He Thought I Was an Orphan, Until I Went Home

Luca Moretti brought Clara Bell into the bridal suite of our engagement party while I was touching up my lipstick.

His black jacket hung over one arm, his tie was loose, and he looked as if he had stepped away from a chore. Clara stood behind him in a white satin mini dress stained dark with red wine, her eyes wet.

"Anna," Luca said, as if he were asking for a glass of water, "Clara's dress is ruined. Let her wear your gown for a while."

My hand stopped around the lipstick tube.

The ivory gown hung behind me, fitted five separate times so the waist and neckline would sit exactly right. It wasn't my wedding dress, but it was the dress in which the Moretti family would present me as Luca's fiancee.

Maya stepped in front of me. "Luca, are you serious? This is Anna's engagement party. She hunted through half of Chicago for that dress."

Luca's gaze slid past her and landed on me.

I knew that look too well. For five years, whenever Clara stood beside him with red eyes and he needed me to give up a little more, he looked at me exactly like that. Not pleading. Not ordering. Just certain I would be sensible.

Clara lowered her head. "Anna, I'm so sorry. A server bumped into me."

Luca rubbed the bridge of his nose, already tired of my silence. "Everyone knows you're the guest of honor. You'd look beautiful in anything. It's Clara's first time at a formal family event. Don't make her feel small."

Maya gave a cold laugh. "So it's fine to make Anna feel small?"

Luca's face tightened. "This is a Moretti engagement party, not a street fight. Anna is going to be Donna someday. She needs to learn a Donna's grace."

Donna. The matriarch beside the Don. I used to think the word meant being chosen, protected, and respected at the highest table.

Now I understood what Luca meant by it: a woman polished enough to stand quietly in the corner while he handed her place to Clara.

I pressed my palm over Maya's hand and snapped the lipstick closed. "Let her wear it."

Luca's shoulders eased. He came close and ruffled my hair, the way he did when he thought I had finally behaved. "That's my girl. For the wedding, I'll fly in the best dress from Milan."

Then he left with Clara, one hand hovering at the small of her back as if she were the one he had promised to protect.

Maya dragged me to the end of the hall, anger bright in her eyes. "How much longer are you going to swallow this?"

I looked down at the spare black dress the staff had found for me. It pinched under one arm and sagged at the shoulder. In the mirror, I looked less like the bride-to-be than a woman attending her own funeral.

"I don't know," I said.

Her phone buzzed again. She shoved it into my hand. "Then look at what they're posting."

Tony, one of Luca's men, had uploaded a clip from the ballroom. Clara stood beside Luca in my gown while his crew raised their glasses around her.

The caption read: [The future Mrs. Moretti saved the night.]

Under it, the comments kept rolling in.

[She looks perfect next to Luca.]

[So this is the Moretti fiancee? Gorgeous.]

[Poor Anna, if she even matters tonight.]

No one corrected them. Luca didn't either.

Maya's voice shook. "Anna, they're letting her take your place in public."

I handed her phone back. The ache in my chest sank lower until it went numb.

But over five years, Luca had said the same thing in a hundred softer ways. I kept telling myself he was loyal, burdened, too used to taking responsibility for Clara. I told myself he didn't know I could hurt too.

Now I understood. He knew. He just believed I would stay.

I returned to the registration table. The guest book lay open, full of blessings from Moretti relatives and allied captains. My name barely appeared. Most of them wrote Luca, Moretti, future Don.

I took off the emerald engagement ring and placed it beside the guest book. It touched the table with a small, clean sound. Like something had finally landed.

Outside, the November wind cut through my thin black dress. Across the street, a row of Moretti SUVs waited.

I didn't take a Moretti car. I walked to the corner and dialed a secure number I hadn't called in years.

It rang twice. "Anna?" My father's low voice felt like home.

I looked back at the glowing hotel doors. "Papa, cancel the wedding. Don't come to Chicago."

Two seconds of silence. He didn't ask why. He didn't ask what Luca had done. He only asked, "Are you coming home?"

I closed my eyes. "Yes."