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“I understand perfectly.” I stand, straightening my cuffs. “Which is why I won’t change anything. I want to see how this plays out.”

“It could be a trap. They could be planning to kill you.”

I smile, cold and sharp. “Let them try.”

Nicolo runs a hand over his face. “This is a mistake.”

“Perhaps.” I move to the liquor cabinet, pouring two glasses of whiskey. I hand one to Nicolo. “But I’m curious. Which one am I actually marrying today? Chiara, as planned? Or Aria, the woman I met that night? The woman who’s been in my head all week?”

“We don’t know,” Nicolo admits. “They could be switching places. They’re identical.”

“Not identical,” I say, recalling the small details—the way she held her glass while sipping water during her break at the café, the way she laughed. “I’ll recognize Aria the minute I see her.”

Nicolo drinks his whiskey in one swallow. “And then what? What if you marry the wrong woman?”

I consider the question. What do I want? Revenge for their deception? Or something else entirely?

The image of the woman from that night flashes in my mind. Her defiance. Her vulnerability. The way she looked at me without fear or pretense.

Aria. It had to be Aria.I’m taking a risk here. There’s something about Chiara that tells me she’s the kind of woman who likes to take the easy way out. There’s something about Aria that tells me she’s the kind of woman who shows up for those she loves.

Today, it has to be Aria. But I don’t tell Nicolo that, for if I’m proven wrong, it weakens my judgment in the future.

“And then I make her mine,” I say. “DeLuca blood or not.”

Nicolo shakes his head. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“Life is a dangerous game.” I finish my drink.

As Nicolo steps away to take a call, his sharp glance tells me the guests are beginning to arrive at the venue. I return my gaze to the photograph of the twins.

Two innocent girls whose lives were destroyed by my family. Two women now poised to either destroy me or be destroyed.

The thought should terrify me. Instead, I feel something I haven’t felt in years. Anticipation. Challenge. Perhaps even desire.

Three hours until I marry a DeLuca. The last of a bloodline my father tried to erase. My enemy by blood.

9

ARIA

The men flank me as I walk, matching me pace for pace as though to tell me I don’t really have a choice. There’s no room for bridal jitters here, no chance of starring in my own runaway bride story.

From the corner of my eye, I see one of them adjust the holster at his hip, and my breath hitches in my throat. Most brides get their fathers to walk them down the aisle. I get two men who smell like cologne and gunpowder. My heart begins to race, and my steps falter from the fear.

“Keep walking, Miss Rossi,” the taller one mutters beside me, his voice rough but tone kind. “The boss doesn’t like delays.”

The boss. Marco Bianchi. The man I’m about to marry under false pretenses. And Marco Bianchi has no idea that the woman walking toward him isn’t Chiara. I don’t know what will happen when he finds out.

My fingers twitch around the lilies. Sweat beads at my chest despite the cool air. The music swells behind the doors—not the traditional march, but something darker, more haunting. A warning in every note.

“You look beautiful, Miss Rossi,” says the other guard, almost kindly. “A perfect bride.”

The perfect bride for a debt collection. Nothing about this situation is even close to perfect.

The doors remain closed as we approach, and I fight the urge to run. Where would I go?

There’s no escaping a man like Marco—I already know that from everything I’ve seen and experienced. He must have paid Chiara a lot to throw me under the bus. The betrayal stings, sinking like a blade I never saw coming. Someday, I think angrily to myself, she’ll regret what she’s put me through today—and every other fucking day.