Her voice shook. "Paola Lombardo."
There was a beat of silence as I took her in, trying to fit together pieces of a puzzle that I’d been surprised with.
"I'm her twin. Bianca's twin."
Twin. That explained the identical face. Nothing else.
"Where is Bianca?"
"I don't know. She drugged me yesterday. I woke up this morning in a wedding dress. My father said I had to go through with it or people would die. That's all I know."
I studied her—her body language, eye contact, micro-expressions. Years of detecting lies told me that she was genuine. Terrified but genuine.
"Did you know about the marriage arrangement?"
"No. Not really… I knew Bianca was getting married, but we weren’t close… I'm not—I don't know anything about your world. I work at an art gallery. I teach painting to kids on weekends. I'm not supposed to be here."
An art gallery. How utterly pedestrian.
I sat back, thinking. This was either an elaborate setup or a colossal fuck-up. Hard to accidentally drug someone’s twin, though.
Either way, I was stuck with her now. The ceremony was done. The marriage couldn’t be annulled, or there would be questions from the other Dons–and from my enemies as well.
"What happens now?" Her voice interrupted my thoughts.
I looked at her—this stranger who was legally my wife—and said the only truth that mattered:
"Now you're mine. Whatever game your sister is playing, whatever reason your father had for sending you—none of that matters anymore. You're Cesare Monti's wife. That means you belong to me."
She went pale. "I don't belong to anyone."
I leaned forward, invading her space. My voice dropped to something deadly soft:
"You're wrong. You said 'I do' in front of three hundred witnesses. You wear my ring. Your name is legally mine. Everything about you belongs to me now."
I let that sink in. Then added: "Starting with tonight."
The color drained completely from her face. She understood.
The limo pulled up to the reception venue.
I straightened my tie, smoothing the silk with deliberate precision while my mind calculated what came next. The weight of the situation pressed against my temples—a fake bride, a missing sister, a political shitstorm waiting to explode—but my face remained impassive. Business. This was always business, even when wrapped in lace and lies.
I caught her reflection in the tinted window. She looked fragile, breakable. Scared.
Something stirred in my chest—not quite sympathy, but an awareness of the trap closing around both of us. She hadn't asked for this. Neither had I. But we were bound together now, legally, publicly, and by the end of tonight, physically. The contract would be sealed in blood and consummation, just as tradition demanded. I needed an heir and she needed protection from whatever had pushed her into my path.
The thought sent a dark satisfaction through me, followed immediately by something uncomfortably close to guilt.
I shoved both feelings down deep, where they couldn't interfere with what needed to be done.
I turned to face her fully, letting my gaze sweep over her trembling form with cold assessment. "Smile, wife," I said, my voice dropping into that commanding tone that made grown men flinch. "We have a performance to give."
The wordwifetasted foreign on my tongue. Wrong. This woman was a stranger, a substitute, possibly a pawn in someone else's game.
But she was mine now.
CHAPTER 3
