Chapter 5

The night before my wedding, the Morettis threw a rehearsal dinner fit for royalty.

Crystal chandeliers. Imported champagne. Three hundred guests in black tie, filling the Moretti estate's ballroom like crows gathering for a feast.

I wore white, of course. A backless gown that Luca had chosen himself. He liked showing me off—his pretty Costa bride, his trophy, his ticket to everything he wanted.

"You look stunning, tesoro." He kissed my cheek as cameras flashed. His lips lingered half a second too long, warm and possessive against my skin. "Tomorrow, you'll finally be mine."

Finally be yours.

I smiled and leaned into him, letting my body soften against his chest the way he liked. "I can't wait."

His hand slid to the small of my back, fingers pressing into the bare skin where the dress dipped low. Once, that touch would have made my pulse race. Now I felt nothing but the cold calculation of a man marking his territory.

The room was a who's who of organized crime dressed in Armani. Representatives from all Five Families had come to witness the alliance. Politicians mingled with made men. A senator laughed at something Enzo said. A federal judge clinked glasses with a Lazzari underboss.

This was power. This was the world I'd been born into.

And tomorrow, I would tear it apart.

That's when Bianca made her entrance.

She wore gold. Sheer, clinging, slit to the top of her thigh—more radiant than any wedding dress I'd ever wear. She cut through the crowd toward us, champagne flute catching the light like a blade.

"Dear Isabella, congratulations." Her voice dripped honey, pitched loud enough for nearby guests to hear. "You're so patient. Luca told me how much you've changed for him—cutting your hair, wearing only white. How… devoted." Her smile sharpened. "I do hope tomorrow's ceremony won't disappoint you."

Her eyes were pure malice. But all I saw in them was something pathetic.

Luca's arm tightened around my shoulders. "Bianca was particularly supportive during my recovery. I invited her to show my gratitude."

I smiled and tilted my head, my voice soft as a lover's whisper. "Darling, you're always so thoughtful. Even to friends who were once... especially close to you."

Luca smiled, pleased. Completely missing the blade hidden in silk.

Men like him only heard what they wanted to hear.

He would never know that, just moments ago, Bianca had already delivered a perfect "confession" right in front of me.

In front of the gilded mirrors of the ladies' lounge, Bianca finally revealed her true face.

She watched me through the reflection, her voice dropped dangerously low:"Paris wasn't enough to teach you your place?" Her voice dropped low, intimate. Victorious. "He's been mine for years. To him, you're nothing but a naive little fool playing dress-up. Why are you still fighting?"

I capped my lipstick. Slowly. Let the silence stretch until I saw her jaw tighten.

Then I turned to face her fully.

"I never saw this as a competition." My voice was calm. Flat. "A man who betrays this easily isn't a prize worth winning. I'm not leaving because he chose you." I held her gaze. "I'm leaving because I'm choosing myself."

The triumph on her face cracked.

Something shifted behind her eyes—the first fracture in that perfect painted mask.

I turned and walked out.

In the mirror's reflection, I caught one last glimpse: Bianca, frozen. Staring at her own reflection like she'd never seen it before.

Good. Get used to that feeling.

Tomorrow, it gets worse.

The dinner dragged on. Toasts and laughter and lies layered thick as the caviar on silver platters.

Luca kept me close all night—his hand possessive on my waist, his thumb tracing slow circles against my hip bone as he introduced me to cousins and capos.

"My beautiful bride," he told anyone who'd listen. "The jewel of the Costa family."

I smiled until my face ached.

Finally, the guests began to leave.

I excused myself and retreated to the guest room the Morettis had prepared—tradition demanded the bride and groom sleep apart the night before.

The door clicked shut. Silence wrapped around me like a second skin.

My phone buzzed. Sebastián.

Sniper in position. Anything goes wrong tomorrow, I'll have you out in three seconds.

I typed back: Nothing will go wrong.

Be careful, little sister.

I set the phone down and walked to the closet.

My wedding dress hung there like a ghost—white silk, ten thousand dollars of hand-stitched beading, a cathedral train designed to sweep down St. Patrick's aisle like a surrendering flag.

I reached past it.

Behind the gown, hidden in a garment bag, was what I'd actually wear when I walked out of that church.

Black. Costa black.

My fingers brushed the fabric—cool, smooth, familiar. Tomorrow, I would shed this white skin like a serpent. Tomorrow, they would see who I really was.

I turned to the mirror. The woman staring back was pale, composed, dressed in bridal white.

For the last time.

"Last night in costume," I whispered. "Last night as his fool."

I reached up and unclasped my mother's earrings. The diamonds caught the light—cold fire against my palm.

Tomorrow, I would put them on again.

And then I would make Luca Moretti pay for every lie he'd ever told me.