The Mafia Don's Fake Bride

My mother's surgery was successful.

I watched them wheel her out. She was pale, groggy, but alive. The green line on the monitor was strong and steady.

Dr. Sinclair, a man who I later Googled and found out charges $20,000 just for a consultation, said, "She's a fighter. She'll need a week here, then rest. No stress."

No stress. If only he knew.

My mother opened her eyes at 3 PM. The first thing she saw was my hand. My left hand. The diamond catching the hospital light.

"Elena?" Her voice was scratchy from the tube. "What is that?"

I had rehearsed this lie the whole night. But looking into my mother's eyes - the woman who taught me never to lie - I almost couldn't say it.

"Mama, I... I got married."

Her eyes widened. "What?"

"It's... it's Dante. Dante Moretti. We... we've been together for a while, I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to worry while you were sick. And when you got sick, he... he paid for everything."

It was the worst acting of my life. My cheeks were burning.

My mother, who had cleaned other people's houses for twenty years so I would never have to depend on a man, just stared at me. Then she started crying.

"My baby... married? Without me there?"

"I'm sorry, Mama. It was fast. For the insurance," I lied again, and it tasted like poison. "He has very good insurance."

She touched the ring with her trembling fingers. "Is he good to you?"

I thought about Dante sitting on the floor next to me in his perfect suit while I sobbed.

"Yes," I whispered. And for the first time, the lie felt less like a lie. "He's good to me."

She fell asleep holding my hand.

At 6 PM, a black SUV was waiting outside Mount Sinai. Not the Maybach. A man in a black sweater got out. He was huge, bald, with a scar on his neck.

"Ms. Russo. I'm Marco. Mr. Moretti sent me to get your things."

My things. From my apartment in Queens.

My apartment was a 400-square-foot box I shared with two other girls from NYU. The paint was peeling. The heating made a noise like a dying animal. My bed was a mattress on the floor. My closet was three plastic bins from Target.

Marco stood in the doorway and didn't say anything. He didn't need to. The contrast was too loud.

I packed in 15 minutes. Two bins. My books - all my literature books, dog-eared and underlined - my laptop, my mom's rosary, and a single framed photo of me and my mom at Coney Island when I was eight.

"That's it?" Marco asked.

"That's it," I said.

He carried both bins like they weighed nothing.

The ride back to Park Avenue was silent. I stared out the window. People were coming home from work, buying groceries, living normal lives. Yesterday, I was one of them. Today, I was Mrs. Moretti.

The penthouse was dark when we arrived. Dante wasn't there. On the marble island in the kitchen was a note in strong, black handwriting:

Your room is the one on the left. Mine is on the right. Bathroom is yours alone. Clothes in the closet - I had my assistant guess your size. Don't like them, throw them away. Dinner at 8. We need to talk. - D

Your room.

I opened the door on the left.

I gasped.

It was bigger than my entire apartment in Queens. A king bed with white sheets. A window that looked over Central Park. And a closet... a closet that was already full.

Not just a few clothes. Dozens. Dresses, silk blouses, jeans, coats. All in my size. All with tags still on. Chanel, Dior, Prada. Tags that said $3,000, $5,000.

I touched a silk dress. I had never touched silk before.

I felt sick. Like a fraud. Like a little girl playing dress-up in a woman's world.

I didn't change. I sat on the edge of that huge bed in my old hoodie and jeans and waited.

At exactly 8 PM, I heard the elevator.

Dante walked in. He had taken off his suit jacket. His white shirt sleeves were rolled up. He looked tired. Truly tired. Not the cold, perfect Don from this morning.

He saw me sitting there, not having touched anything.

"You didn't change," he said.

"They're not mine," I said.

"They are now."

"I can't pay you back for those. I can barely pay for my laundry."

He sighed and loosened his tie. "Elena, this is the part you need to understand. Tomorrow, there is a gala. The entire board of Moretti Holdings will be there. Reporters. My enemies. If you show up in a hoodie, they will know it's fake. They will know you're not mine. And if they know you're not mine, you are not safe. Do you understand? My protection only works if they believe you are truly my wife."

My protection.

Right. I had forgotten the other part. His enemies.

"Am I in danger?" I asked quietly.

He walked to the bar and poured himself something dark. "In my world, everything I love is a weapon that can be used against me. That's why I never loved anything. Until now, I have to pretend I love you. Which means some very bad people will pretend to believe it, and then try to hurt you to get to me."

The room suddenly felt very cold, despite the heating.

He saw my face and his voice softened, just a little.

"That's why Marco will be with you when I'm not. That's why this building has 24-hour security. That's why you will never go back to Queens alone at night. I told you, a wife is sacred. I meant it."

He walked over to the closet, took out a simple, black, long-sleeved dress. Not too revealing. Elegant. Expensive but not flashy.

"Wear this tomorrow. No one will question it."

I took the dress from him. Our fingers brushed. His hands were warm. Mine were ice cold.

"Thank you," I whispered

"Don't thank me yet," he said. He looked at my left hand, at his mother's ring on my finger. "Come. We need to practice."

"Practice what?"

"Being married."

He led me to the living room. The city lights were glittering outside.

"When we are in public, I will touch you like this," he said, and gently, so gently, he put his hand on the small of my back. The heat of his palm went right through my hoodie. "And like this," his other hand lightly brushed my hair behind my ear. I shivered, and it wasn't from cold. "If someone asks how we met, we met at Bella Notte. You spilled wine on me. I was hooked. Simple. Real. People love real."

I couldn't breathe. No man had ever touched me like that. Like I was something fragile and precious, not just... Elena.

"Your turn," he said.

"My... my turn?"

"Touch me. Like you love me.

I stared at him. He was so close. I could see the faint stubble on his jaw. The scar above his eyebrow.

My heart was pounding so loud I was sure he could hear it.

Slowly, hesitantly, I reached up and straightened his tie. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely do it.

His eyes darkened. He caught my hand mid-air. His grip was firm, but not painful.

"Good," he whispered, his thumb stroking the inside of my wrist, right over my pulse. He could feel how fast it was beating. "You're a fast learner, Mrs. Moretti."

Then the intercom buzzed. Loud.

Marco's voice: "Boss, we have a problem. Downstairs. You need to see this."

Dante's face instantly turned to ice. He let go of me like I burned him and went to the screen by the door.

On the security camera, outside the building entrance, was a large bouquet of white roses. Funeral roses.

And attached to it was a card. Even through the grainy camera, I could read it.

It said: CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR WEDDING, DON MORETTI. SHE'S BEAUTIFUL. IT WOULD BE A SHAME IF SOMETHING HAPPENED TO HER.

I felt all the blood leave my face.

Dante looked at me. At the screen. At me again.

"Welcome to my life, Elena," he said, his voice pure steel now. "Your first night as my wife."