SUBSTITUTE BRIDE FOR THE MAFIA DON

Dahlia’s POV

It was the middle of the night when I felt someone shake my shoulder. I opened my eyes and saw Denise kneeling beside me. Her hair was loose, her face pale but determined.

“Dahlia,” she whispered quickly, looking toward my door. “Wake up. I’m leaving.”

I blinked, confused. “What do you mean, leaving?”

She pointed to the small bag beside her. “I can’t do it. I won’t marry him,” she said, her voice sharp and trembling. “I’d rather die than belong to Luca Romano.”

My chest tightened. “Denise, you can’t,” I whispered, terrified. “They’ll kill us if you don’t go through with it.”

Her eyes softened for a moment, but she held my hand tight. “You’ll save them,” she said quietly. “You’ll take my place. Remember your promise.”

And just like always, I couldn’t say no to her. I nodded weakly. “I promise.”

She gave me a small, sad smile, then stood up and slipped out of my room. I watched her go, too scared to move, too numb to stop her. The sound of the door closing felt final.

Now, standing in her empty room, the memory haunted me. Mum was crying, clutching Denise’s letter, and Father was staring at me with cold, expectant eyes.

“I’ll do it,” I whispered finally.

Mum gasped softly, and Father nodded once, like it was already decided.

And just like that, my fate was sealed.

The hardest part was still ahead. The part where I would have to become her.

Put on her dress. Her smile. Her voice. And walk straight into the arms of the most feared man in Chicago—

Luca Romano—

My hands trembled as Mum lifted the gown from its box—the same gown Mr. Romano had sent days ago. Denise’s wedding dress. My sister’s. Not mine.

The silky white fabric shimmered under the light, too perfect, too pure, like it didn’t belong in this house or on me. To everyone else, it was beautiful. To me, it looked like a cage.

Mum held it out carefully, her hands shaking as she said softly, “Come on, Dahlia. We don’t have time.”

I swallowed hard and reached for it. My fingers brushed against the lace, and something inside me twisted. The dress was light, but it felt heavy in my arms. Denise would’ve looked stunning in it—she always did. Everything fit her effortlessly. But as I slipped it on, the fabric clung to my body too tightly. Denise had always been slimmer, neater. I wasn’t big, but compared to her, I felt… wrong. The dress hugged every curve, making it hard to breathe.

Mum circled me quickly, zipping the back and smoothing out the folds. Her hands moved fast, trembling, desperate. When she finally stepped back, her eyes glistened.

“You look just like her,” she whispered.

But I didn’t feel like her. I felt like I was drowning.

She sat me down in front of the mirror and began to work on my face. Powder, liner, lipstick—the same shades Denise always used. Her movements were gentle, careful, like she was painting a mask that had to be perfect.

I watched my reflection change little by little. My heartbeat was loud in my ears, my breaths uneven. With every stroke, my face disappeared and hers appeared in its place. Denise’s lips. Denise’s eyes. Denise’s perfect, confident smile.

When Mum finished, she touched my shoulder lightly, her voice soft but firm. “You’re doing this to keep us safe, Dahlia. That’s all that matters.”

I nodded, even though I didn’t feel convinced. Those words didn’t ease the fear in my chest—they only made it heavier. Father had never told me why Denise had to marry Luca Romano. He’d only said it was “for our safety.” Whatever that meant.

I looked at the mirror again. The girl staring back wasn’t me anymore. She was my sister—beautiful, fearless Denise.

But inside, it was still me. Terrified, trembling Dahlia.

The stranger in the mirror was about to walk into my sister’s life… and marry the man she ran away from.

My stomach turned, and I looked away. My hands were cold and slick with sweat, trembling no matter how hard I tried to keep them still.

The drive to the church felt like a blur. My body was in the car, but my mind was somewhere else—floating, drowning in fear. The dress was too tight around my ribs, and the lace kept scratching my skin, making it harder to breathe. I kept my hands on my lap, gripping the fabric, and every small bump on the road made my heart jump.

When we finally reached the church, my chest started to tighten. Slowly at first, then all at once, like my lungs just gave up. My fingers dug into the edge of my dress when the car stopped. My palms were sweaty, and I wiped them on the fabric without thinking. My heart was beating so loud it felt like it filled the car. For a second, I thought about running. Just opening the door and running down the road until this whole day disappeared. But my legs wouldn’t move. They felt heavy, like someone had tied them down.

Mum was the first to move—she always was. She opened the door quickly and stepped out, her heels clicking on the pavement. Then Father got out. He fixed his jacket, smoothed his hair, and came to open my door. “Come on,” he said, his voice soft but steady. I took his hand. It was warm, strong, but there was something strange in the way he held it. Like he wanted to comfort me, but didn’t know how.

We walked up to the entrance together. The stone steps were old and smooth, and my heels made small clicking sounds that echoed. The big wooden doors were open, and inside was dim, with candles flickering along the walls. Then I saw him.

A tall man stood near a pillar, dressed all in black. His suit was perfect, his face unreadable. His eyes moved over us, slow and sharp. When he spoke, his voice was low and calm, but something about it made my stomach twist.

“The boss wants to see you,” he said.

The way he said boss made the hairs on my neck rise.

We followed him without a word. He didn’t look back, just walked—steady, confident. Our footsteps echoed across the floor. The church seemed even larger the further we went, and the silence felt thick, like it was listening. I tried not to look at the statues on the walls, but I could still feel their cold stone eyes watching us.

Finally, the man stopped in front of a small wooden door at the very end of the corridor. My stomach twisted again, and I felt my palms grow sweaty. He didn’t even knock—just pushed the door open like he owned the place. The hinges creaked softly as it swung inward.

The room inside was small and dim, almost too quiet. Thick, dark curtains were pulled over the windows, blocking out all sunlight. The air smelled faintly of smoke and something expensive—maybe cologne or wine. There was a table in the middle of the room, made of polished wood, and two chairs placed neatly on either side. A single candle sat on the table, its tiny flame flickering and shaking every time the door moved.

And that’s when I saw him.