2

Talia

I'd always dreamt of my wedding day. It wouldn't be something extravagant. Just a quiet ceremony by the beach, barefoot in the sand with a handful of people I loved. Nothing like the charade I was being forced into now.

“You look beautiful,” Mother whispered. Her hands trembled slightly as she clasped the last piece of jewelry around my neck. I didn’t feel beautiful. The dress was too tight, made to hug Valentina’s slender frame, one she’d maintained with a strict diet. Each breath pressed against the boning of the corset until it felt like my lungs were being squeezed shut. She fussed over the lace, as if her nervous energy could fix what was wrong. As if tucking me into this gown could disguise that I was the wrong Russo bride.

In the mirror, I looked like a ghost. A pale, hollow-eyed parody of Valentina. Mother had darkened my hair with a temporary rinse and combed curls into it until my scalp throbbed, but I could still smell the chemical under the perfume sprayed to mask it.

I swallowed hard. Somewhere deep inside, a part of me wanted to disappear the way my sister had. But my body stayed frozen under my mother's trembling hands. Because even if I ran, there would be no escape for my family.

My small, foolish dream of leaving this world behind, of maybe attending college, and falling in love with someone who didn’t have blood on his hands had been crushed the moment Valentina fled. And worse than that… if the man waiting downstairs was anything like the rumours said, my life wouldn’t just be crushed. It would be consumed. They said Ares Marcelli came into this world mute. He killed his first man at ten, a tale that travelled far and wide because it was impossible to believe a child could watch a grown man burn to ash without flinching, and by sixteen, he’d already become his father's shadow.

My throat tightened. What would happen when he discovered the truth? Because even though I had never met Ares, I knew one thing for certain. He wasn't the kind of man that could be deceived.

“Mama,” I whispered, my voice trembling as much as her hands. “We can’t do this. Don’t you see? He’ll know the moment he looks at me. He’ll see I’m not Valentina.”

Her fingers stilled on the pearls at my throat. For a moment, a mix of fear and dread flashed in her eyes but it vanished as quickly as it came, smothered under years of obedience to my father, to this family, to this cursed life.

“You must,” she said firmly. “If not for us, do it for Fernando. If this marriage fails, do you think he'll survive?”

My little brother was just eight. He hadn't an idea of the life he was born into yet, but I doubted the Marcellis would spare him if everything fell apart.

“Surely there's another way. You’ve heard the stories, Mamma. He kills without blinking. If he realizes I’m not her—”

“Then pray he never does,” she cut in sharply. “Do you think I want this for you? That I dreamed of watching any of my daughters walk to the altar like a lamb to slaughter?”

Her voice broke then, eyes brimming with tears. “Valentina made her choice,” she whispered. “She ran, and now you must pay the price. That is what it means to be born into this family. We don’t get choices. We’re bound by duty.”

A knock jolted us both. Mother gasped and rushed to the door, smoothing her dress as if she could erase the panic lingering in the air.

Father stepped inside. His shirt had been changed, his tie knotted perfectly, though his cheeks appeared flushed. “Is she ready? They're getting impatient.”

Mother nodded quickly, her hands twisting together.

“One more thing…” Father said, his gaze pinning me. “From this moment forward, you are Valentina. You know enough about your sister’s life to pretend to be her, don’t you?”

I opened my mouth to protest, but the words caught in my throat. Before I could speak, his phone buzzed sharply. He muttered something under his breath and stepped out to answer, leaving the suffocating silence to settle back over the room.

My lips quivered, and a tear slipped down my cheek before I could stop it.

“No, no,” Mother scolded softly. “None of that. We can’t ruin the makeup.” She snatched the compact from the dresser, pressing the soft powder puff to my skin. Her hand lingered against my cheek. “Smile,” she whispered, though her own lips refused to obey. Then she reached for my hands, squeezing them tightly. “Dia leat, mo ghrá,” she murmured.

God be with you, my love.