Chapter 1 - THE FIANCÉE WHO DIDN’T EXIST
The first thing my exhausted eyes focused on was a black wolf tattoo moving across a muscular forearm.
Then the arm around my waist tightened.
My entire body froze beneath a charcoal-gray blanket as I realized I was pressed against someone warm, solid, and very much awake. A scarred hand rested over my stomach, and a platinum watch caught the pale morning light pouring through the towering windows.
Those windows overlooked the frozen gardens of the Belladonna estate, a place I'd spent the previous eighteen hours transforming for one of Boston’s most exclusive private events. I'd directed florists, musicians, servers, and three nearly hysterical pastry chefs until my feet were bleeding inside my shoes.
My last clear memory was searching the west wing for replacement linens after my manager screamed at me for daring to sit down during a fourteen-hour shift. When I found an empty bedroom, I'd promised myself five minutes on the edge of the enormous bed.
Apparently, five minutes had become the entire night.
Worse, the man sleeping behind me wasn't just another guest.
Everyone in Boston’s private-event world recognized that black wolf tattoo because it belonged to Adrian Moretti, the mafia boss powerful families never offended and politicians preferred not to mention publicly.
Somehow, Adrian had returned to his private bedroom, discovered a strange event planner asleep in his bed, and instead of throwing me out, had climbed in beside me.
Very slowly, I moved an inch toward the edge.
His arm tightened.
“Don’t.”
That single word made my heart slam against my ribs.
“I can explain,” I whispered.
“I sincerely hope so.”
Turning carefully, I found pale gray eyes already watching me.
Adrian looked disturbingly calm for a man who had awakened beside a complete stranger, while I was mentally calculating how quickly I could escape the estate, apologize to my company, and possibly leave Massachusetts forever.
Then something struck the other side of the bedroom door.
Adrian changed instantly.
The sleepy warmth disappeared from his expression, and the arm around me became protective rather than possessive as his attention snapped toward the entrance.
Before I could ask what was happening, the massive doors slowly opened.
An elegant elderly woman entered carrying a silver cane, with two armed security guards following behind her.
Her gaze landed on Adrian’s bare chest.
Then on me.
Only then did I realize I was wearing his black shirt.
Nobody spoke for three unbearable seconds, and I could practically hear my career collapsing around me.
Adrian, however, made absolutely no attempt to explain why his exhausted event planner had apparently spent the night in his forbidden bedroom.
The elderly woman’s expression slowly transformed.
She smiled.
“So,” she said, looking directly at me, “this is the woman.”
My stomach dropped.
“What woman?”
Adrian’s jaw tightened beside me, and for the first time that morning, something almost dangerous flickered behind his eyes.
Footsteps suddenly thundered down the corridor outside, followed by a guard shouting something in Italian.
Adrian reached for my hand.
“Whatever happens next,” he murmured, “stay beside me.”
Before I could demand an explanation, another man appeared in the doorway, pale and breathless.
“Boss, they know she’s here.”
The room went completely silent.
Adrian looked at me once, then turned toward his guards.
“Tell everyone Elena Brooks is my fiancée.”
My blood turned cold.
“What?”
The elderly woman tapped her silver cane once against the floor.
“Excellent.”
“Excellent?” I stared at both of them. “I don’t even know what’s happening.”
Adrian sat upright.
The blanket dropped low enough to reveal several pale scars crossing his ribs.
“Your name was leaked last night.”
“To whom?”
“People who shouldn't know you were inside this estate.”
“I work here.”
“You worked the event.”
“Exactly.”
“Not in this wing.”
My stomach tightened.
He continued.
“At 1:14 this morning, someone sent a photograph of you entering the west corridor to three men who have spent the last year trying to identify weaknesses in my household.”
I stared at him.
“A photograph of me walking down a hallway makes me your weakness?”
“No.”
His eyes moved briefly to my face.
“Being found in my bedroom does.”
“But nothing happened.”
“I know.”
“Then tell them that.”
The elderly woman laughed.
“You are adorable.”
I looked at her.
“I’m sorry?”
She extended one hand.
“Serafina Moretti. Adrian’s grandmother.”
Of course.
Because my morning needed a mafia grandmother.
I shook her hand automatically.
“Elena Brooks.”
“I know.”
That answer bothered me.
“How?”
She smiled.
“I read dossiers.”
I slowly pulled my hand back.
Adrian stood.
I turned away so quickly I nearly fell off the bed.
“You could warn someone.”
“You're wearing my shirt.”
“Because my dress was soaked.”
That memory returned suddenly.
At approximately three in the morning I had spilled an entire bucket of melting ice water down myself while replacing floral arrangements. I vaguely remembered someone—maybe a security guard—bringing me dry clothes.
I looked back.
“Did you change me?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“You did it yourself in my bathroom.”
“How do you know?”
“You left your dress in my sink.”
Fantastic.
Adrian pulled on black trousers.
Serafina looked delighted.
“Very domestic.”
“Grandmother.”
“I'm seventy-nine. Allow me entertainment.”
I climbed from bed.
My knees almost gave out.
Adrian caught my elbow.
“Sit.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re exhausted.”
“My career is about to explode.”
“Your career is the least urgent problem.”
“That’s easy for you to say.”
His expression changed.
“You think I don't understand reputation?”
“I think nobody fires you for sleeping in the wrong bedroom.”
Serafina laughed again.
Adrian almost smiled.
Then the guard returned.
“Mr. Moretti, the photograph is already circulating inside the Ricci organization.”
Adrian’s face went cold.
Serafina stopped smiling.
“Ricci?”
“Yes.”
The name meant nothing to me.
The reaction meant everything.
Adrian asked:
“Who sent it?”
“Unknown.”
“Find out.”
The guard left.
I folded my arms.
“I need someone to explain this in normal English.”
Adrian looked at me.
“The Ricci family believes I've been negotiating an alliance through marriage.”
“I assume that's where fake fiancée enters.”
“Yes.”
“With me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because if they believe you're a random employee who accidentally entered my bedroom, they can take you and use you to ask questions.”
I swallowed.
“And if they think I’m your fiancée?”
“They won’t touch you casually.”
“That sounds backward.”
“It is.”
“Then why does everyone look terrified?”
Adrian hesitated.
Serafina answered.
“Because now they may kill you deliberately.”
I stared.
She added:
“But they will think twice first.”
“Wonderful distinction.”
Adrian gave grandmother a look.
Serafina shrugged.
“She deserves honesty.”
“Yes, I do.”
I turned to Adrian.
“So your solution is to tell organized criminals I’m marrying you?”
“For the next forty-eight hours.”
“No.”
He blinked.
“No?”
“No.”
Serafina looked delighted again.
Adrian stared at me as if no one had used that word in years.
“I’m protecting you.”
“By making me famous to people who kill fiancées?”
“By giving you status.”
“I had status. It was called anonymous event planner.”
“That ended last night.”
“Not because of me.”
“No.”
“Then fix it without deciding my marital status.”
His expression hardened.
“You don't understand the threat.”
“And you don't understand consent.”
Silence.
Even Serafina stopped smiling.
Adrian looked at me for several seconds.
Then something changed.
Not anger.
Respect.
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“I’ll explain every option.”
“Good.”
“But until you choose, nobody corrects the fiancée story.”
“That sounds suspiciously like not giving me a choice.”
“It buys ten minutes.”
I hated that he might be right.
Then my phone buzzed from the bedside table.
Twenty-three missed calls.
Most from my manager.
One from my younger brother, Noah.
And a text from an unknown number.
A photograph loaded.
My brother leaving his apartment in Cambridge.
Underneath:
WE KNOW WHO YOU LOVE.
I stopped breathing.
Adrian took the phone from my shaking hand.
His face changed instantly.
“Marco.”
The guard appeared.
“Get a team to Cambridge. Now.”
I grabbed Adrian’s arm.
“No guns around my brother.”
“No unnecessary contact.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means Noah gets protected before whoever sent this reaches him.”
“How do they know him?”
Adrian looked toward the photograph.
“That is what worries me.”
My entire life had been ordinary.
My father taught high school history.
My mother died when I was sixteen.
Noah was a graduate student who forgot to pay his electric bill twice.
I organized weddings for people who spent more on flowers than I made in six months.
There was no reason mafia families should know my brother.
Unless they already knew my family before I walked into Adrian’s bedroom.
Then Serafina said quietly:
“Elena, what was your mother’s maiden name?”
I looked at her.
“Why?”
“What was it?”
“DeLuca.”
Adrian turned.
Serafina’s face lost color.
Not dramatically.
Completely.
“Her first name?”
“Maria.”
Serafina sat down.
Adrian looked at her.
“Grandmother?”
She stared at me like I had become a ghost.
“Maria DeLuca had a daughter.”
“Yes. Me.”
“No.”
Her fingers tightened around the cane.
“She had two.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
Serafina whispered:
“And one of them was supposed to be dead.”
Adrian’s eyes moved back to me.
Suddenly the photograph, the bedroom, the fake engagement—none of it felt accidental anymore.
May you like
My mother had been dead for fifteen years.
According to Serafina Moretti, someone in the mafia had been waiting all that time for her daughter to walk through the Belladonna gates.
