He Claimed My Sister, So I Married a Mafia Don

The day after our families announce our engagement, my fiancé calls my sister his fiancée. There's a photograph. Bianca is pressed against Dante's side, his hand resting on her waist. They're standing beneath the chandeliers at a dinner I was supposed to attend with him. He told me it had been canceled. Beneath the photograph, from his own account, are two words. My fiancée. By morning, someone has posted it beside our engagement announcement. Apparently, the Morettis sent the wrong daughter. Dante has liked the comment. I take a screenshot before he can undo it. Then I call him. He declines. A voice message arrives a minute later. "Bianca was upset about the announcement. People kept asking when it would be her turn. I was trying to make her feel better." Another follows. "You're the one I'm marrying, Adriana. Don't turn this into a problem." I'm standing in the kitchen of the house we've shared for two years. On the counter is the invitation to our engagement celebration. Six weeks away. Both families. Business partners. People who will notice where they're seated and who gets thanked first. People who know the heir to the De Luca crime family doesn't introduce a woman as his future wife by accident. I type: Then marry her. Our engagement is over. This time, he calls. "What the hell does that mean?" "Exactly what it says." "You're going to throw away five years over a photograph?" "You told me the dinner was canceled." A pause. "It was easier than having another argument." "About taking my sister instead of me?" "Her father died for your family, Adriana. She already feels like she doesn't belong." Bianca was five when my parents took her in. I was nine. I shared my room when she was afraid to sleep alone. Later, my friends. My birthday parties. Whatever made her feel less like a guest. Somewhere along the way, Dante decided I should share him, too. "Did you read the comments?" I ask. "You shouldn't read that garbage." "You liked one." Silence. Then, "I'll deal with it." "You already did." Her voice comes through the phone. "Is she angry?" Dante says something I can't hear. A moment later, Bianca is speaking to me. "Adriana, I didn't ask him to write that." "But you let everyone congratulate you." "What was I supposed to do? Embarrass him?" I look at the invitation again. My name beneath his. "You could have told the truth." "I'll ask him to delete it." "You don't need to ask him anything." "Oh." Her voice brightens. "So we're okay?" "No." She goes quiet. Then Dante is back. "She's crying." "I'm ending our engagement." "You've said that." "And you're still talking about her." He exhales sharply. "Both families have given their word." "I gave mine to you. You stood beside someone else and called her your fiancée." "To cheer her up." "Then I hope she's happy." "Adriana." For once, I let him wait. "We'll talk when I get home," he says. "There's nothing left to explain." "You're not canceling anything until we've discussed it." I end the call. My mother answers before the second ring. "I've seen the photograph." "Then you know why I'm calling." "Your father is speaking to Dante's father." "Good. Tell him the engagement is over." "Don't be dramatic." I close my eyes. "Dante made a mistake," she says. "We can correct it without humiliating both families." "What about humiliating me?" "No one wants that." "It already happened." She lowers her voice. "What am I supposed to tell people?" "Tell them I'm not marrying him." "And Bianca?" I look at the photograph on the side table. It was taken the night Dante proposed. Bianca asked to join us. In the frame he chose, she's holding his arm. Only half of me is visible. "You can ask her what she wants," I tell my mother. "You usually do." "Adriana—" "Remove my name from the celebration." I hang up. Then I take the photograph out of its frame. For the first time, I see the whole picture. There was room for me. Dante had folded my side out of sight.

Dante comes home just before midnight. Bianca walks in behind him. The guard at the front door greets her by name. She doesn't need to be announced. Dante gave that instruction himself, months ago, after she complained about having to wait outside. "Still awake?" she asks me. I'm sitting in the kitchen. Dante loosens his tie. "We should talk." Bianca takes a glass from the cupboard, fills it, and drinks. Then she hands it to him. He finishes the water. "Oh." She looks at me. "Sorry. That was mine." Neither of them moves to get another glass. I think of her feet in his lap while I answer work emails. The coffee she orders too sweet because he'll finish it. The room upstairs that was supposed to be my office. "I want her access revoked," I say. Dante sets down the glass. "What?" "I want her key back. And I want the guards to stop letting her in without asking me." Bianca looks between us. "I didn't realize I needed permission to visit my sister." "You have your own apartment." "And a room here," Dante says. "You gave her my office." "You weren't using it." "The desk hadn't arrived." He looks toward the hall, where a member of staff is collecting his coat. "Could we do this somewhere else?" "You called her your fiancée in front of everyone. You can answer me here." Bianca touches my arm. "Please don't fight because of me." Her nails press into my skin. I pull away. She steps backward into Dante, who catches her by the shoulders. "Enough, Adriana." I hold up my wrist. He doesn't look. "She belongs here," he says. The woman holding his coat lowers her eyes. For a moment, nobody speaks. Then I nod. "All right." His shoulders relax. "You don't have to make everything a test." I get up. "Where are you going?" "To pack." He follows me upstairs. Bianca stays in the kitchen. Our bedroom curtains are dark blue. She chose them. She chose the wallpaper downstairs, too. When I objected, Dante told me she needed something to keep her occupied. When I wanted to replace the light above the stairs, they both explained why I was wrong about it. I pull my suitcase from the closet. Dante closes the door. "You've made your point." "I'm leaving." "For how long?" I put the suitcase on the bed. He catches my wrist. I look down at his hand. After a moment, he lets go. "You know I'm not marrying Bianca." "Then you should stop telling people you are." "I was trying to keep the peace." "With whom?" He rubs the back of his neck. "I'll have the photograph taken down." "And the comment you liked?" "That, too." "And the next time she cries?" He says nothing. I start with the clothes I'll need for work. He watches me fold a blouse. "Your father won't let you wreck the agreement." "Our families can do business without me marrying you." "That isn't how this was arranged." "Then arrange it again." His expression changes. "You think you can walk out and make everyone accommodate you?" "I think I can decide who I marry." He looks at the suitcase. "Fine. Go to your parents. Let them explain what you're doing." "I'm not going there." "Then where?" I keep packing. The door slams behind him. At seven the next morning, I send an email to Dante, both sets of parents, and the planner. I am ending my engagement to Dante De Luca. I will not attend the celebration. Please remove my name and photograph from all materials and confirm that this has been done. Then I call the manager of the hotel project I'm overseeing. "I'll be working remotely this morning." "Everything all right?" "I'll be in after lunch." My phone lights up as I zip the suitcase. Matteo Rinaldi. Don of the Rinaldi crime family. We've known each other for years. His family owns two of the hotels my team manages. Once, before Dante, he asked me to dinner. I said no. He never made me uncomfortable about it afterward. His message is short. I saw the photograph. Do you need anything? I sit on the edge of the bed. For once, I don't write that I'm fine. A ride out of here.