding my phone, and I couldn’t stop crying.

Mariana found me like that. She didn’t say anything. Just handed me tissues and left me alone.

On day ten, the wedding dress arrived.

It came in a garment bag that probably cost more than most actual dresses. Mariana unzipped it slowly, like she was revealing something sacred.

The dress was beautiful. White silk that caught the light. Simple but elegant. Exactly the kind of thing Mariana would choose.

“Try it on,” she said.

I didn’t want to. Putting on that dress would make everything real.

But I did it anyway.

It fit perfectly. Of course it did. We were identical.

I stood in front of the mirror and barely recognized myself. I looked like a bride. Like someone getting married should look.

Happy. Excited. In love.

I looked like everything I wasn’t.

“You look beautiful,” Mariana said quietly.

“I look like you.”

“Same thing.”

It wasn’t. But I didn’t argue.

The night before the wedding, I couldn’t sleep.

Mariana had already left. That was part of the plan. She’d disappear before anyone could ask questions. Leave the country, probably. Somewhere Dad couldn’t find her.

Somewhere safe.

While I walked into the fire.

I stood at the window, looking out at the city lights, and tried to imagine what tomorrow would be like. Walking down that aisle. Saying vows that weren’t mine. Marrying a man I’d never met.

A man who’d killed people.

My phone buzzed. A text from Mom.

Good luck tomorrow, baby. Whatever you’re working on, I know you’ll be amazing. I love you so much.

I stared at the message for a long time.

*Then I typed back: I love you too, Mom. More than you know.

I didn’t sleep at all that night.

Morning came anyway.

Hair and makeup people showed up at seven. They called me Mariana. Treated me like I was her. Like this was normal.

I let them do whatever they wanted. Sat still while they curled my hair and painted my face and made me look like someone worth marrying.

The dress went on. The veil. The shoes that were too tight.

“You look perfect,” the makeup artist said, stepping back to admire her work.

Perfect.

Right.

A car came at ten. Black and sleek and probably cost more than my mom’s surgery.

I got in. The driver didn’t talk. Just drove.

We pulled up to the chapel and my heart was beating so hard I thought I might pass out.

This was it.

No going back now.

I stepped out of the car. Someone handed me flowers. Someone else straightened my dress.

The chapel doors opened.

Music started.

And I walked toward a man I’d never met.

Toward a life that wasn’t mine.

Toward a lie I’d have to live until I figured out how to escape it.

His eyes found mine as I walked down that aisle.

Dark. Intense. Dangerous.

And I knew—absolutely knew—that Mariana had been wrong.

Adrian Moretti paid attention to everything.

And he was about to pay very close attention to me.