Blocked From My Wedding, I Dumped My Mafia Fiancé

On my wedding day, two guards stopped me outside the doors to my own ceremony. My fiancé, the Godfather Matteo De Luca, called. "Let Bianca go in first. Wait in the side hall for twenty minutes." I froze. Matteo continued, "Bianca doesn't believe in marriage. She'll never get married in her life. She just wants to experience a wedding ceremony this once. After she's had her turn, you can come in." Before the doors closed, I saw Bianca already in her wedding gown, standing in front of the rose wall I had built with my own hands. Matteo was adjusting her veil. Sensing my silence, he softened his voice. "This wedding between Bianca and me is just for show. The one who will truly become Mrs. De Luca is you. Don't take a performance so seriously." The call ended, and applause soon drifted out from inside the church. And so I sat in the side hall, waiting for another woman to finish using my wedding. It had always been like this. Because Bianca's father had taken a bullet for Matteo, whenever she was scared, he had to be there; whenever she was upset, he had to comfort her. Nineteen months ago, when I lay in the back of an ambulance telling him I was bleeding, he still chose to stay by Bianca's side—because she claimed someone was after her. And now, even my wedding had to be hers to try on first. A server brought me hot tea without sugar and draped Matteo's cashmere coat over my shoulders. Not a single lily had been allowed onto the estate because he knew I was allergic to them. He remembered that I was always cold. He remembered every one of my habits. Yet he couldn't be bothered to come see me himself. I called him again. "Come out here. We need to talk face-to-face." "The ceremony has already started." "You could put my wedding on hold for Bianca, but you can't spare 1 minute for me?" He didn't sound the least bit guilty. "This is the only chance she got. You get a lifetime. Is twenty minutes really worth the fight?" "So because I'm going to be your wife, I'm the one who's supposed to step aside?" Bianca's voice drifted through the phone from somewhere inside the hall. "Matteo, is my veil crooked?" "Not at all. You look beautiful." His voice was much gentler when he answered her. Then he hung up on me. A photo appeared in the DeLuca family chat moments later. Matteo was bowing his head as he adjusted Bianca's veil. Bianca: Thank you for indulging me, Matteo. And thank you, Elena, for lending me your wedding. A: The Don really does spoil you. B: Look at you two. You could be the real newlyweds. Matteo finally responded. Matteo: Enough. You're embarrassing Bianca. He was worried about Bianca's embarrassment. No one seemed to care that the actual bride had been barred from her own ceremony. I photographed the official schedule and posted it in the chat. Elena: Don't thank me. I never intend to lend you anything. The chat fell silent. 30 seconds later, Bianca replied. Bianca: I'm sorry. I didn't realize you would be so upset. I'll give your wedding back right now. Matteo called immediately. His first words were an order. "Delete that message. You made Bianca cry." "Then tell her to come out. She just offered to give the wedding back." "Elena, her father died for me. It's 20 minutes. Can you really not show her that much grace?" "Then what about my dignity?" "Everything after this belongs to you. You're the one who will become Mrs. DeLuca. Why are you making such a fuss over a performance?" Apparently, having the title meant I was supposed to yield. And because Bianca had no title, every boundary she crossed could be excused. Not this time. Her sob came through the phone. "Forget it, Matteo. I should go." He comforted her at once. "No one told you to leave. I made you a promise, and you're getting every part of it." His promises to her were sacred. Yet his promises to me were negotiable. The glass partition between the lounge and the hall slid open. Bianca stood before 864 ivory roses. My parents had set those flowers aside for me over 2 growing seasons, and the copper frame still bore the small EH plaque in its lower right corner. Bianca complained that her train was too heavy. So, in front of every guest, Matteo bent down and arranged it for her himself. He had left a server to deal with my discomfort, but the slightest inconvenience to Bianca was worth getting on his knees. When he rose, Bianca lifted her champagne flute toward me through the glass and smiled. The pianist began to play the song Matteo and I had first danced to 7 years ago—the song he had promised would be played again at our wedding. Only then did I understand. Bianca had never wanted to borrow just 20 minutes in the hall.