MY SISTER RAN AWAY, SO I MARRIED THE MAFIA KING

The first time I heard my fiancé tell my sister he loved her, I was wearing the wedding dress in which I was supposed to marry him. “I can’t watch you marry her.” Isabella’s voice came through the dressing-room wall—soft, tearful, and perfectly calculated. I stopped fastening the pearl buttons at my wrist. The bridal suite occupied the eastern wing of Moretti House, separated from my father’s private study by an old connecting door. Someone had covered it with an antique wardrobe years ago, but the thin walls still carried sound. On the other side, Adrian sighed. It was the same patient sigh he used whenever I asked why he had canceled another dinner or forgotten another promise. “You know this marriage means nothing,” he said. My fingers went numb. Beyond the windows, two hundred guests waited beneath white silk canopies. A string quartet played in the gardens. Reporters gathered outside our gates to photograph the union between the Moretti shipping dynasty and Senator Russo’s only son. My father had called it the wedding of the decade. Apparently, my groom considered it nothing. “Then leave with me,” Isabella whispered. “I can’t. Not yet.” “Because of Sienna?” “Because of what belongs to her.” Silence followed. I stood before the mirror, barely recognizing the woman staring back at me. The gown had been designed to make me appear delicate: ivory lace, long sleeves, a fitted waist. My dark hair had been gathered beneath our mother’s cathedral veil. Isabella had cried when she saw it that morning. I understood why now. She had not been emotional because I was wearing our dead mother’s veil. She had been imagining herself beneath it. “What if she refuses to sign after the wedding?” Isabella asked. “She won’t.” “You sound very certain.” “Sienna has spent her entire life doing what your father tells her. She’ll sign.” My gaze dropped to the folder resting on the dressing table. Adrian’s attorneys had delivered it that morning. He had called it a routine marital agreement and kissed my forehead before hurrying away to attend to “an emergency.” I had not opened it. Until now. Keeping my movements silent, I crossed the room and lifted the folder. The first pages contained the terms we had previously discussed. Separate property. Confidentiality. Shared use of our marital residence. The additional pages began halfway through. Authorization to manage assets held under my name. Transfer of voting rights. Medical power of attorney. My stomach tightened with every clause. In the event that I became physically or mentally incapable of managing my affairs, Adrian would receive complete control of the inheritance my mother had protected from my father. My fiancé was not marrying me. He was acquiring me. “And after she transfers control to you?” Isabella asked. “We wait a few months. Long enough for the marriage to appear convincing.” “Then what?” Another pause. When Adrian answered, his voice was so calm that, for one terrible moment, I wondered if I had mistaken it for someone else’s. “Your father has found a private clinic in Switzerland. Once the doctors certify that Sienna is unstable, I’ll petition for permanent guardianship.” The agreement slipped from my fingers. Paper whispered across the floor. The conversation next door stopped. I stared at the scattered pages, my heart battering my ribs. A floorboard creaked inside the study. “Sienna?” Adrian called. I had perhaps five seconds before he entered. Five seconds to decide whether I would cry, run, or continue being the obedient daughter everyone believed they could bury alive. I bent down, gathered the agreement, and placed it back on the table. Then I picked up the silver letter opener beside it. The connecting door swung inward. Adrian appeared first, handsome in his black tuxedo, his golden hair combed neatly away from his face. He had perfected the expression of a devoted groom for the cameras downstairs. It disappeared when he saw the letter opener in my hand. Isabella stood behind him in a champagne-colored dress that looked almost white. Our mother’s diamond earrings glittered against her throat. I had been searching for those earrings since dawn. “There you are,” I said. Isabella touched one instinctively. “Sienna, I can explain.” “I would love to hear it.” My voice sounded strangely steady. “Should we begin with the affair, the stolen earrings, or the private clinic where you intend to imprison me?” The color drained from her face. Adrian recovered faster. “You misunderstood.” “Which part?” “All of it.” He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. “You’re overwhelmed. Weddings are stressful.” “Of course. Stress frequently makes women hallucinate legal documents.” His eyes flicked toward the folder. That single glance confirmed everything. I laughed. It escaped before I could stop it—one sharp, humorless sound. For three years, Adrian had told me I was too suspicious whenever I questioned his unexplained absences. Isabella had accused me of jealousy when I noticed her wearing gifts identical to mine. My father had reminded me that nobody else from a respectable family would marry a woman with my “history.” They had not merely betrayed me. They had trained me to distrust every instinct that might expose them. Adrian extended his hand. “Give me the letter opener.” “Why? Are you afraid I might become unstable?” “Sienna.” “Is that how you planned to do it? Provoke me until I broke, then parade me before doctors you had already paid?” Isabella’s eyes filled with tears. Once, those tears could make me surrender anything. “I didn’t want this,” she said. “We tried to fight our feelings.” “Did you fight them in his bed?” She flinched. A small, vicious part of me enjoyed it. “Sienna,” Adrian warned. “No. You don’t get to defend her in the room where I dressed to become your wife.” “You were never supposed to hear us.” I looked at him. “That is your defense?” His jaw tightened. Isabella moved closer, arranging her face into the expression that had rescued her from consequences since childhood. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I truly am. But Adrian and I love each other. You wouldn’t understand because you’ve never—” “Finish that sentence.” Her lips parted. “Tell me I’ve never been loved.” I stepped toward her. “You might as well say it today.” She lowered her gaze, but not before I saw the answer. Adrian positioned himself between us. The movement hurt more than his confession. Even now, he protected her from me. “The guests are waiting,” he said. “We are going to compose ourselves, complete the ceremony, and discuss this privately afterward.” I stared at him. “You still expect me to marry you?” “This arrangement is bigger than either of us. Your family needs the Russo name. My father needs access to Moretti Shipping. If you cause a scandal now, your company will collapse by morning.” “My father’s company.” “The company employing thousands of people.” There it was—the weapon they always used. Responsibility. Whenever my father created a disaster, he placed its consequences in my hands. If I refused to repair it, every employee who lost a job and every family who suffered would supposedly become my fault. Adrian approached slowly. “You don’t have to love me,” he said. “Nothing between us needs to change.” “Nothing?” My voice cracked at last. “You are sleeping with my sister.” “You and I were never passionate.” I felt as if he had slapped me. Isabella touched his arm. He covered her hand with his. They did it without thinking. That casual tenderness killed the last foolish part of me that had still been searching for an explanation. I pulled the engagement ring from my finger. Adrian’s expression hardened. “Don’t be childish.” I dropped it into his champagne glass. The diamond struck the crystal with a satisfying chime. “Find another bride.” I gathered my skirt and walked toward the main door. It opened before I reached it. My father stood on the threshold. Vittorio Moretti was sixty-two and silver-haired, with the rigid posture of a man accustomed to controlling every room he entered. Two security guards waited behind him. His gaze traveled from Adrian’s glass to the unsigned agreement on the table. “I warned you not to leave them alone,” he said to Isabella. The blood in my veins turned cold. “You knew.” My father entered and shut the door. “Of course I knew.” Three words. No apology. No shame. “You knew they were together?” “I knew Adrian required certain assurances before proceeding with the marriage.” “Assurances?” I pointed at the agreement. “He intends to steal my inheritance and lock me inside an institution.” “That will only become necessary if you prove uncooperative.” I stared at the man who had raised me. Whatever remained of my heart did not break. It simply went quiet. Isabella looked away. At least she possessed enough shame to pretend. My father adjusted his cuff link. “Your mother complicated matters by placing her shares in your name. Those shares are the only assets capable of securing our creditors. You will sign the agreement, marry Adrian, and transfer control as planned.” “No.” The word emerged calmly. It was possibly the first honest word I had ever spoken to him. His face did not change, but one of the guards moved closer. “You are emotional,” Father said. “I will give you a moment to reconsider.” “I have spent twenty-four years reconsidering every decision whenever it displeased you. I’m finished.” “Without this marriage, we lose everything.” “You should have considered that before gambling the company on illegal shipments.” Adrian glanced toward him. Isabella went still. My father’s eyes narrowed. So he had not known I was aware of the altered cargo records. Interesting. “Be careful,” he said. “No. You be careful. If anyone tries to force me downstairs, I will tell every reporter outside precisely why this wedding collapsed. I will give them the accounts, the falsified manifests, and the name of every shell company you used.” His face changed then. Not much. But enough. I had frightened him. For the first time in my life, the realization felt better than earning his approval. A vibration interrupted the silence. Adrian pulled out his phone. His expression darkened as he read the message. “What is it?” Father asked. Adrian did not answer. Isabella’s hand flew to her waist. A movement so quick and instinctive that no one else might have noticed. Her evening purse was gone. She had carried it when she entered the study. I remembered the thin gold chain hanging from her shoulder. Now it was missing. Adrian looked at her. “Where is the ledger?” Father’s attention snapped toward them. “What ledger?” “I don’t know what you mean,” Isabella said. Adrian caught her arm. “Don’t lie to me.” She winced. “You’re hurting me.” “Where is it?” I watched panic pass between them. Not romantic panic. Not the fear of being discovered. This was something else. Something dangerous. The music in the garden abruptly stopped. A second later, shouting erupted below. My father turned toward the windows. Three black vehicles had entered the circular drive. They moved past the rows of luxury cars and stopped directly before the front steps. Men in dark suits emerged. They were not carrying visible weapons, but every member of our security detail stepped back as if they were. One man remained inside the central vehicle. The shouting below faded. Silence spread across the estate with unnatural speed. My father’s face turned gray. “Lock the doors.” The guards hesitated. “I said lock them!” A gunshot cracked through the house. Isabella screamed. It had come from the entrance hall—not wild firing, but one deliberate shot followed by the crash of something heavy striking marble. Footsteps sounded below. Slow. Unhurried. Someone was crossing the foyer while two hundred of New York’s most influential people remained silent enough for us to hear each step. My father seized Adrian by the lapel. “What did you do?” Adrian pushed him away. “This is your fault. You promised him she would be here.” “Who?” I demanded. “Who is here?” No one answered. The bedroom doors opened. Our head of security backed into the suite with blood running from his nose. A tall man in a charcoal suit followed him. A pistol rested loosely in his gloved hand. “Mr. Moretti,” he said, “your guest has arrived.” My father swallowed. “Tell Mr. De Luca I will meet him downstairs.” “He prefers to conduct this conversation in front of the family.” The security chief moved aside. The man who entered next did not need an introduction. Dante De Luca was younger than I expected, perhaps thirty-two, but there was nothing youthful about him. Black hair swept back from a face composed of severe lines. Broad shoulders filled his perfectly tailored suit. A faint scar cut through his left eyebrow. He wore no tie. There was blood on the cuff of his white shirt. His gaze passed over Adrian, Isabella, and my father without interest. Then it settled on me. For one suspended moment, the noise outside disappeared. Something tightened behind his expression. Recognition. Impossible. I had never met Dante De Luca. I would have remembered. His eyes traveled over my wedding gown before returning to my face. “Which one is Isabella Moretti?” he asked. No one spoke. Isabella edged behind Adrian. Dante noticed. A trace of amusement touched his mouth, but it held no warmth. “There you are.” He stepped toward her. My father blocked his path. “We can resolve this privately.” “We tried privacy.” Dante’s voice was quiet. “You used it to steal twenty million dollars from me.” My father’s shoulders stiffened. “I stole nothing.” “No?” Dante glanced at Adrian. “Then perhaps the senator’s son would like to explain why my courier was found dead this morning and my ledger disappeared from his hotel room.” Adrian released Isabella as though she had burned him. She stared at him. “You said no one would get hurt.” My father slowly turned toward her. Dante smiled. It was the most frightening thing I had seen all day. “Your daughter has had a very busy morning, Vittorio. Unfortunately, she has also broken our agreement.” “What agreement?” I asked. Dante’s attention returned to me. My father spoke before he could answer. “It does not concern you.” Dante studied the veil covering my hair, the discarded ring inside Adrian’s glass, and the unsigned documents on the table. “I suspect,” he said, “that very little in this house has concerned her until someone needed a sacrifice.” The words struck too close. My father’s mouth tightened. “Isabella made a mistake. I will repay the money.” “The money is no longer my greatest concern.” “The ledger will be returned.” “Tonight.” “I need time.” “You had six months.” Dante took another step. Every person in the room retreated except me. Perhaps I had finally lost whatever instinct warned sensible people to fear death. Or perhaps, after discovering my entire family had conspired to erase me, the most dangerous man in New York seemed almost refreshingly honest. Dante stopped before my sister. “Isabella Moretti, your father offered you as collateral when he took my money. You were supposed to become my wife next Saturday.” The room tilted. I looked at Father. “You sold her?” His face remained rigid. Isabella began to cry. “Sienna, please.” Now I understood the affair. The escape plans. Adrian’s urgency to control my assets. My sister had intended to marry my fiancé, steal my inheritance, and disappear before Dante could collect her. Dante extended a gloved hand. “You’re coming with me.” Adrian stepped between them. “She isn’t going anywhere.” Dante looked at him as one might look at an insect that had developed the ability to speak. “You murdered my courier, stole my property, and attempted to run with my promised bride.” His voice remained conversational. “Do you truly wish to add dying at another man’s wedding to your list of mistakes?” Adrian went pale. Father spoke quickly. “There may be another solution.” Every instinct inside me screamed. Dante turned. My father looked directly at me. “I promised you a Moretti daughter,” he said. “I never specified which one.” Silence consumed the room. Isabella stopped crying. Adrian did not defend me. My own father gestured toward me as though presenting an object at auction. “Sienna is my eldest,” he continued. “Her mother’s shares will cover the missing money. Take her in Isabella’s place.” Dante’s eyes met mine. I waited for disgust. Amusement. Rejection. Instead, the mafia king looked at my wedding dress and then at the ring drowning in Adrian’s champagne. Slowly, he walked toward me. He stopped close enough for me to smell smoke and winter on his clothes. “Your family appears determined to marry you to someone today,” he murmured. “I appear determined to disappoint them.” Something dangerous flickered in his eyes. Behind him, my father said, “Do we have an agreement?” Dante continued watching me. Then his gaze fell to the letter opener still clenched in my hand. “Tell me, bride,” he said softly. “If I gave you the power, which one of them would you destroy first?”