The Switch

Annalissa Hale

Today should have been my sister’s wedding. Instead, it feels like my execution. Each step down this aisle sounds like the click of a gun cocking behind my head.

The chapel is silent. Every pair of eyes is fixed on me as the music swells. My dress feels too tight because it isn’t mine. It was meant for my twin sister, who vanished minutes before her marriage to the most dangerous man in New York.

My pulse thrums with every step. And it isn’t the diamond-embedded dress strangling my breath.

It’s him.

Dante Romano.

The man who rules this city’s shadows like a king. At twenty nine, he’s the youngest Don NYC has seen in decades. Tattoos crawl from his wrists. Sculpted cheekbones, jaw line carved into a firm, decisive line. Muscular build that even the sleek tailoring of his black suit can’t hide.

He doesn’t just stand right there at the altar. He dominates the space.

His eyes are devoid of any warmth. He simply stares at me with the kind of patience a predator has when he knows the prey has nowhere left to run.

My knees wobble so badly I’m scared I’ll crumple right here in front of him. I force them forward anyway, one dragging step at a time.

I know I should run. But if I run, my family pays the price.

I finally force myself to stop in front of him. I peer at Dante Romano from under my lashes as the priest drones on and on. My train of thoughts soon drowns him out until Dante’s voice jolts through me.

“Skip to the end,” he orders the priest.

It’s only been five minutes. Shock ripples through the crowd, people murmur.

The priest is clearly taken aback, but he knows better than to argue. “To the vows?”

“To whatever the fuck is the important part.”

My face pales and I swallow hard.

The priest speaks again. “Do you, Clarissa Hale, take Dante Romano as your lawfully wedded husband?”

A lump claws its rapid way up my throat, making it hard for me to get the words out. That name isn’t mine. My gaze sweeps across the crowd and finds Mum and Dad standing among the sea of people.

Mum gives me that pleading look. Her lips tremble slightly and my stomach twists. I really need to do this.

I shift my gaze back to the man in front of me, biting my lower lip hard.

“I do.” My voice is barely above a whisper.

The priest turns. “And do you, Dante Romano…”

“I do,” he says. No hesitation. No mercy.

The priest signals someone to bring over the rings. I pick up the bigger one and slip it into his finger with trembling hands. Dante picks up the smaller one and does the same.

His eyes still haven't left mine. Did he notice it? That my fingers were trembling because I’m not the sister he was promised?

When the priest announces, “You may kiss the bride,” heat surges under my skin.

Dante doesn’t lean in right away. No, he takes his time, one hand sliding to the edge of my jaw, forcing me to tilt my face up. My pulse thunders. He studies me as his gaze sweeps over my mouth, then my eyes.

“Let them all watch.” His mouth crashes into mine, devouring me.

He tastes like smoke and scotch, making my stomach turn. His bruising grip on my chin keeps me in place as he strokes my lips with his before biting down on my lower lip, stretching the skin until pain explodes in my nerve endings.

If I flinch, will he taste the lie or the disgust curdling inside me?

With a smirk, he finally pulls back. My chest rattles from the inside. That wasn’t a kiss. It was a claim. He just stamped me as his property.

***

The reception is worse.

Gold chandeliers scatter light across mafia dons and politicians, women glittering in gowns. Not a single one of Dante’s relatives has shown. Their empty seats scream rebellion.

I try to slip past a table of wives, but one tilts her champagne glass toward me.

“Her?” she scoffs. The others smirk, skating her eyes over me like I’m a knockoff bag. “She’s underserving of the Don.”

Rumors had said his family never wanted Clarissa. Now, I feel it.

Dante’s hand never leaves mine as he guides me through the crowd. When it’s time for the first dance, he pulls me close with one palm splayed firmly against the small of my back.

My body stiffens, but his grip is so tight, leaving no room for resistance.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Should I take that as fear… or anticipation?”

“It’s not…” my voice cracks, betraying me before I can steady it. I force the rest out on a whisper. “I’m fine.”

The lie tastes like blood on my tongue.

As he twirls me, I hear a man’s low chuckle—“…if that rat doesn’t pay my Friday, his family will bleed.” The words lodge in my skull as Dante pulls me back against him.

I freeze. These people. They’re dangerous. And now, I’ve been forced into their world.

The rest of the reception blurs. I try to find Mum and Dad in the crowd because I know I need to talk to them before Dante Romano takes me away. I can’t pretend to be my sister forever. We have to think of a plan because eventually, the truth will come out.

But Dante’s hand remains at the small of my back for the rest of the night and I’m unable to leave his side.

At last, he pulls me away from the crowd. “Time to go, Mrs. Romano.”

My breath catches, shallow and ragged. We can’t just leave. As he grabs my wrist and pulls me towards the exit, I stop in my tracks. His head snaps back, gaze boring into mine. The fine hairs in my arm stand on end immediately.

“It’s…our party.” I stutter over every syllable, over the pulsing music. I take a deep breath again. “We can’t leave all these people here.”

Dante arches a brow, his grip tightening around my wrist. “Careful. I don’t repeat myself, Mrs. Romano.”

“No, I…”

He cuts in with a smile. “That’s what I thought.”

I clench my teeth. I want to spit in his face but my feet betray me, moving when he guides me out the door of the reception. Only a few people notice us leaving. Cold sweat breaks along my spine, trickling beneath the silk of my dress.

If I scream now, would someone save me? No. Not in his world.

Outside, he escorts me to the sleek black limo, opening the door. I clench my fists, taking one last glance at the reception hall before getting in the car.

The drive is in silence. I try to distract myself by staring out the tinted windows. But I’m hyper aware of Dante’s presence next to me.

I dare to take a glance at him. His jacket is unbuttoned, shirt collar loose with his gaze fixed straight ahead.

Then, without turning, he speaks.

“Silent already? That won’t do.” his strong hand rests casually on mine, brushing his thumb over my knuckle.

His touch burns, making my heart rate spike up again. “It’s been… a long day.”

“Relax.” his gaze finally slides toward me. “I don’t bite…unless you beg.”

My stomach lurches so violently I press a hand to it, terrified he might notice as I immediately look away. He made it sound like a promise, not a tease.

Soon, we arrive at the infamous Romano Mansion. Tall iron gates swing open at our approach. The mansion has a decor that reminds me of old European palaces. Sedate, but no less expensive and important. It’s the kind of place kings and queens from the Renaissance might’ve felt at home.

Any woman would have gasped at its beauty. I only see a gilded cage.

Dante and I step out of the car. I look around, noticing lots of turrets and terraces.The windows are arched and spotless. The lawns are cut evenly, bushes trimmed just so.

Dante’s hand wraps around mine again, steering me into the foyer. An orange-haired man is at the entrance with a tablet. His huge forehead reminds me of Tweety, if you bleached him and made him less cute.

“Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Romano.” he says, with a look that lingers too long.

Dante barely acknowledges him as he guides me into the mansion. Grand staircases, chandeliers dripping with crystal, marble floors echoing beneath my heels.

My chest tightens as he leads me up the stairs, down a long hallway, to a set of double doors.

When they open, every instinct screams at me to run, but my body won’t move.

The room is grand and drenched in candlelight. Red roses cover the bed in a sea of petals. Romantic for a bride. Horrific for an imposter.

My knees wobble.

Dante steps in behind me, close enough that the heat of his body seeps through my gown. His voice is low.

“Welcome home, Mrs. Romano.”

My throat tightens. The roses blurs together until the bed looks like it’s bleeding. My mind goes blank, reduced to a single thought:

He’s going to take me in that bed. And if he touches me, will he know I’m not her?