MAFIA’S WRONG BRIDE

Episode5:The reception

““You taste different.”

Those three words wouldn’t leave me alone, looping through my mind like a song I couldn’t escape

Adrian’s hand rested on my lower back as we walked down the aisle, warm through the silk of my dress. Around us, guests clapped and smiled, cameras flashing. Everyone looked so happy.

They had no idea.

We stepped out of the chapel into sunlight that felt too bright, too real. Photographers appeared from nowhere, cameras flashing like lightning. Adrian pulled me closer, his arm sliding around my waist.

“Smile,” he said quietly. Not a suggestion. Sounded like command.

I smiled. It felt like my face might crack from all the fake smiles I’ve been pulling.

More photos. More flashes. Someone shouting “Kiss her again!” and Adrian leaning in, his lips brushing my cheek instead of my mouth. A concession, maybe. Or a test I don’t care I just want to pass the test.

A black car waited at the curb. Adrian opened the door himself—gentleman criminal—and I slid inside. He followed, and suddenly we were alone in the backseat, separated from the driver by a privacy screen in the car .

Just us.

The door shut. The car pulled away. Silence pressed down on me like a weight.

I focused on my hands in my lap. The rings felt heavy. Foreign. Like they belonged to someone else.

They did belong to someone else.

“That went well,” I said, because the silence was worse than talking.

Adrian didn’t respond right away. I felt him looking at me, studying me the way you’d study something that didn’t quite make sense.

“Did it?” he said finally.

I turned to face him. Big mistake. This close, I could see details I’d missed at the altar. A small scar above his left eyebrow. The way his jaw tensed. Eyes so dark they were almost black.

“The ceremony was beautiful,” I said. “Everyone seemed happy.”

“Everyone except you.”

My stomach dropped. “I’m happy—”

“You look terrified.” He leaned back, still watching me. “I’ve seen you nervous before. At those dinners Richard arranged. But this is different.”

Richard. My father. Mariana’s father.

“Wedding nerves,” I said. “Isn’t that normal?”

God he’s watching again. smile Elena smile or die

“You told me once you don’t believe in fear.” His head tilted slightly. “You said fear was for people who don’t plan ahead.”

Shit.

Mariana had said that. To him. And I had no idea.

“People change,” I managed to say .

“In three weeks?”

His phone buzzed before I could respond. He glanced at it, jaw tightening, then looked back at me.

“We’ll talk later,” he said. “After we’ve played our parts.”

The car arrived at the reception location — some old place with columns and gardens and more marble than the whole world required. Music, voices came from within.

Adrian exited first and extended a hand.

I stared at it for a second. Long fingers. Callused knuckles. Hands that likely hurt people.

Hands that were now legally mine.

I took it.

“Ready, Mrs. Moretti?” he asked.

Mrs. Moretti. God, that sounded wrong.

“Ready,” I lied.

The ballroom was overwhelming.

Crystal chandeliers hung from ceilings painted with clouds and cherubs. Round tables draped in white silk. Flowers everywhere—roses and peonies and things I couldn’t name. A string quartet in the corner playing something classical.

It looked like a movie set. Like something from a different world.

It was a different world.

“Time to make the rounds,” Adrian said, his hand finding my waist again. “Stay close.”

We moved through the crowd and people swarmed us immediately. Kissing cheeks, shaking hands, congratulating us in English and Italian and languages I didn’t recognize.

“Mariana, you look stunning!”

“Adrian, your father must be so pleased.”

“Such a beautiful couple.”

I smiled until my face hurt. Said “thank you” so many times the words lost meaning. Let Adrian guide me from group to group while I tried desperately to remember everything Mariana had taught me.

Stand up straight. Don’t fidget. Make eye contact but don’t stare. Laugh at jokes even when they’re not funny.

Be her. Just be her.

A woman in a red dress air-kissed both my cheeks. “Mariana, darling, it’s been too long! How was Paris?”

Paris? Mariana went to Paris?

“It was lovely,” I said, keeping my voice light. “But you know how it is. Never enough time.”

“Oh, absolutely.” She laughed and moved on, and I released a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

Adrian’s hand tightened on my waist. “Smooth,” he murmured.

Was that approval? Or was he testing me?

I couldn’t tell.

An older man approached, and everyone around us went quiet. Even Adrian straightened slightly.

“Papa,” he said.

Dominic Moretti.

He was shorter than Adrian but somehow took up more space. Silver hair slicked back. A suit that probably cost more than a house. Eyes that missed nothing.

Eyes that were currently fixed on me.

“Mariana.” He took my hand, raised it to his lips. Old-fashioned. Formal. “Welcome to the family.”

“Thank you, Mr. Moretti.”

“Dominic, please. We’re family now.” He didn’t let go of my hand. “You look different than I remember.”

My heart stopped.

“Different how?” The question came out steadier than I felt.

“Softer, perhaps. Marriage agrees with you already.” He finally released my hand, turning to Adrian. “Your mother would have loved her.”

Something flickered across Adrian’s face. Too fast to read.

“Yes,” he said. “She would have.”

Dominic clapped him on the shoulder, said something in Italian I didn’t understand, then moved on to greet other guests.

I let out the breath I’d been holding.

“You okay?” Adrian asked.

“Fine. Just… a lot of people.”

“You’ll get used to it.” His hand slid from my waist. “I need to speak with my father. Stay here. Marco will keep you company.”

He left before I could protest.

Marco appeared about thirty seconds later with two champagne flutes.

“Surviving?” He handed me one, grinning. “You look like you need this.”

Adrian’s brother was younger by a few years, maybe twenty-five. Same dark hair, same strong features, but his eyes were warmer. Less dangerous.

“Is it that obvious?” I took a sip. The champagne was good. Too good. The kind of thing I’d never been able to afford.

“Only to me. Adrian seems convinced something’s off with you.” Marco leaned against a column, studying me. “Is it?”

“Is what?”

“Is something off?”

I met his eyes. Tried to read him. Was he fishing for information? Or genuinely curious?

“Wedding nerves,” I said. “That’s all.”

“Hmm.” He didn’t look convinced. “You know, Mariana and I talked once. At one of those boring dinners. She told me she didn’t believe in marriage. Said it was a trap for people who couldn’t think for themselves.”

Oh God. What else had Mariana said that I didn’t know about?

“People change,” I said, echoing what I’d told Adrian.

“In three weeks?” Marco’s smile widened. “That’s exactly what Adrian said you’d say.”

“He’s talking about me?”

“He’s been talking about you nonstop since the engagement was announced. Trying to figure you out.” Marco took a sip of his champagne. “Between you and me, I’ve never seen him this focused on anything that wasn’t business.”

That should have been reassuring.

It wasn’t.

“Is that good or bad?” I asked.

Marco’s smile turned thoughtful. “With Adrian? Usually both.”

Dinner was torture.

Adrian and I sat at the head table, practically on display. Everyone could see us. Watch us. Judge every interaction.

“You’re not eating,” Adrian said quietly.

I looked down at my plate. Some kind of chicken with sauce that probably had a French name. I’d been pushing it around for ten minutes.

“Not very hungry.”

“You need to eat. It’s going to be a long night.”

He cut a piece of his own food, then held his fork out to me. The gesture looked romantic. Intimate. Something a new husband would do.

But his eyes said: Play along.

I opened my mouth. Let him feed me. The food was good but tasted like ash.

“Better,” he said, setting his fork down. His hand found my thigh under the table. Not s****l. Possessive. “Keep up appearances.”

“I’m trying.”

“Try harder.” His thumb moved in small circles against my leg. “People are watching.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” He leaned closer, lips near my ear. To anyone watching, it probably looked like he was whispering something romantic. “Because you’re acting like someone who’s never been to an event like this before. Like you don’t belong here.”

“Maybe I’m just overwhelmed—”

“Mariana doesn’t get overwhelmed. She gets bored.” His hand squeezed my thigh, then released. “So which is it? Are you bored? Or are you pretending to be someone you’re not?”

I turned to face him. We were so close our noses almost touched.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying something isn’t right.” His eyes searched mine. “And I’m going to figure out what.”

The DJ announced the first dance while I was still processing Adrian’s words.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the bride and groom!”

Applause erupted. Adrian stood, offering his hand. No escape.

We walked to the center of the dance floor. The lights dimmed. A song started—something slow and Italian that Mariana probably chose.

His hand settled on my waist. Mine on his shoulder. We were so close I could smell his cologne. Cedar and something darker. Something that probably cost more than my monthly rent used to.

“I don’t know this song,” I said quietly.

“I do.” He pulled me closer. “Just follow my lead.”

We moved together, and I was hyperaware of everything. His hand on my waist. My hand in his. The way our bodies fit together despite being strangers. The way everyone was watching us like we were some kind of fairy tale.

“You’re shaking,” he said.

“No, I’m not—”

“You are.” His thumb brushed against my waist. Through the dress, the touch felt burning hot. “Why are you so afraid of me?”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“Another lie.” He spun me, pulled me back. “You’ve been lying all day. To me. To everyone. The question is why.”

“I haven’t—”

“The Mariana I met three weeks ago looked me in the eye and told me this marriage was a business transaction. That she didn’t expect love or romance or even friendship. She said she’d do her duty and I should do mine, and we’d both go on with our lives.” He leaned in closer. “That woman wasn’t scared. She was cold. Calculated. Almost bored.”

My heart hammered. “Maybe the reality of it is different than the theory.”

“Maybe.” His hand slid up my back. “Or maybe you’re not her at all.”

The song ended. Applause surrounded us.

Adrian held me for a moment longer, his eyes locked on mine.

Then he smiled. For the cameras. For the guests.

But not for me.

“We’ll finish this conversation tonight,” he said quietly. “When we’re alone.”

He released me, and I stood there in the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by hundreds of people.

And I’d never felt more alone in my life.

The rest of the reception blurred together.

More dances. More small talk. More champagne that I desperately wanted but barely touched because I needed to stay alert.

Adrian’s father gave a speech in Italian. People laughed. Cried. Toasted.

My father—Mariana’s father—gave a speech in English about family and legacy and new beginnings. He didn’t look at me once.

Cake was cut. Pictures were taken. Music played.

And through it all, Adrian watched me.

Not constantly. Not obviously. But I felt it. His attention like a weight.

Marco appeared at one point with another champagne flute. “You look like you’re about to run.”

“I’m fine.”

“That’s what people say right before they’re not fine.” He clinked his glass against mine. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing great. Better than most people would in your situation.”

“My situation?”

“Marrying into this family.” He gestured around the ballroom. “It’s not easy. Lot of rules. Lot of expectations. Lot of people watching your every move.”

“Has it always been like this?”

“For as long as I can remember.” He took a long drink. “But you get used to it. Or you learn to fake it. Same difference, really.”

Fake it. That’s what I was doing. Faking everything.

“Marco.” Adrian’s voice cut through the noise. He was standing a few feet away, expression unreadable. “Father needs you.”

“Sure.” Marco squeezed my shoulder. “Good luck, sister.”

Sister. God, that word felt wrong.

He left, and Adrian moved closer.

“Car’s ready,” he said.

“Ready for what?”

“To leave. Reception’s winding down. Time for the bride and groom to depart.” His hand found my lower back again. Guiding. Controlling. “Smile. We’re supposed to look happy.”

I smiled.

We said our goodbyes. Hugged people I didn’t know. Thanked them for coming. Promised to visit soon.

All lies.

Everything was lies.

The same black car from earlier waited outside. Adrian opened the door and I got in, my dress taking up half the backseat.

He slid in beside me. The door shut. The privacy screen went up.

We pulled away from the venue, leaving the lights and music behind.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Home.”

“Which home?”

“Mine.” He loosened his tie. “Well, ours now. You’ll be living there.”

Living there. With him. In his house.

Of course. That’s what wives did.

“What about my apartment?” I said, then immediately regretted it.

Adrian turned to look at me. “Your apartment?”

“I mean—Mariana’s apartment. I just—I have things there—”

“We’ll have everything moved.” He was still watching me. Still analyzing. “Unless there’s a specific reason you need to go back tonight?”

“No. No reason.”

“Good.” He turned away, looking out the window. “Because we need to talk. About today. About you. About everything you’re not telling me.”

My mouth went dry. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.” His voice was calm. Almost gentle. Which somehow made it worse. “And when we get home, you’re going to explain exactly what’s going on.”

“Adrian—”

“Don’t.” He held up a hand. “Not here. Not now. Wait until we’re somewhere private.”

Private.

Alone with him.

In his house.

Where no one could hear me scream.

The thought came from nowhere and everywhere at once. This man was dangerous. A killer. And I was about to be alone with him.

We drove through the city in silence. Away from Manhattan, toward somewhere I didn’t recognize. The buildings got smaller. The streets quieter.

Finally, the car turned down a private road. Trees on both sides. A gate that opened automatically. A driveway that seemed to go on forever.

Then: a house. No, not a house. A mansion. Stone and iron and windows that glowed with warm light.biggest house I’ve ever seen

This was where he lived.

Where I would live.

The car stopped. Adrian got out, came around to my side. Opened the door.

“Welcome home,” he said.

Home.

I stepped out, and the door to the house opened. Staff appeared. People whose names I didn’t know, who all called me Mrs. Moretti. Who took my things, who smiled and congratulated me.

Adrian’s hand stayed on my back. Guiding me inside. Through a foyer with a chandelier bigger than my old bedroom. Past a living room that could fit three of my mom’s apartments. Up a staircase that curved like something from a movie.

He stopped at a set of double doors.

“Our room,” he said, pushing them open.

The bedroom was massive. King-sized bed. Fireplace. Windows overlooking gardens I couldn’t see in the dark. Elegant and expensive and nothing like anything I’d ever experienced.

“I’ll give you a moment,” Adrian said. “To change. Then we talk.”

He left, closing the door behind him.

I stood there in my wedding dress, in this stranger’s bedroom, and finally let myself feel it.

The fear.

The panic.

The absolute certainty that I’d made a terrible, terrible mistake.