My Mafia Fiancé’s Fake Bride

My anxiety spiked during our wedding photoshoot. A sharp pain stabbed through my chest.

My fiancé, Caius—the Falcone family heir—was helping his adoptive sister, Fiorella, try on my wedding dress.

He didn't even spare me a glance. He was on one knee, focused on adjusting the lace on Fiorella’s hem.

Before we’d even left the shop, Fiorella posted a selfie in the dress. She was all smiles, my fiancé standing beside her, posed like her groom.

Calmly, I pulled out my phone. I sent a message to a painter I keep on retainer.

"A royal portrait. The two of them. Old-world style. Use the cheapest materials you can find. I want the frame dripping with fake diamonds. Make it look like trash."

I'll have it sent to Fiorella. A wedding present. The note will be simple.

"A work of art as priceless as your bond. Best wishes on your wedding."

After seeing the intimate wedding photos of my fiancé and his adoptive sister, I ordered them a custom wedding gift and decided to end the engagement.

I sent the message, then turned to leave the bridal shop.

Suddenly, a heavy lighting rig from a nearby photography set came crashing down.

"Ah!" I flinched back. The sharp metal edge scraped my arm, and blood welled up instantly.

"Are you okay?" Caius’s voice. But he wasn’t running to me.

He was shielding the girl who’d "accidentally" knocked it over, frantically checking her for injuries.

Fiorella leaned against his chest, her eyes wide and teary as she stared at my bleeding arm.

"Ilaria, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to," she whispered, her voice was a fragile whisper, like it might shatter on the wind.

It was obvious. She’d knocked it over while fooling around with Caius.

I looked at Caius’s worried face, and my heart ached for a split second.

Then I pressed down on the cut. Blood seeped through my fingers. I watched it, feeling the last of my love for him drain away with it.

"It's fine."

Caius finally looked at me, his gaze flickering over my wound, completely flat.

"Well, if you weren't glued to your phone, maybe you would've noticed something that big falling. How is this Fiorella's fault? She twisted her ankle trying to save you."

Then he brought his heel down on my phone.

The crack of the screen echoed in the silent studio.

"I told you last night, after the gala," he said, his voice cold steel. "Your attention belongs to me. Not this piece of junk. If it distracts you, it's gone."

On him? So I was supposed to watch my fiancé fit another woman into my wedding dress?

The gala... He'd had me pinned to the bed all night, punishing me, just because I glanced at a painter. And he was still mad?

I watched the screen spiderweb into a thousand pieces. The usual fire wasn't there. I just met his gaze, my voice flat. "You're right. It's gone."

Caius’s brow tightened. My calm surprised him. He didn't like it.

He was used to me fighting back. My fire proved I still cared.

This quiet obedience was a rebellion of its own, and he felt his grip on me slip.

But he just turned his back on me, pulling a trembling Fiorella into his chest and murmuring to her in that low, soft voice he never used for me.

Fiorella stroked his arm. "Caius, don't be so mean to Ilaria."

Before, I would have rushed over, ready for a fight, even if it only earned me his cold dismissal.

But this time, I was just tired.

Caius had his driver bring the car around to take me home.

But first, we stopped in front of a high-security penthouse owned by the Falcone family.

The one Caius gave to Fiorella.

He carefully unbuckled her seatbelt, scooped her up in his arms, and carried her into the building.

I didn't miss the triumphant, mocking look Fiorella shot me over his shoulder.

At 7 PM, I was still sitting in the back of Caius's car, staring up at the lit penthouse window.

They'd been in there for two hours.

The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror. "Miss Rossi, maybe you should head home? The boss might be in there for a while."

"I'll wait."

Night fell. The neon lights of Chicago flickered on. He still didn't come out.

I debated with myself for a moment, then my resolve hardened. I needed one last nail for this relationship's coffin.

I rang the bell and waited.

I knew he'd heard me. This was one of his games. Make me wait. Wear me down.

After a long time, the door finally opened.

It was Caius. He leaned against the frame, and when he saw me, his face tightened. He was pissed that I'd broken his control.

"What are you doing up here?" His voice was a low growl, a clear accusation.

He hadn't forgotten me. Of course not.

He was punishing me. Making me sit in that cold car, making me think about how I'd stepped out of line today.

He expected me to wait until he was good and ready to remember me, to come get me like he was doing me a favor.

I looked past his shoulder. I could smell food cooking.

"Ah!" A shriek from inside. Fiorella. "Caius! I cut myself!"

His expression shifted instantly. The annoyance he felt for me vanished, replaced by raw panic for her.

He spun around and rushed to the kitchen without a second thought.

"Fiorella, let me see!"

I watched his retreating back, the long, winding scar that snaked across his shoulder blade. He got that taking a bullet for me.

Five years ago, he’d thrown his body in front of mine. His white shirt turned red.

He’d said, "No one gets to hurt you."

I quietly closed the door.

I walked home. The two-hour trek was my punishment.

Two hours. I thought about how thrilled I was when Caius and I got engaged.

And the disappointment every time he ditched me to take care of his adoptive sister.

This time, I finally saw the truth.

Marco, the butler, met me at the door. "Miss, you're back so late. Mr. Falcone called an hour ago. He said to call him back."

"I heard you." I slipped off my heels. My feet were blistered and bleeding.

Marco looked at me, worried. "Miss, are you alright?"

"I'm fine. You can go to bed."

I went straight upstairs and shut my door.

On the nightstand was a photo from our trip to Hawaii. Caius’s arm was around my waist, his smile picture-perfect.

Except he wasn't looking at the camera. He was looking at Fiorella, who’d insisted on coming with us to be our "photographer."

Caius came back early the next morning. I was drinking coffee, looking at an artist-in-residence invitation from a top New York gallery.

He was in a black suit, his tie perfect. He looked like he was heading to an important meeting.

"Why didn't you call me back?" He sat down across from me.

"No phone." I cut into the steak on my plate, my voice even.

"What?"

"You smashed it yesterday, remember?"

Caius looked uncomfortable. He opened his mouth to say something, but his phone rang.

Fiorella’s special ringtone—a soft lullaby.

In the past, I would have snatched the phone, my eyes red with tears, trying to hang up.

And he would have just left, coldly. This time was no different.

He dropped my hand and answered, his voice softer than I’d ever heard it. "Don't worry, wait for me at home. I'll be there to get you soon."

After hanging up, he picked up my freshly cleaned gun from the table.

He was obsessive about his weapons being cleaned daily. It was a task that always fell to me. One I never failed.

He was used to me having everything ready for him. He took the gun without a word of thanks, as if it were his birthright.

"I have time for dinner tonight."

It was his version of a peace offering. A command, telling me to drop the attitude.

To him, spending time with me was a reward. The highest payment he could offer. It was supposed to erase every time he chose her.

As he rushed out, a notification popped up on my laptop.

"Miss Rossi, we didn't finish the photoshoot yesterday. When would be a good time to reschedule?"

I was about to say no, but then I had a better idea. I forwarded them Fiorella’s contact info.

"The bride has changed. Contact her."

After sending it, I clicked the confirmation button for the New York gallery.

I would start in three days.