The Billionaire's Secret: A Mafia Romance

I stared at the sheet of paper in my hand, the vibrant red "FINAL NOTICE" stamp curling my stomach into knots. Five years of nonstop work, all I had, and sleepless nights staring at the ceiling—gone in thirty days unless I performed a miracle. "Sofia?" Maya poked her head through the office doorway, her short black hair bobbing. "Are you alright?" You're white as a ghost." I quickly crumpled the eviction notice and shoved it into my desk drawer. "I am fine," I lied, forcing a stiff smile onto my face. "I am just tired. How is it going at the gallery? "Empty as always." Maya stood in the doorway with a look of worry on her face. "But we did have three people ask about the new cityscape painting." "Asking ain't buyin'," I snarled, and then regretted what I'd said. "Sorry. I didn't mean to snap." Maya waved my apology away. "It is okay. We'll think of something. We always do." If only she could understand how bad things were. The gallery wasn't just in trouble, it was my alibi, my disguise. Without it, I'd be alone. Exposed. Vulnerable. Findable. "I'm going to close up," I said, standing up from my desk on unsteady legs. "You should go home." It's late." "Are you sure?" I can stay if—" "I'm sure." I wanted to be alone with my panic. As soon as Maya left, I went down to my small gallery and ran my fingers along the blank white walls. Russo Gallery. My name—not my real name, but the only one that mattered right now. Sofia Russo, the gallery owner. No longer Sofia Castellano, daughter of Antonio Castellano, notorious New York crime boss. The phone at the gallery rang, pulling me out of my trance. Another bill collector, no doubt. I redirected it to voicemail. Rain was falling outside, creating soft, hazy halos around the lampposts. I had started to make my way over to the front window to change the sign to "CLOSED" when a black sedan pulled up right outside. My heart lurched. Black sedans with tinted windows figured big in my worst nightmares. A large man emerged, opening an umbrella as he stepped onto the sidewalk. Even through the rain-spattered glass, I could see he was dressed in an expensive suit with wide shoulders. He paused for a moment, looking at my gallery sign and then at the door. I bristled. Run? Hide? Five years of living on guard had taught me to be aware of every exit. Back door through the storeroom. Bathroom window. As he entered, the doorbell over the front door rang, bringing with it the smell of rain and something earthy and expensive. A perfume that probably costs more than I pay in rent each month. "We're closed," I said to him, hating how my voice trembled. "Sorry." He did not stir. He closed his umbrella and remained motionless, slowly and deliberately taking in the contents of my gallery through his eyes. His eyes were so dark that they appeared to be black, and he had a face that fit the Renaissance canvases perfectly—one with razor-sharp angles and flawless harmony. "Sofia Russo?" he inquired softly, his deep voice smooth except for a faint whisper of Italian accent. My heart started pumping. "Yes. "And you are?" "Alessio Vitale." He extended his hand. I didn't take it. That name. I remembered it somewhere. Business magazines? Headlines? And Vitale. My blood ran cold. The Vitale family. My father's enemies. "What do you want?" I asked, stepping back. "How do you know my name?" His lips curled into something far too deliberate to be a smile. "I know a lot of things, Ms. Russo. Including the fact that you're going to lose this building." The walls seemed to close in. How could he possibly know that? The eviction notice had only arrived today. "I don't know what you're talking about," I said, crossing my arms over my body to hide shaking hands. Alessio Vitale shoved his hand into his jacket, and for a moment, I thought he was going to pull out a gun. Instead, he produced a business card, which he extended to me with two fingers. "I have an offer for you," he said. "One which could sort out all your financial worries." "I don't want loans from people like you." The words were out before I could call them back. His eyebrow arched slightly. "People like me?" "Rich men who think everything comes with a price tag," I told him, finding a tiny bit of courage. "Including desperate women." To my surprise, he laughed—a deep, rich sound that seemed genuine. "You misunderstand me, Ms. Russo. I'm not offering a loan. I'm offering an offer of partnership." "Partnership?" I repeated, perplexed. "Of sorts." He looked around the gallery again. "May we sit? This may take a while to explain." I nodded in spite of myself and gestured to the small sitting area beside the window where I sometimes served clients wine to loosen their purses. He sat in the chair with his back to the door. A man who constantly looked over his shoulder. Like me. "I will be brief," he said after sitting. "I need a wife." I nearly choked. "Excuse me?" "A temporary wife. One year, perhaps two. A business arrangement with terms and limits." I seethed at him, knowing this was some sort of twisted joke. "And you just. walk into random galleries making marriage proposals to strangers?" "Nothing about this is random, Sofia." The way he said my name made my skin crawl. "I did some research on you. You're perfect for what I require." That didn't make me feel any better. Not at all. "I think you should leave," I said, getting up. He remained seated and completely calm. "Without hearing my offer?" That would be foolish given your financial situation." "How do you know about my situation?" I demanded. "I take it upon myself to know things. Like the fact that you have exactly twenty-eight days before this gallery is taken from you. That your apartment rent is two months overdue. That you've been selling your belongings to keep this going." Each word hurt. How long had he been observing me? "What do you want?" I gasped. "A wife. In name only." He said it as if he were discussing the weather. "Public events, social gatherings, family excursions. Nothing more. Separate living arrangements, of course. For that, I will pay off all of your debts and give you a monthly allowance. Once our contract is over, you'll have a settlement that would keep this gallery in business for ten years." "Why me?" His eyes met mine, searching. "You don't have family obligations. You don't have a romantic attachment. You are well-educated, sophisticated, and capable of supporting yourself. You're also." He paused, "...aesthetically suitable." I should have hated that. Instead, I was grateful, he had no clue who I really was. He just saw me as some nobody. Just perfect for whatever game he was playing. "This is insane," I said, shaking my head. "I don't even know you." "Alessio Vitale. Thirty-two. CEO of Vitale Enterprises. Net worth approximately four billion. Never married. No children." He recited the facts as if they were a résumé. "You can Google the rest." I remembered where I had heard his name before. Forbes. Business Insider. The boy billionaire who rebuilt his family's business following his father's assassination. The Vitale clan was legitimate on paper, but everyone knew where their fortunes came from. "Why not hire an actress? Or find someone who actually wants to marry a rich man?" "Because women talk, and gold-diggers seek more than money. They seek attention. "Time, emotions." He spat out the last word almost. "I want someone who is practical and understands that this is strictly business." My head reeled. If I said no, I'd lose everything within a month. If I said yes to a Vitale. My dad would kill me if he ever found me. Literally. "I need to think," I said. "You have until tomorrow," he announced, standing up. "I'll have a car at noon." "I haven't committed to anything!" "No," he stated, moving toward the door. "But you will." As I reached for the door handle, the gallery lights illuminated something I had not noticed before. A faint scar splits his right eyebrow. A flashback to my father at our dinner table, recounting how he had marked the Vitale boy himself. Alessio Vitale. The future owner of the family that had been battling the Castellanos for centuries. And he wanted to marry me, unaware that I belonged to his sworn enemy. "One more question!" I yelled as he opened the door. "Why marriage? "Why not hire someone?" He looked at me, and something wicked flickered in his eyes. "Because, Sofia, what I need cannot be purchased. It must be bound up in law." He paused. "Consider your response carefully. Opportunities like this do not come around very often." The door closed behind him, and I sat back in my chair, my heart racing. A marriage contract with Vitale. Safety. A new identity supported by his name and power. But at what cost? And why did I get the impression that he was not being truthful to me?