Page 1

CHAPTER 1
Istare at the wedding dress hanging on the gilt stand across the room. It's a Vera Wang original—custom-made, with hand-sewn crystals that catch the light as they cascade across yards of Italian silk. A dress fit for a princess. Or in my case, a sacrificial lamb.
The hairdresser tugs at another section of my hair, pinning it into an elaborate updo that will perfectly showcase the diamond tiara my father insisted on. I barely feel the pulls anymore. My scalp should be tender, but I'm numb to everything except the ticking clock.
"You have such beautiful hair, Miss Lombardi," the stylist murmurs, sliding in another pearl-tipped pin. "So thick and glossy."
I make a noncommittal sound. What does it matter how my hair looks? The only people who will see it are in this room.
The makeup artist hovers nearby, her kit open and waiting. I recognize the products—all luxury brands, specially selected to withstand tears of joy, professional photography, and hours of celebration.
"We'll start on your face in about ten minutes," she says, arranging her brushes. "We want to make sure your hair is completely secure first."
I nod, my eyes drifting to the window. The cathedral is only fifteen minutes away. The floral arrangements alone cost over a hundred thousand dollars—white roses and orchids flown in from three different countries. The reception hall has been transformed with crystal chandeliers and ice sculptures. Five hundred guests are receiving their programs from white-gloved attendants.
All this extravagance for a union that will cement two families together. All this beauty to mask the ugliness beneath.
I look at my reflection in the mirror as the hairdresser adjusts my veil. I look like a stranger—a beautiful, empty-eyed doll dressed for display. By the time they finish with me I'll be picture-perfect, ready to walk down the aisle to a man who sees me as nothing but a business acquisition.
But the bride will never arrive at the church.
By the time they realize I'm gone, I'll be far, far away.
The hairdresser steps back to admire her work. "Perfect," she declares. "Absolutely perfect."
I smile politely. Yes, everything is perfect.
The veil is taken away as the makeup artist approaches with her arsenal of brushes and glitzy products. I close my eyes as she begins applying iridescent primer to my face, her touch light and impersonal.
"We're going for timeless elegance," she explains, though I never asked. "A soft contour to enhance your bone structure, nothing too trendy that will look dated in photos a couple of years from now."
I twist my mother's ring around my finger as she works. Would my mother have approved of this marriage? Or would she have seen through the facade like I do?
"Your father will be waiting for you at the cathedral steps when you arrive," the wedding planner announces, checking something off her clipboard. "He wanted to greet the guests personally before escorting you inside."
Of course he did. Antonio Lombardi, ever the gracious host, making sure every crime boss and corrupt politician feels welcomed before he sells his daughter to the highest bidder. I imagine him now, shaking hands with men whose fingernails are permanently stained with other people's blood, kissing the cheeks of wives dripping in diamonds bought with drug money.
"How lovely," I say, voice carefully neutral.
The makeup artist tilts my chin up to apply foundation. "Such perfect dewy skin. You must be so excited."
I force my lips into what I hope resembles a smile. "It's quite overwhelming."
What's overwhelming is knowing exactly how this charade will play out.
I've watched this performance play over my entire life. At every wedding, the same actors play their parts—smiling, toasting, dancing—all while deals are made in quiet corners and alliances shift like sand. They'll congratulate my father on securing such a powerful connection. They'll tell Raymond he's a lucky man. They'll tell me I look beautiful, as if that's all that matters.
Not one person will ask if this is what I want.
In our world marriage isn't about love—it's about mergers and acquisitions, with women as the currency of exchange. My father didn't raise a daughter; he cultivated an asset that has finally matured enough to be traded.
The wedding planner's phone rings and she steps away to answer it. I open my eyes briefly, catching my reflection. Half-finished, I already look like every other mafia bride I've ever seen—beautiful, vacant, resigned.
The makeup artist tilts my face toward the light, dabbing concealer under my eyes. "You look tired, Miss Lombardi. Pre-wedding jitters?"
I smile faintly. "Something like that."
What she doesn't know is that I haven't slept at all. My mind keeps replaying last night's dinner at Raymond's estate—the final ‘intimate gathering’ before our wedding. Raymond insisted on showing me his study after everyone left.