Wedding Day Hostage: The Mafia Boss Swears She’s H...

Wedding Day Hostage: The Mafia Boss Swears She’s His—But He’s Protecting a Secret Forced to marry a monster, she vows to survive. Then he offers safety… and reveals the truth about her sister’s death.

Part 1
The humidity in New Jersey clung to my skin like a second layer, thick and oppressive even at 10:00 at night. I wiped the back of my hand across my forehead as I locked the door to my mother’s apartment, the sound of her labored breathing still echoing in my ears.

Her medication was running out again.

There were 3 more days, maybe 4 if I stretched it, and then I would be back to watching her suffer while I scrambled to find money that did not exist.

My phone buzzed in my pocket as I descended the narrow staircase, the concrete walls covered in graffiti that changed every week. I did not recognize the number, but something in my gut twisted as I answered.

“Deanna Pradati?”

The voice was male, American, with an accent that immediately reminded me of my father. The father I had not seen in 15 years. The father who had dumped my mother and me in the U.S. like unwanted luggage and returned to his precious family in New York.

“Who’s asking?” I switched to English, though my Portuguese accent colored every word. I had learned English from American movies and tourists, not from the family that had abandoned me.

“My name is Carlo Benedetti. I’m calling on behalf of the Pradati family.” A pause followed. “Your sister is dead.”

The world tilted slightly.

Sister.

I had a half sister I had never met, born from my father’s first marriage to some mafia princess. Isabella. I had seen her face once in a magazine article about New York’s elite, all blonde perfection and designer clothes. Everything I was not.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said carefully, not feeling sorry at all.

What did I owe a family that had pretended I did not exist?

“There’s more.” Carlo’s voice took on a harder edge. “She was engaged to be married. The wedding was in 2 weeks. Her death has created complications for certain business arrangements. Your father has requested your immediate return to New York.”

I actually laughed—a sharp, bitter sound that made an old man on the stoop glance at me nervously.

“My father? The man who sent exactly 0 birthday cards in 15 years wants me to drop everything and fly to New York? Tell him to go to hell.”

“Miss Pradati.” Carlo’s voice dropped into something colder and more dangerous. “Your mother’s medical care is expensive. The experimental treatment she needs, the one her insurance won’t cover, costs approximately $50,000 American per month.”

My blood turned to ice. “How do you know about that?”

“We know everything about you, Deanna. We know about the 3 jobs you work to keep her alive. We know about the loan sharks you’ve been avoiding in Jersey City. We know you’re 2 months behind on rent and that your landlord is planning to evict you next week.” He paused, letting it sink in. “Come to New York. Meet with your father, and all of that goes away. Your debts disappear. You’ll want for nothing.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then your mother dies slowly and painfully while you watch. The choice is yours.”

The line went dead.

I stood on that dirty American street, surrounded by traffic horns and distant music from an open car window, and felt the trap close around me. They had found my weakness, the 1 thing I would do anything to protect.

My mother. The woman who had sacrificed everything for me. The woman who had been cast aside by the Pradati family like trash.

Two days later, I was on a plane to New York, wearing the nicest clothes I owned: a simple black dress from a secondhand shop that probably cost less than the price of my ticket. I had said goodbye to my mother, promising her I would be back soon, knowing it was probably a lie.

Whatever the Pradatis wanted from me, it was not going to be a quick visit.

The first-class seat felt like an insult. I was surrounded by wealthy travelers who belonged in that world of luxury while I sat rigid and uncomfortable, my hands clenched in my lap. I had never flown out of the tri-state area before. I had never truly left home. Now I was flying toward a family that had spent my entire life pretending I did not exist.

When I landed at JFK, there was a man waiting with a sign bearing my name. He was built like a tank, with cold eyes that assessed me in 1 sweeping glance and found me wanting.

Welcome to the family, his expression seemed to say. You’re already a disappointment.

“I’m Marco,” he said, taking my single battered suitcase. “I work for Mr. Unaretti.”

“Who?”

The name meant nothing to me. Something that might have been amusement flickered across Marco’s face.

“You’ll meet him soon enough. Come.”

The car was a black Mercedes that probably cost more than every apartment in my building combined. Marco drove in silence through streets I had only seen in movies—cleaner here, sharper there, like the city was trying to look harmless. The late September air was crisp and cool compared to Jersey’s eternal summer. We headed north out of the city until we reached a sprawling estate that looked like something out of a Godfather film.

“Where’s my father?” I asked as Marco opened my door.

“Inside with the others. They’re waiting for you.”

Others. Plural.

My stomach churned as I followed Marco through massive wooden doors into a foyer that could have fit my entire apartment. Everything screamed old money, old power, and old blood. This was the world my father had chosen over us. Over me.

Voices drifted from a room down the hall, speaking rapid Italian that I could not quite follow. My mother had taught me some, but not enough for this.

Marco pushed open a door, and 6 pairs of eyes turned to stare at me.

My father stood by a window, older than I remembered but still recognizable: tall, graying at the temples, with the same dark eyes I saw in the mirror every morning. Next to him stood an older woman dripping in jewelry, who had to be his wife—the one who had replaced my mother. Three other men I did not recognize stood in expensive suits, all watching me like I was a specimen under glass.

And in the corner, leaning against a bookshelf with his arms crossed and an expression of barely contained disdain, stood the most intimidating man I had ever seen.

He was tall, easily over 6 feet, with dark hair styled back from a face that could have been carved from marble. Sharp jaw. Straight nose. Eyes so dark they looked almost black. He wore his suit like armor, and even standing still, he radiated a kind of controlled violence that made every instinct I had scream danger.

“Deanna.” My father’s voice was careful, formal. “Thank you for coming.”

“I didn’t have much choice, did I?” I kept my Portuguese accent strong, refusing to soften it for his comfort. “You threatened my mother.”

“We offered you an opportunity,” one of the other men interjected. “There’s a difference.”

“Is there?” I looked at my father. “Why am I here, really?”

The intimidating man in the corner made a sound, something between a scoff and a laugh. When he spoke, his voice was deep and dark, laced with sarcasm.

“She doesn’t know. Cristo, you didn’t even tell her.”

“Tell me what?” I looked between them, feeling the trap tighten even though I still could not see its shape.

My father cleared his throat. “Isabella’s death has created certain complications. She was engaged to be married. That marriage was important for maintaining peace between families, for honoring old agreements.”

“Okay.” I still did not understand why that involved me.

“The agreement must be honored,” my father continued. “A Pradati daughter must marry as promised. Since Isabella is gone—”

“No.” The word escaped before I could stop it, before my brain had fully processed what he was saying. “No. Absolutely not. You cannot be serious.”

“Deadly serious,” the dangerous man said, pushing off from the bookshelf.

He moved with a predator’s grace, closing the distance between us until he stood close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.

“Hello, Deanna. I’m Dominic Unaretti. I was supposed to marry your sister. Now I’m going to marry you instead.”

His voice was flat and emotionless, as though he was discussing a business transaction.

With growing horror, I realized that was exactly what this was.

“Over my dead body,” I said, proud that my voice did not shake.

He smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “That can be arranged. Or you can marry me and your mother lives. Your choice.”

“Some choice.” I looked at my father. “This is why you brought me here? To sell me off like cattle?”

“To fulfill your family duty,” he replied. “Isabella would have done the same.”

“Isabella was raised for this.” My voice rose despite my efforts to stay calm. “I wasn’t. I don’t know anything about your world, about the mafia, about being some mob wife. I don’t even know you.”

“You’ll learn,” Dominic said simply. “The wedding is in 3 days. That gives you 72 hours to make your peace with your new reality.”

Three days.

I had been in New York for less than an hour, and my entire life was being ripped away from me. I looked around the room at the men in their expensive suits, at my father who had abandoned me, at the stepmother who looked at me with barely concealed contempt, and at Dominic Unaretti with his cold eyes and colder voice.

“And if I run?” I asked quietly.

“We’ll find you,” Dominic replied. “I always find what belongs to me. And make no mistake, Deanna. Whether you like it or not, you belong to me now. You became mine the moment your sister died.”

“I don’t belong to anyone,” I shot back, fury replacing fear. “I’m not property.”

“In this world,” he said, leaning closer, his voice dropping into something almost intimate despite the threat in his words, “everyone is property. The only question is who owns you. Would you rather it be me, with the resources to keep your mother alive, or would you prefer the loan sharks in Jersey? I hear they’re not nearly as patient as I am.”

The reminder of my mother suffering in her bed thousands of miles away—no, not miles, minutes, within the same state but still far in every way—killed the rebellion burning in my chest.

He knew it too. I could see the satisfaction in his eyes as I deflated, as the fight drained out of me.

“3 days,” I whispered.

“3 days,” he confirmed.

Then, surprisingly, he reached out and caught my chin, tilting my face up to his. His touch was gentle but firm. Possessive.

“Don’t look so tragic, piccola. Some women would kill for the life I’m offering you.”

“I’m not some women.”

“No,” he agreed, something flickering in those dark eyes that I could not read. “You’re not. Which is going to make this very interesting.”

He released me and stepped back. The brief moment of physical contact left my skin tingling in a way that both confused and angered me. I did not want to be affected by this man. I did not want to notice how well his suit fit or how his presence seemed to fill the room. I definitely did not want to acknowledge the heat that had flared in my stomach when he touched me.

“Marco will show you to your room,” Dominic said, already turning away, dismissing me. “Someone will bring dinner. Get some rest. You look exhausted.”

“Gee, thanks,” I muttered in Portuguese. “You really know how to charm a girl.”

He paused at the door and glanced back, a slight smile on his lips.

“I speak Portuguese, by the way. Fluently. So feel free to insult me to my face next time.”

Then he was gone, leaving me standing in a room full of strangers who had just decided my entire future without asking what I wanted.

Welcome to the family, indeed.

My room turned out to be larger than my entire apartment in Jersey. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked manicured gardens that probably required a full-time staff to maintain. The bed was massive, covered in linens that felt like clouds, and there was an attached bathroom with a tub deep enough to swim in.

Everything was cream and gold, elegant and expensive and utterly foreign.

I sat on the edge of the bed, still in my secondhand dress, and tried not to cry.

Crying was weakness, and I had learned long ago that showing weakness only invited more pain. But Cristo, I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw things, to break that perfect room with its perfect furniture, because everything in it represented what was wrong with my situation.

A knock interrupted my spiral.

I opened the door to find a woman about my age, petite and blonde, with kind eyes that seemed out of place in a house of wolves.

“Hi,” she said in English. “I’m Sophia. I work for Mr. Unaretti. I brought you some clothes.”

She gestured to the garment bags draped over her arm.

“He said you traveled light.”

“He said that? Or he ordered you to bring clothes because he’s already trying to change me?”

Sophia’s lips twitched. “Both, probably. He’s very thorough. But for what it’s worth, the clothes are your size, your style. He had me research you.”

“Research me?” Ice slid down my spine. “What does that mean?”

She hung the garment bags in the massive closet, unzipping them to reveal jeans, dresses, and casual wear. Nothing too fancy or revealing. Actually, they looked exactly like things I would have chosen for myself if I had money.

“Mr. Unaretti doesn’t do anything halfway,” Sophia said carefully. “When he learned you were coming, he had his people learn everything about you. Your clothing size, your favorite colors, what kind of music you like, where you eat, who your friends are.” She paused. “The loan sharks you owe money to.”

My legs felt weak.

“They received full payment this morning,” she continued, “with a message that you’re under Unaretti protection now and any further contact will be dealt with severely.”

“He paid off my debts. Why?”

“Because you’re his now. He takes care of what’s his.” Sophia’s expression was hard to read. “That’s both a promise and a warning.”

“I don’t want to be his anything.”

“I know.” Her voice softened. “But if you have to belong to someone in this world, Dominic Unaretti isn’t the worst choice. He’s brutal, yes. Controlling, absolutely. But he’s also fiercely loyal to the people he claims. He’ll protect you with everything he has.”

“Even if I don’t want his protection?”

Sophia did not answer, which was answer enough.

After she left, I showered in that ridiculous bathroom, trying to wash away the feeling of being watched, of being owned. The hot water felt like luxury, and I hated that even this small comfort came from him, from the man who had decided I was his property.

I had just pulled on jeans and a simple black shirt when another knock came.

This time, it was Marco with a tray of food that smelled incredible and made my stomach growl traitorously. I had not eaten since the plane.

“Mr. Unaretti thought you might be hungry,” Marco said, setting the tray on a small table by the window. “He also wanted me to tell you that dinner with the family is at 7:00 tomorrow night. Attendance is not optional.”

“Is anything optional in this prison?” I asked.

Marco almost smiled. “No. But the food is excellent, so there’s that.”

After he left, I devoured the pasta, the bread, the salad, everything. It was the best meal I had eaten in months, maybe years, and I resented every delicious bite. This was how they bought you. This was how they made you complicit in your own captivity. They gave you comfort and called it care. They gave you luxury and called it protection.

I spent the rest of the evening exploring my gilded cage.

The estate was massive, filled with security I could feel even when I could not see it. Cameras in corners. Men in suits stationed at strategic points. The constant sense of being observed.

I walked the gardens as the sun set, breathing in air that smelled cleaner than Jersey’s pollution, and plotted.

I could run. Steal money somehow. Get to the airport. Fly back to Brazil.

But then what?

My mother would lose her treatment. The loan sharks might not have gotten Dominic’s memo about leaving me alone. And if what Sophia said was true, he would find me anyway.

I could refuse to marry him.

But that seemed like a death sentence for my mother, and possibly for me.

Or I could marry him and make his life absolute hell until he begged me to leave.

That option held a certain appeal.

I was considering the specifics of how to be the worst wife possible when I heard voices from an open window. Men speaking Italian. Something about shipments and territories and other things I did not fully understand, though I understood enough to know they were discussing something illegal.

“The wedding needs to happen quickly,” one voice said. “The Castellanos are already asking questions. If we don’t show strength now—”

“The wedding will happen.” That was Dominic’s voice, cold and certain. “Deanna will marry me in 3 days, smile for the photos, and play her part.”

“And if she doesn’t? If she refuses at the altar?”

“She won’t.”

There was such absolute confidence in his voice that I wanted to prove him wrong just on principle.

“I have her mother. I have her debts. I have every single pressure point that matters to her. She’ll marry me because she has no choice.”

“She’s not Isabella,” another voice said. “From what I hear, she’s wild. Undisciplined. Are you sure you can control her?”

A pause followed.

Then Dominic laughed, a dark sound that made my skin prickle.

“Control her? Who said anything about control? I just need her to marry me. What happens after that, we’ll see. But one way or another, Deanna Pradati will learn her place.”

Fury burned through me, hot and clean.

Learn my place.

We would see about that.

I was still seething when I returned to my room to find Sophia waiting with more bags.

“Wedding dress fitting tomorrow morning,” she said. “You also have appointments with the hairdresser, makeup artist, and someone to teach you basic etiquette for the wedding.”

“Etiquette?” I could not help the incredulous laugh. “He’s kidnapping me and forcing me into marriage, but I need etiquette lessons?”

“You need to know how to act at a mob wedding,” Sophia corrected. “There are rules. Expectations. People will be watching you, judging. Any mistake could be seen as weakness, and weakness in this world is death.”

“I get it.” I collapsed onto the bed. “This is insane. All of it.”

“Yes,” Sophia agreed. “But it’s your life now. Might as well learn to survive it.”

She left, and I lay there staring at the ceiling, trying to understand how I had gone from struggling to pay rent in Jersey to preparing for a mob wedding in New York in less than 48 hours.

The next morning started with the dress fitting. I was led to a private room where 3 seamstresses waited with a wedding gown that probably cost more than my mother’s annual medical bills.

It was beautiful, I had to admit. Ivory silk with delicate lace, a fitted bodice, a flowing skirt. Traditional, but with modern touches that somehow felt like me despite being chosen by someone else.

“Mr. Unaretti selected it himself,” one of the seamstresses said as they pinned and tucked. “He has excellent taste.”

“Mr. Unaretti can go to hell,” I muttered in Portuguese.

The seamstress who had spoken revealed herself to be Brazilian with a knowing smile. “I said the same thing about my husband when I met him. 20 years later, still married.”

“Was your husband a mob boss who forced you into marriage?”

“No. But he was an ass who thought he knew what was best for me.” She winked. “They’re all the same, these controlling men. The trick is making them think they’re in charge while you do exactly what you want.”

I filed that advice away for later.

The etiquette lesson was worse than I had imagined. A severe woman named Elena spent 3 hours drilling me on how to sit, how to stand, how to smile, how to greet people, which families were allies, which were enemies, who I could talk to, and who I should avoid. My head spun with information I had never wanted to know.

“The Castellanos will be there,” Elena said. “They’re rivals. Be polite but distant. Never smile too warmly at Luca Castellano. He’s handsome and charming and absolutely lethal.”

“So he and Dominic should get along great,” I said.

Elena’s lips pressed into a thin line. “This isn’t a joke, Miss Pradati. One wrong move at this wedding could start a war.”

“Then maybe don’t force someone who knows nothing about this world to star in your mob production.”

She had no answer for that.

Lunch was brought to my room, more incredible food that I ate while mentally composing nasty things to say to Dominic when I saw him next.

But I did not see him.

All day he remained absent, a controlling presence who had set my prison in motion and then disappeared.

It was not until evening, when I was exhausted from fittings and lessons and being poked and prodded by strangers, that I finally encountered him again.

I had gone to the library, a beautiful room lined with books in Italian, English, and, surprisingly, Portuguese. I was browsing the shelves, looking for anything to distract myself, when his voice came from behind me.

“Find anything interesting?”

I did not turn around. “Are you spying on me, or do you just have so little to do that you track my movements around your house?”

“Both.” I could hear the amusement in his voice. “How was your day?”

“Oh, wonderful. I spent hours learning how to be the perfect mob wife. Apparently, there’s a right way to smile at your enemies and a wrong way to hold a wine glass. Who knew?”

“It’s important.” He moved closer. I could feel his presence behind me, warm and imposing. “This wedding isn’t just about us. It’s about showing strength, unity, stability. It’s about control.”

I finally turned to face him. “About you controlling me. Controlling the narrative. Controlling everything.”

He had changed out of his suit into more casual clothes, dark jeans and a black shirt that made him look younger, less like a mob boss and more like a dangerously attractive man, which was a problem I did not want to think about.

“Yes,” he agreed simply. “Control is what keeps us alive in this world. Chaos is death.”

“Maybe I prefer chaos.”

“Then you’ll learn to prefer control.”

He reached past me, pulling a book from the shelf.

“Portuguese poetry. Did you know I spent 2 years in New Jersey when I was younger, learning the family business?”

That caught me off guard. “You lived in the States?”

“I speak 5 languages fluently. Portuguese, Italian, English, Spanish, and enough Russian to negotiate with the Bratva.” He handed me the book. “I understand your world better than you think, Deanna.”

“If you understand it, then you know how cruel this is. Ripping me away from everything I know, forcing me into a life I never wanted.”

“Your life in New Jersey was killing you slowly.” His voice was matter-of-fact. “3 jobs, crushing debt, watching your mother suffer. Is that really better than this?”

“At least it was my choice.”

“Was it?” He tilted his head. “Or were you trapped by circumstances just as surely as you’re trapped now? The only difference is the quality of the cage.”

I wanted to argue, but he had a point. My life in Brazil—or rather, my old life in the U.S. before this—had been a different kind of prison, one made of poverty and desperation instead of luxury and force.

“I’m going to make you miserable,” I said instead. “I’m going to be the worst wife you’ve ever imagined. I’ll embarrass you, defy you, make you regret every moment you forced me into this.”

He smiled, and it transformed his face from coldly handsome to devastatingly attractive.

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Isabella was perfect. Obedient. Trained from birth to be the ideal mob wife. She was also boring as hell.” He stepped closer, deliberately invading my space. “You, piccola, are many things. Boring isn’t one of them.”

“Don’t call me that.” My heart was racing, though whether from anger or something else, I was not sure.

“Why not? It suits you. Small and fierce, like a little wildcat.” His hand came up, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “I’m looking forward to our marriage, Deanna. It’s going to be very entertaining.”

“I’m not some toy you win at cards.”

“No,” he agreed. “Which is going to make it interesting.”

Then he left, leaving me standing there with my pulse pounding and my mind racing.

I had expected threats. Coldness. Brutality.

What I had not expected was this: his amusement at my defiance, his interest in my resistance.

Dominic Unaretti was not trying to break me.

He was enjoying the fight.

And that, I realized as I clutched the poetry book to my chest, was so much more dangerous than anything I had imagined.

 

 

Part 2
The morning of my wedding, I woke at dawn from a nightmare in which I was drowning in white silk. My mother’s face kept appearing and disappearing in the waves, calling for me while I sank deeper and deeper.

I sat up sweating and disoriented in a room that still did not feel real.

In 36 hours, I had been measured, lectured, dressed up like a doll, and prepared for a wedding I did not want to a man I barely knew. Through it all, Dominic had remained a distant, controlling presence, orchestrating my life from behind the scenes.

Today, that would change.

Today, I would become his wife.

The thought made my stomach churn.

Sophia arrived at 6:00 with breakfast I could not eat and a schedule that made my head spin. Hair at 7:00. Makeup at 9:00. Dress at 11:00. Photos at noon. Ceremony at 2:00. Every minute accounted for, every moment controlled. Even my rebellion was on a timeline.

“You look terrified,” Sophia observed as a team of stylists descended on me, turning my simple Brazilian waves into an elaborate updo that probably required engineering skills to maintain.

“I am terrified,” I admitted in Portuguese, then switched to English. “I’m marrying a stranger who thinks he owns me.”

“He does own you,” one of the makeup artists said matter-of-factly. “Might as well get used to it.”

“Helpful. Thanks.”

By 11:00, I was transformed. The girl from New Jersey who had worn secondhand clothes and worked 3 jobs had disappeared, replaced by someone who looked like she belonged in this world of wealth and violence. The dress fit perfectly. The veil was held in place by a diamond tiara that probably cost more than my mother’s apartment, and my face had been painted into a mask of serene beauty that hid the screaming inside.

“You’re stunning,” Sophia whispered, her eyes bright. “Mr. Unaretti is going to lose his mind.”

“Good. Maybe he’ll have a heart attack and I can be a widow instead of a wife.”

She laughed, but there was worry in her expression. “Be careful what you wish for. Some of the other families would love to see Dominic weakened. If something happened to him, you’d be vulnerable.”

“I’m already vulnerable,” I pointed out. “He made sure of that.”

There was a knock, and my father entered, looking uncomfortable in his expensive suit. We had barely spoken since my arrival, communicating only through others, but apparently tradition demanded that he walk me down the aisle.

“You look beautiful,” he said stiffly. “Your mother would be proud.”

“My mother is dying in the U.S. because you abandoned us,” I replied in Portuguese, my voice sharp. “Don’t pretend you care about her opinion now.”

His jaw tightened. “I did what I had to do for the family.”

“You did what was easiest for you.” I stood, the dress rustling around me. “You chose your mafia famiglia over your actual family. Now you’re selling me off to fix your problems again.”

“Deanna—”

“Save it.” I brushed past him toward the door. “Let’s get this farce over with.”

The chapel was on the estate, a small stone building that somehow managed to be both beautiful and menacing. As I approached, I could hear music and see the gathered guests through the open doors. The entire New York underworld had turned out to witness the Pradati-Unaretti alliance, or to see whether I would actually go through with it.

My father offered his arm.

I ignored it, walking ahead of him, my head high despite the trembling in my legs.

If I was going to be forced into this marriage, I would do it on my terms, walking into my own prison with my eyes open.

The chapel was packed. Hundreds of faces turned to watch me, assessing and judging. I recognized some from Elena’s lessons: the Castellanos in the 3rd row, their expressions unreadable; the Benedettis near the front, looking satisfied; various other families whose names I had already forgotten.

And at the altar, waiting with a priest who looked distinctly uncomfortable, was Dominic.

He wore a black tuxedo that fit him like sin, his dark hair styled back, his expression unreadable as he watched me approach. For a moment, our eyes met, and I saw something flicker in his gaze. Not quite satisfaction. Not quite triumph. Something more complicated.

Then his expression smoothed into the controlled mask he wore so well.

I reached the altar without my father, making it clear to everyone watching that this was not a transaction with his blessing. This was a hostage exchange, and I was the hostage.

“Deanna,” Dominic said quietly, his voice pitched only for me. “You look—”

“Save it,” I interrupted. “Let’s just get this over with.”

The priest launched into the ceremony in Italian, words I only half understood about duty and honor and loyalty. Traditional Catholic vows that felt like a joke under the circumstances.

When it came time for the vows themselves, Dominic spoke his in that deep voice, his eyes never leaving mine.

“I, Dominic Unaretti, take you, Deanna Pradati, to be my wife. I promise to protect you, provide for you, and honor the commitment we make here today.”

I noticed what he did not promise.

To love. To cherish. To be faithful.

This was a business contract, and he was not pretending otherwise.

When it was my turn, I spoke in Portuguese, my accent thick with rebellion.

“I, Deanna Pradati, accept this marriage under duress. I promise nothing except to survive whatever comes next.”

Gasps rippled through the chapel. The priest looked horrified. My father turned red.

And Dominic smiled.

A genuine smile that reached his eyes.

“Close enough,” he murmured. Then, to the priest, “Continue.”

“I’m not sure—” the priest started.

“Continue,” Dominic repeated, his voice dropping into something dangerous.

The priest swallowed hard and rushed through the rest, pronouncing us husband and wife with obvious relief.

When Dominic was instructed to kiss the bride, he stepped closer, his hands framing my face with surprising gentleness.

“That was quite a performance,” he whispered against my lips. “But now you’re mine, piccola. Legally, publicly, completely.”

Then he kissed me.

I expected it to be rough, possessive, a show of dominance for the watching crowd. Instead, it was slow and thorough, his lips moving against mine with a skill that made my traitorous body respond despite my fury.

When he pulled back, my breath was coming faster, and his eyes had darkened with something that looked like hunger.

“Perfect,” he murmured. “Now smile for our guests.”

The reception was held in the estate’s ballroom, transformed into something out of a fairy tale. Crystal chandeliers. Thousands of white roses. Tables laden with food and wine. A string quartet played while the cream of New York’s criminal underworld mingled and made deals.

I was paraded around like a prize, introduced to people whose names ran together, whose hands I shook while wanting to scream. Dominic kept me close, his hand never leaving my waist, a constant reminder of ownership.

“You’re doing well,” he said during a rare moment alone. “Better than I expected.”

“You expected me to cause a scene.”

“I expected you to try to stab me with a cake knife by now.”

Despite myself, I almost laughed. “The night is young.”

His lips twitched. “I like you, Deanna. You’re unpredictable. Dangerous. It’s refreshing.”

“I’m not trying to be refreshing. I’m trying to survive.”

“Same thing in this world.”

He pulled me closer as the music changed, leading me onto the dance floor for our first dance as husband and wife.

“But you should know something,” he said.

“What?”

“Isabella’s death wasn’t an accident.”

I stumbled, and his arm tightened around me, keeping me upright.

“What?”

“She was murdered.” His voice was low, meant only for me as we swayed to the music. “Made to look like a car accident. But it was too clean, too convenient. Someone wanted her dead.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because whoever killed her might come after you next.” His dark eyes held mine. “You’re not just my wife now, Deanna. You’re a target. The only thing keeping you alive is me.”

Fear slithered down my spine. “Is this another manipulation? Another way to control me?”

“It’s the truth.” His hand splayed across my lower back, pulling me flush against him. “I have enemies. Lots of them. Some will see you as my weakness. They’ll try to use you against me.”

“Then let me go. Send me back to Brazil. I’ll disappear, and your enemies will have nothing to use.”

“No.” The word was absolute. “You’re mine now. I don’t give up what’s mine.”

“Even if it puts me in danger?”

“Especially then.” Something fierce entered his expression. “I protect what’s mine, Deanna. With everything I have. You’re safer with me than you’d ever be alone.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“It’s the truth.” He spun me, and when I came back to him, his lips were close to my ear. “Your sister tried to run. 3 days before our wedding, she packed a bag and tried to disappear. That’s when they killed her.”

My blood ran cold. “She was running from you.”

“From life. From what being my wife would mean.” His voice was carefully neutral. “I don’t know if she was working with someone or if she just got desperate, but her attempt to escape signed her death warrant.”

“And you’re telling me this why? To warn me not to try the same thing?”

“To warn you that running makes you vulnerable.” He pulled back to look at me, his expression serious. “Stay close to me, Deanna. Accept my protection. Let me keep you safe. It’s the only way you survive.”

“And my mother? Is she safe?”

“She’s in a private hospital in São Paulo—no, in the U.S. now, receiving the best care money can buy. I have men watching her around the clock.” His thumb traced my spine, the gesture almost tender. “She’s my leverage, yes. But she’s also under my protection now. No one touches her without going through me.”

I wanted to hate him for using my mother against me, but I also felt a reluctant relief knowing she was being cared for, protected. The contradiction made my head spin.

“I don’t understand you,” I admitted. “One minute you’re threatening me. The next you’re protecting me. Which is it?”

“Both.” His smile was dark. “I’m a complicated man, piccola. You’ll figure that out soon enough.”

The rest of the reception passed in a blur. I smiled, danced, and played the role of happy bride while my mind raced with everything Dominic had told me.

Isabella, murdered for trying to escape.

Enemies watching, waiting for weakness.

My mother safe, but still a hostage.

I was trapped in a web I did not understand, married to a man who terrified and intrigued me in equal measure.

As the night wore on and guests finally began to leave, Dominic appeared at my side.

“Time to go.”

“Go where?”

“Our honeymoon.” He said it casually, as though it were the most normal thing in the world. “We’re expected to disappear for a week. Tradition.”

“I don’t want a honeymoon with you.”

“I don’t particularly care what you want.” But there was no heat in the words. “Besides, you’ll like where we’re going. Sicily. Beautiful this time of year.”

“Sicily.” I stared at him. “You’re taking me to Italy?”

“I’m taking you somewhere safe, away from New York and anyone who might want to use you against me.” His hand found the small of my back again. “Come, wife. Our plane is waiting.”

Because I had no choice, because my mother’s life hung in the balance, because I was trapped in this marriage whether I wanted it or not, I followed my husband into the night and into whatever came next.

The private jet was obscene. Leather seats that reclined into beds. A full bar. A bedroom in the back with an actual king-size bed. I stood in the doorway, taking it all in, while Dominic moved past me with casual familiarity, loosening his tie and pouring himself a drink.

“Sit,” he said, gesturing to one of the plush seats. “We have an 8-hour flight. Might as well get comfortable.”

“Comfortable?” I remained standing, my wedding dress suddenly feeling like a costume I was desperate to remove. “You kidnapped me, forced me into marriage, and now you’re taking me to another country. Forgive me if I’m not feeling particularly comfortable.”

He turned to face me, drink in hand, his expression unreadable.

“You’re right. Let me rephrase. Sit down, Deanna, or I’ll put you in that seat myself.”

The threat was delivered calmly, almost pleasantly, which somehow made it worse.

I sat, more from exhaustion than obedience. The day had been endless, and the emotional toll was catching up with me now that the performance was over.

Dominic settled into the seat across from me, studying me over the rim of his glass.

“You held up well today. Better than expected.”

“What did you expect? That I’d collapse into hysterics?”

“Some women would have.” He took a sip of what looked like scotch. “But you’re not most women, are you, Deanna?”

“You’re just saying that to feel like the hero.”

“Who said I was saying it?”

His amusement was infuriating.

“Want a drink? You look like you could use one.”

I wanted to refuse on principle, but Cristo, I needed something to take the edge off.

“Wine. Red, if you have it.”

He stood and poured from a bottle that probably cost more than my monthly rent in Jersey, handing it to me before retaking his seat.

The wine was excellent, smooth and rich, and I hated that I noticed.

“So,” I said after a long sip. “Sicily. Visiting your family’s murder grounds, or is this purely a romantic getaway?”

His lips twitched. “A villa on the coast. Private, secure, far from anyone who might cause problems. We’ll have a week alone.”

“Alone.” The word made my stomach flip.

“Just you and me. Disappointed? Were you hoping for chaperones?”

“I was hoping to wake up and discover this was all a nightmare.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” He leaned back, looking completely at ease. “But this is very real, piccola. You’re my wife now, legally bound to me.”

“Easier for whom?” I snapped.

“For both of us.” His dark eyes held mine. “I’m not the monster you think I am, Deanna.”

“You threatened my mother.”

“I gave your mother the medical care she desperately needed. I paid off your debts. I removed every obstacle standing between you and a comfortable life.” He set down his glass. “Was I supposed to ask politely and hope you’d agree out of the goodness of your heart?”

“You could have given me a choice.”

“You had a choice.”

“You mean marry you or watch my mother die.”

He didn’t flinch.

“You chose your mother, which tells me everything I need to know about your priorities.” He paused. “I respect that.”

“Don’t pretend you respect me when you own me.”

“I can do both.”

He stood, moving toward the bedroom in the back. “There are clothes for you in the closet. Change out of that dress. We’ll talk more when you’re comfortable.”

“Stop telling me to be comfortable.”

He paused at the doorway, glancing back with that infuriating half smile.

“Stop being so uncomfortable.”

Then he disappeared into the bedroom, leaving me alone with my wine and my fury.

I waited until the door closed before standing and exploring the plane’s closet. Sure enough, it was stocked with clothes in my size: casual wear, designer labels, nothing too revealing or provocative. He had thought of everything, planned for every contingency.

I changed into jeans and a soft sweater, leaving the wedding dress in a heap on the floor.

A petty rebellion, but it made me feel slightly better.

When I emerged, Dominic had changed too—dark pants and a white shirt with sleeves rolled up. He looked younger like this, less like a mob boss and more like a dangerously attractive man, which was a problem I did not want to think about.

“Better?” he asked from where he sat working on a laptop.

“Marginally.” I settled back into my seat, trying not to stare at his forearms.

“What are you working on?”

“Business.” He did not look up. “The world doesn’t stop just because I got married.”

“What kind of business?”

“The kind you’re better off not knowing about.”

“I’m your wife now. Shouldn’t I know what you do?”

That made him look up, his expression sharp. “My wife, yes. My partner, no. There are parts of my life you don’t want to be involved in, Deanna. Trust me on this.”

“Hard to trust someone who forced me into marriage.”

“And yet, here we are.” He closed the laptop. “Let me be clear about something. I have enemies.”

“People who would love to see me weakened.”

He didn’t deny it. “And if they know details about my operations, they could use that information against me. And if you knew those details, they could use you to get to them.”

“So you’re protecting me by keeping me ignorant.”

“I’m protecting you by keeping you separate from the worst parts of my world.”

He moved closer.

“You want to hate me? Fine. You want to make my life difficult? Go ahead. But you will not involve yourself in my business.”

“Everything with you is not negotiable.”

“Welcome to being married to me.”

He stood, moving to sit beside mine instead of across from me.

“But it’s not all bad. You’ll have freedom within limits. Money to spend however you want. Access to anything you need.”

“Except my actual freedom.”

“Accept that.” He reached out, catching a strand of my hair and tucking it behind my ear.

The gesture was surprisingly gentle, and I hated how it made my skin tingle.

“But freedom is overrated, piccola. Safety, security, protection.”

“Not to me.”

“Then you’ll learn.”

He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “I won’t force myself on you. That’s one line I don’t cross.”

“How noble.”

“I’m many things, but a rapist isn’t one of them.”

My breath caught despite myself.

“When you come to my bed, it’ll be because you want to.”

“Confident, are you?”

“I’ve seen the way you look at me.” His predatory smile returned. “Your pupils dilate when I’m near.”

“You’re delusional.”

“Am I?” He leaned closer, not touching but close enough that I could feel the heat of his body. “Your pulse is racing right now.”

I jerked back.

Cristo. He was right.

The door to the bedroom wasn’t even closed and I wanted it locked.

“Stay away from me.”

“Can’t do that, piccola. You’re my wife. We’re going to be sharing very close quarters for the next week.”

He dismissed me with his phone, effectively ending the conversation. My eyelids grew heavy anyway.

The last thing I remembered before drifting off was Dominic draping a blanket over me, his touch gentle, his voice a low murmur in Italian that I somehow found comforting.

When I woke, we were landing.

The sun was rising over Sicily, painting the sky in shades of gold and pink. Dominic was watching me, his expression unreadable.

“Welcome to Italy, Mrs. Unaretti,” he said softly. “Your new life starts now.”

Despite every instinct screaming at me to run, I followed him off the plane and into whatever came next.

Because what choice did I have?

The villa was perched on a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean, all white stone and terracotta tiles, surrounded by olive groves and wild gardens that smelled of lavender and rosemary. It was breathtaking, the kind of place people saved their entire lives to visit for a week.

I hated it on principle.

“Home sweet home,” Dominic said as we pulled up in a sleek black car that had been waiting at the private airstrip. “For the next week, anyway.”

“It’s lovely,” I admitted grudgingly.

“Wait until you see the inside.”

The interior was even more stunning than the exterior. High ceilings with exposed beams. Whitewashed walls covered in local art. Furniture that managed to be both rustic and expensive. Floor-to-ceiling windows opened onto a terrace with a view of the sea that made my breath catch.

“There are 3 bedrooms,” Dominic said, watching my reaction. “You can have your own if you want. I won’t force us to share.”

“Really?”

“Really.” He moved past me toward the kitchen, which was stocked with fresh food, wine, and everything we could need. “I told you, Deanna. I don’t force myself on women.”

I stared at him.

“So why are you forcing me to be your wife again and again?” I muttered.

“We’re married.” He poured two glasses of Prosecco and offered one. “To new beginnings.”

I raised my glass. “To survival.”

“I’ll take it.”

He went to make calls. I explored the villa with Prosecco in hand.

The master bedroom was indeed stunning, with a king-size bed draped in white linen, doors opening onto a private balcony, and a bathroom with a tub that overlooked the sea. I should have chosen one of the other rooms out of spite, but Cristo, the view was incredible.

I unpacked the luggage that had mysteriously appeared in the master bedroom, finding more clothes in my size, swimsuits, beach cover-ups, and sundresses.

It should have felt invasive.

Instead, it felt thoughtful.

And that was dangerous—because the more I allowed myself to feel anything other than anger, the more likely I was to lose my footing.

I changed into a sundress and wandered out onto the terrace, letting the Mediterranean sun warm my skin.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Dominic’s voice came from behind me.

“It’s perfect.”

“My grandmother was Sicilian. This was her family’s villa.” He smiled. “She left it to me when she died.”

“Was she part of the business?”

“She was the family business.” His eyes softened. “Don’t let anyone tell you the mafia is just men.”

I looked at him skeptically. “You’re trying to charm me.”

“No.” He leaned closer. “I’m trying to understand you.”

His grandmother’s stories made me realize something: Dominic wasn’t only a weapon. He was a man with a legacy that had shaped him into something hard. And sometimes—unexpectedly—that hardness didn’t feel like cruelty.

His touch on my hair made my pulse stutter.

“We’re alone here,” he murmured. “No one watching. No one judging.”

“You’re always watching,” I said.

“No,” he corrected. “Only when I need to keep you safe.”

I hated that my body believed him.

His phone rang. The spell broke instantly.

Dominic took the call. When he returned, his expression tightened—fearful, relieved, urgent all at once.

“Your mother is fine,” he said, voice low. “The new treatment is working. The doctors are optimistic.”

Relief hit me like a wave. I almost swayed.

“Then why do you look—”

“Because we’re not done.” His hands settled on my shoulders. “Stay close to me, Deanna. I can keep you safe. I can’t let you disappear again.”

“Let me go.”

“Anything but that.”

We stood on the terrace like two people trapped on opposite sides of the same door.

And somehow, the week still passed.

Part 3
The week in Sicily passed in a strange blur of sunlight and wine and conversations that should not have been so easy. Away from New York and his empire, Dominic was different. Still dangerous. Still commanding. But also—surprisingly—funny, with a dry wit that caught me off guard.

He told me stories about his grandmother. About growing up in the mafia. About the weight of legacy and expectation.

Against every instinct, I found myself telling him about my mother. About the exhaustion of surviving. About the dreams I had stopped chasing the moment poverty became permanent.

We fell into a rhythm.

Mornings on the terrace with coffee and pastries from the village. Afternoons exploring the coast or reading in comfortable silence. Evenings cooking together—Dominic apparently knew his way around kitchens.

“She said a man who couldn’t cook was useless,” he explained as he taught me to make pasta from scratch, his hands covering mine to guide the dough.

I tried not to notice how warm his body felt pressed against my back when he stood behind me.

“Stubborn, fierce, refusing to be intimidated,” he murmured when flour dusted our skin. “She would have liked you.”

“I’m no one’s type.”

“You’re mine.”

He turned me to face him, the tenderness in his eyes almost infuriating.

“I wanted to kiss you,” he admitted, voice low.

My heartbeat betrayed me.

“Dominic—” I started.

His phone rang. Shattering the moment.

He stepped back, expression shuttering as he checked the screen. When he looked up, the mob boss was back in his eyes.

“We need to leave. Now.”

Fear shot through me. “What’s wrong? Is it my mother?”

“Your mother is fine.” He grabbed his phone, already calling in Italian. “Something happened back in New York. Someone made a move against one of my operations.”

“The Castellanos,” he said, harsh. “They’re trying to start a war. And they’ve decided you’re their next target.”

My stomach dropped. “Me? Why?”

“Because you’re my weakness.” His voice was tight. “Or they think you are. Marco intercepted communications. They’re planning to grab you when we return—use you to force me out.”

“Then don’t go back,” I insisted. “Stay here.”

“I can’t hide in Sicily while my empire burns.” Dominic’s gaze pinned mine. “I can protect you. We’ll protect you. No one touches what’s mine, Deanna. No one.”

The flight back was tense. Dominic spent most of it on the phone, speaking too fast in Italian for me to follow. His face grew darker with each call.

When we landed, there were twice as many guards as before, and the drive to the estate felt like a military convoy.

“You’re staying at the house,” Dominic said as we pulled up. “Marco and 6 men will be with you at all times. You don’t leave the grounds without me. Understand?”

“I’m not a child.”

“No.” His hand cupped my face, urgency trembling in his fingertips. “You’re my wife. You’re a target.”

“Promise me you’ll come back.”

“I will.” He kissed me hard and desperate, as though he was afraid it might be the last time. Then he leaned his forehead to mine. “When I do… this will all be over.”

Then he was gone.

I stayed in the mansion with guards posted at every door.

Two days passed like torture. I paced. I read. I tried to distract myself, but all I could think about was Dominic out there facing enemies who wanted him dead.

Enemies who wanted me dead.

On the third day, Marco came to find me in the library.

“Mrs. Unaretti,” he said, voice grim. “We have a situation.”

My heart stopped. “Is he okay? Is Dominic—”

“He’s fine.” Marco swallowed. “But there’s been an incident. The Castellanos made their move. Three of our warehouses hit simultaneously. Two men dead.”

Dominic had been handling it—at least, Marco claimed he had. But Marco’s eyes wouldn’t meet mine fully.

“Mr. Unaretti wanted me to move you to a safe house, just as a precaution.”

“When?”

“Now.”

Something felt wrong.

Dominic promised to call me every day. My phone had been silent since that morning.

“I need to talk to Dominic first,” I said carefully. “Before I go anywhere.”

“No time,” Marco insisted.

“Then have him insist to my face.” I straightened. “Call him. Let me hear his voice tell me to leave.”

Marco’s expression tightened.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Mrs. Unaretti. You’re coming with us one way or another.”

The other guards shifted. Their positioning was deliberate—too deliberate, too staged. I realized with sick certainty that these were not Dominic’s men.

Or they had been, until someone offered them a better deal.

I ran.

I burst out into the gardens where I knew actual security patrols were nearby—only to be caught before I reached them. Strong hands grabbed me. A cloth pressed over my mouth, sweet and chemical.

The world went fuzzy.

Then dark.

I woke in a warehouse, tied to a chair, my head pounding. My mouth tasted like panic.

Luca Castellano stood in front of me, handsome and smiling and absolutely terrifying.

“Mrs. Unaretti,” he said pleasantly. “Welcome. I apologize for the rough treatment, but you understand. We needed to get you away from your husband’s protection.”

“He’ll kill you,” I said hoarsely.

Luca shrugged, unbothered. “But first, he’ll have to choose. His wife or his empire. Interesting dilemma, don’t you think?”

“Dom—” I choked on his name.

“You don’t know Dominic,” Luca continued, voice smooth like he’d practiced it. “I know men like him. Power is everything. When forced to choose between power and a wife… I think we know which he’ll pick.”

He was wrong.

I knew it with bone-deep certainty.

Dominic would come for me. He would burn the city down to get me back.

I just had to survive long enough for him to find me.

Two hours later, the door exploded inward.

Dominic came through like an avenging angel, gun in hand. His men flooded in behind him.

The firefight was brief and brutal.

When the smoke cleared, Luca Castellano was dead, and I was free.

Dominic cut my ropes with shaking hands and pulled me against him so hard it hurt.

“Cristo, Deanna,” he breathed. “Cristo…”

“I’m okay,” I whispered. “I’m okay.”

“Marco betrayed us. He’s dead now. Along with everyone else who thought they could use you against me.”

Dominic’s voice was savage. “I burned their operations to the ground. Every Castellano property, every asset, everything. They’re finished.”

“Dominic—”

“I chose you.” He looked at me like the world depended on my answer. “Power, empire—none of it matters if you’re gone. Do you understand? You’re not my weakness. You’re my strength.”

And then—finally—I understood.

This wasn’t about control.

It was about devotion. About a man who found something worth fighting for, something worth destroying everything to keep.

“Take me home,” I said softly.

Three months later, I stood in our New York apartment, staring out at the city that had become mine.

My mother was in a facility upstate, thriving on her treatment. She visited every weekend. I had enrolled in online classes. I was working on my writing again.

Against all odds, I had found a kind of freedom within the constraints of my new life.

Dominic came up behind me, arms wrapping around my waist, chin resting on my shoulder.

“What are you thinking about?”

“How strange life is,” I said. “How I came here hating you. And now…”

“And now?” he prompted.

“And now I can’t imagine being anywhere else.” I turned in his arms. “I choose this, Dominic. Not because I’m forced, but because I want to. Because somewhere along the way, my prison became my home.”

His smile was soft and real, nothing like the predatory grins I had first known.

“I love you, Deanna Unaretti.”

“I know.” I rose onto my toes to kiss him. “I love you too, even though you’re impossible and controlling and absolutely infuriating.”

“But?”

“But you’re mine, and I’m yours. Maybe that’s enough.”

“More than enough,” he murmured against my lips. “Everything.”

As he carried me to our bedroom, the truth settled in like certainty.

I had come to New York as the forgotten sister, forced into an impossible marriage.

But I became something else entirely.

I became his equal.

His partner.

His wife.

Not because I had to be, but because I chose it.

And that choice made all the difference.