The Mafia Don Who Lost His Bride

On the morning of our Blood-Bound Union, the entire Valente compound hummed with a restless, electric energy. The household staff had been up since before dawn, draping the private chapel in ivory silk and blood-red roses. The caterers moved through the kitchens like a second army. Even the soldiers posted along the perimeter walls seemed to stand a little straighter, their dark suits freshly pressed, their expressions carrying something almost resembling warmth.

And me? I had been dreaming of this day for a year. Twelve months of fittings and planning, of rehearsing my vows in the mirror of the bedroom I shared with the most powerful man in New York. Twelve months of telling myself that this ceremony would finally make it real, that the sacred betrothal our fathers had arranged when I was still a girl would be sealed in blood and gold before God and the Family.

But four hours before I was meant to walk down the aisle, Dominic Valente canceled everything.

The reason? Chiara. His precious ward. That porcelain-faced, doe-eyed orphan with her soft voice and her fragile little hands, who had supposedly injured herself during a routine self-defense session in the compound's training gym.

The news didn't even come from him. I found out through the Family's private group chat, the encrypted thread that connected every member of the household, where Chiara's story spread like gasoline on marble.

"I'm so sorry, everyone, but I don't think I'll be able to make it to the ceremony. I hurt my leg badly during training today. Don Valente is with me, making sure I'm all right."

Chiara flooded the chat with photographs, each one more carefully staged than the last. Her ankle wrapped in gauze. Her face arranged into a mask of brave suffering. And the final image, the one that drove the blade between my ribs: Chiara lying on a medical stretcher in the compound's private infirmary, while Dominic stood over her, his jaw tight, his dark eyes clouded with concern. His hand rested on the rail of the stretcher as though she might shatter if he looked away.

I gripped my phone so hard the screen protector cracked beneath my thumb. This had to be a joke. Some cruel, elaborate test. That look of concern on his face, that protective stance, the way he leaned toward her as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist. That was supposed to be for me. He was supposed to be standing at the altar in three hours, not hovering over Chiara Mancuso like she was the only person in his empire who mattered.

He couldn't cancel the ceremony we had planned for an entire year. Not for this. Not for Chiara faking a sprained ankle.

My blood ran hot. My reflection stared back at me from the vanity mirror across the room, still wearing the silk robe the stylist had laid out for me, my hair half-pinned in an elaborate updo that no one would ever see. The rage was a living thing inside my chest, coiling tighter with every second, because the voice in the back of my skull would not stop whispering what I already knew.

You can't win against her. You have never been able to win against her. You are always second.

My phone vibrated against my palm. A private message. From Dominic.

"Neve, something's come up. Chiara's hurt. I can't go through with the ceremony right now. We'll have to reschedule. Don't wait up for me."

I stared at the screen until the words blurred. My chest constricted, a slow, crushing pressure that had nothing to do with the corset the seamstress had fitted that morning and everything to do with the man I had given five years of my life to.