My Mafia Fiancé’s Fake Bride

To marry Caius, I gave up studying in Europe. I gave up a curator position at a top gallery.

I stayed here, running the underground gallery that laundered money from his smuggled art.

I was done with this life.

I bought a new phone from a corner store.

No name, no registration. No history.

A clean slate. Exactly what I needed for the new life I was about to start.

At 3 PM, I went to the family's private cigar club to get some files.

I pushed open the door to the private room and saw something I shouldn't have.

Caius was holding a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid swirling in the crystal.

A bottle of 50-year-old Glenfiddich. Fifty grand.

Fiorella was beside him, a single drop of water on her fingertip.

"Caius, a drop of water makes the whiskey bloom," she said with a sweet smile, letting the drop fall into his glass.

Caius looked at her, his eyes full of affection. "Whatever you say."

Then he downed the glass.

My hand tightened on the doorknob, my knuckles white.

Three years ago, I made the same suggestion.

He was on edge over a deal gone wrong. I just wanted him to relax.

"What do you know?" he'd roared, smashing the glass against the wall. Shards flew, and one sliced my calf. "Shut your mouth!"

Blood ran down my leg and stained the carpet. He didn't even look.

Now, the old scar on my calf throbbed with a phantom pain.

I always thought he hated anyone changing his routine. Turns out, he just hated it when I was the one to suggest it.

I tried to leave quietly, but Fiorella’s sickly-sweet voice stopped me.

"Caius, Ilaria’s been spying on us for a while. You should pour her a glass, or she'll blame me for stealing you again."

At her words, Caius frowned and shot me a dirty look. He stepped in front of Fiorella, shielding her.

"Finish your drink, have something to eat, then go home. Father knows you're with me."

Fiorella blushed and nodded, taking a small bite of cake that Caius fed her.

Only after all that did he bother to look at me.

"Wait." Caius stood up. "The gun you cleaned last time. The weighting is off."

I paused. "What's wrong with it?"

"The trigger pull is too heavy. The sight is off by three millimeters." He spoke to me like a screw-up, a subordinate. "How many times have I told you? Details are life and death."

Fiorella stroked his arm. "Caius, don't be so harsh. Ilaria is trying her best."

"Trying?" Caius scoffed. "This is her only value to me. If she can't even get this right, I'll find someone who can."

He took my devotion for granted. One small mistake, and he threatened to replace me.

Too bad his threats meant nothing to me anymore.

"Then find someone else."

His face darkened. Before he could say another word, I had already turned and walked away.

That evening, the family gathering was at the Falcone estate’s private shooting range.

This was where the family trained, where they showed their teeth. The air smelled of smoke and gunpowder.

When I arrived, Caius was teaching Fiorella how to shoot, his arms wrapped around her from behind.

His large hands covered her small ones, his voice patient and gentle in a way I’d never heard.

"Don't be scared. Relax. Breathe with me."

Bang! A perfect shot. Dead center.

Fiorella squealed and threw herself into Caius’s arms. "I did it!"

The family members around them clapped and cheered, praising her natural talent.

Caius held her, beaming with pride, showing her off like a rare jewel.

Then his eyes found me. They turned cold and hard.

"Ilaria," his voice cut through my earplugs, echoing across the range. "Get over here. Show Fiorella how to do a rapid-fire drill on the moving targets."

It wasn't a lesson. It was a command. A test.

I stepped up to the line and picked up a gun, my heart frozen by the sheer whiplash of his tone.

Deep breath. Raise the gun. Aim.

Maybe my mind was somewhere else, or maybe my hand was shaking, but my first shot missed the bullseye.

The range went silent.

Caius strode over, snatched the gun from my hand, his eyes filled with disappointment and disgust.

"You can't even do the basics?" he snapped in front of everyone. It was like a slap in the face. "All the time I spent teaching you, and this is how you repay me? I guess you really are only good for cleaning guns."

He slammed the gun onto the counter. The metallic clang was jarring.

I just stood there, the humiliation worse than any physical blow.

I walked out, their mocking stares burning holes in my back. Ten minutes later, my phone rang.

It was Caius, his voice a command.

"Bring me a new holster. Black leather."

"When do you need it?"

"Now."

I stared at my pale reflection in the dark screen. "Got it."

Back home, I went to my workshop.

It was filled with holsters I’d made for him. Each one hand-stitched, every detail filled with years of dedication.

I found the newest one. Black cowhide, with his initials stitched on the inside.

I remembered the first one I ever made him.

He’d injured his trigger finger in a shootout. It was wrapped in a thick bandage, and he couldn't get a proper grip.

I stayed up for three nights straight, designing a custom holster that would work with his injured hand.

"You made this?" he’d asked, taking it from me.

"Yeah."

He examined every stitch, tested the feel. "Not bad."

It was the first and last compliment he ever gave me on my craft.

The next day, a velvet box appeared on my vanity.

Inside was a Cartier bracelet. Platinum and diamonds, every stone glittering.

He’d clasped the bracelet around my wrist, his voice a low whisper. "You are my masterpiece, Ilaria. The best thing I ever built."

I thought it meant something. I thought it meant he finally saw me.

I wore it almost every day, like a badge of his approval.

Now I knew the truth. It was a reward. A treat for a useful tool.

But it didn't matter. I was leaving in two days.