The Ugly Substitute Bride of the Mafia King

Seraphina POV The air in the suite evaporated. I stared at the chiseled, ruthless face of Damien Moretti, my lungs burning as I forgot how to breathe. The bleeding stranger from the alley. The man whose life I had just saved-and whose men I had lied to. He knew. He knew I was a fraud, and now, he was going to kill me. Damien stepped fully into the room. Behind him stood another man, tall and lethal, his sharp eyes sweeping over me with blatant distaste. This had to be Luca "The Viper" Mendoza, Damien's Consigliere. Luca's gaze lingered on the ugly, jagged scar I had painted on my cheek, his confusion evident. Why would the Don accept such a flawed bride? But Damien didn't look at my scar with disgust. As he closed the distance between us, his dark eyes locked onto mine. There was a strange, terrifying hunger in his gaze-a greedy, consuming fire that stripped me bare. He stopped mere inches from me. The scent of blood, expensive cologne, and raw danger wrapped around my throat. I braced for his hands to snap my neck. Instead, he slowly raised his uninjured hand. His warm, calloused fingertips brushed against my cheek, tracing the very edge of my fake scar. The touch was agonizingly gentle, yet heavy with an undeniable, absolute claim. A shiver violently wrecked through my spine. He didn't expose my lie. He didn't mention the alley. Damien turned his head slightly toward his Consigliere, his voice a low, emotionless verdict that sealed my fate. "Luca, inform the families. The engagement proceeds as planned. Tonight." Luca stiffened, his mask of indifference slipping for a fraction of a second. He looked from me to his Don, opening his mouth as if to protest, but the icy, unyielding dominance radiating from Damien silenced him instantly. Luca bowed his head. "Yes, Boss." My heart plummeted into my stomach. Tonight? Why was he doing this? It wasn't mercy. The possessive darkness in his eyes promised a cage far more terrifying than death. Less than an hour later, I was paraded into the Grand Ballroom of The Plaza Hotel. The space was a suffocating display of wealth and power. Massive crystal chandeliers cast a golden glow over the sea of New York's most dangerous elites. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, Cuban cigars, and the underlying, metallic tang of fear. "Don Moretti," my mother, Elena, simpered, practically shoving me toward the towering man at my side. Her voice dripped with sickening sweetness. "Our Seraphina has always admired you. We are so blessed by this union." I kept my face blank, refusing to look at her. Instead, my gaze caught on my sister. Bianca stood a few feet away, her champagne glass trembling in her grip. She had expected a monster. She had expected a deformed, cruel beast to drag me into the shadows. But looking at Damien-young, breathtakingly handsome, and radiating the kind of absolute, lethal power that brought men to their knees-Bianca was unraveling. The smug satisfaction that had painted her beautiful face upstairs was entirely gone. In its place was a twisted, ugly mask of profound regret and venomous jealousy. Her eyes darted from Damien's broad shoulders to the space beside him-the space she had willingly forfeited. The throne of the Mafia Queen. When Bianca's gaze finally snapped to mine, it was lethal. It was a silent, screaming vow of hatred. That should be me. I looked away, a hollow numbness settling over my chest. My family had thrown me to the wolves, and now they were furious that the wolf was a king. I was nothing but a pawn to them, and a prisoner to the man standing beside me. I stood stiffly next to Damien under the blinding lights of the chandeliers. Surrounded by women dripping in haute couture and diamonds, the plain, understated day dress I had worn for my supposed execution felt like a glaring target on my back.