"There's been a mistake," I tried again, louder this time. "Where's Bianca? I need to talk to Bianca."
They exchanged glances. Something passed between them—confusion, maybe pity.
Maria's hands stilled on my shoulders. She met my eyes in the mirror.
"Signorina... you are Bianca."
The world stopped.
I shoved past them, the train ripping free from someone's hands. The hallway beyond was exactly as I remembered—marble floors, oil paintings of dead ancestors, the grand staircase sweeping down to the foyer.
"Father!" My voice echoed off the high ceilings. "Father, where are you?"
He appeared at the top of the stairs like a summoned demon.
Giovanni Lombardo. Impeccable as always in a custom tuxedo, silver hair slicked back, not a thread out of place. His expression was carved from ice.
"Father, thank God—" I stumbled toward him, nearly tripping on the cursed dress. "Something terrible has happened. Bianca, she drugged me, she left this note—"
"Stop making a scene, Paola."
The coldness in his voice when he said my name told me everything. He knew, and for some reason he was going along with it.
The world lurched sideways again.
"You knew." It wasn't a question. I could see it in his face, in the cold calculation of his eyes. "You knew what she was planning to do. But why–"
"What I know is that this marriage happens today." His voice was flat. Final. "One daughter or the other—it makes no difference to me."
The words hit like a slap. "It makes no difference? I'm your daughter—"
"You're a Lombardo." He descended two steps, looming over me. "And Lombardos honor their agreements. Cesare Monti expects a bride. You'll do your duty."
My laugh came out broken. "Duty? This is insane! I'm not marrying a stranger—a mafia Don I've never even met—"
My father moved faster than I expected. His hand closed around my upper arm, grip bruising through the lace.
"Listen to me carefully." His voice dropped to something deadly quiet. "This marriage ends a war. The Monti and Lombardo families have been bleeding each other for three years. This alliance stops it. If it doesn't happen, people die. Your choice: walk down that aisle, or have blood on your hands."
I stared at him. Searched his face for any hint of the father I'd once known—the man who'd pushed me on swings, who'd taught me to ride a bike, who'd cried at my mother's funeral.
There was nothing. Just cold pragmatism.
"You would do this to me?" My voice cracked. "Your own family?"
"I would do thisformy family." He released my arm. "Now get in the car."
The servants materialized again, surrounding me like a well-trained army. Gentle hands on my elbows, on my back, guiding me toward the stairs. I could fight. I could scream. I could run.
But where? Out the back door, through the gardens? And then what? My father had made himself clear. This marriage was happening whether I cooperated or not.
And if I ran, people died.
I didn't even know what that meant—didn't know the players or the stakes or the history. But I knew my father. Giovanni Lombardo didn't bluff.
My feet moved automatically. Down the stairs. Through the foyer. Out the front door.
A limousine waited, black and gleaming in the late morning sun. Someone opened the door. Someone gathered my train. Someone helped me inside.
