Virginian High School

The wedding gown didn’t fit.

Not because it was the wrong size—Leonardo Garlacci’s men had measured her with military precision last night—but because it wasn’t hers. Someone else had worn it. Someone whose faint perfume lingered like a whisper. Someone whose shadow still haunted the room.

Ariana Rossi stared at her reflection, pale and trembling. The silk sleeves slid over her arms like cold hands, the lace around her collarbone clinging as if it remembered the skin it once touched.

And the worst part?

She hadn’t chosen any of this.

Thirty-six hours ago, she’d been serving coffee in a tiny café, arguing with her father about money. Now, she was about to marry the most feared mafia don in Italy. The voice that had haunted her since that phone call rang again in her mind:

“Wear my ring… or die for your father’s sins.”

Her fingers clenched the edge of the vanity. Panic climbed her throat.

“I can’t do this,” she whispered.

The maid, Elena, adjusted the train of the gown without looking up. “You don’t have a choice, Signora.”

Signora. Wife.

Ariana’s chest tightened. A wife to a man she’d never met, a man whose name alone made grown men shake—Leonardo Garlacci.

They said he smiled and destroyed lives. They said he never loved, never trusted, never forgave. They said his hands were bloody and his kingdom vast.

And now, she was to be his bride.

“Elena,” Ariana whispered, voice cracking. “This dress… it wasn’t made for me, was it?”

The maid’s hands froze. A shadow passed across her eyes. “The Don requested this gown specifically.”

Ariana swallowed. “Whose dress was it?”

“It belonged to someone… who is no longer with us.”

Her stomach twisted. “She died?”

Elena’s shoulders jerked, ever so slightly. “Yes.”

“And I’m wearing her wedding dress?”

“The Don insisted,” the maid said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Ariana’s heart slammed. “Why?”

Elena’s fingers froze mid-veil adjustment. “Because… you remind him of her.”

The floor disappeared beneath Ariana’s feet. She gripped the vanity. “Remind him? How? I’ve never met him.”

Elena didn’t answer.

A cold shiver ran through Ariana. This wasn’t just a forced marriage. Something darker, something dangerous, was wrapped around it.

“Elena… did he… love her?”

The maid didn’t move.

Ariana’s pulse raced. “Did he… kill her?”

The veil pin dropped with a metallic ping. Elena’s face drained of color.

Before she could speak, two tall guards entered.

“It’s time,” one said.

Ariana’s heart pounded. They didn’t need to touch her; their presence said everything. One wrong move, one word, one hesitation—and her father’s fate would be sealed.

The private chapel gleamed like a jewel—golden chandeliers, carved pews, stained glass glowing. Every girl’s dream wedding. Except the bride.

Ariana froze. At the altar stood Leonardo Garlacci. Taller than expected, shoulders broad, dark hair swept back. His gray eyes cut through her like knives, powerful and cold.

There was no warmth. No kindness. Just ownership. Danger. Recognition.

He looked at her as if she were someone he thought dead.

Her fingers went numb.

“Come here,” he commanded.

Not a request.

Ariana stepped forward, shallow breaths betraying her fear. With each step, the chandeliers glinted over oil paintings of Garlacci men, their marble eyes watching, judging.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

“I’m marrying a man I don’t know,” she whispered.

“You’ll know me soon enough.”

The priest’s voice trembled, reciting vows Ariana barely heard. Her heartbeat drowned everything. Survival was the only choice.

“You may exchange vows,” the priest said.

Leonardo’s voice was soft, deliberate, and chilling:

“Ariana Rossi, you will obey me, honor me, and stay alive under my protection.”

“Stay alive?”

He slid a ring onto her finger. “You will not run. You will not hide. You will not doubt my word. And in return… I will keep you breathing.”

Ariana’s acceptance was a whisper, a surrender. Not love. Not choice. Survival.

He didn’t kiss her. He touched her chin—controlled, measured, intimate in a way that sent shivers down her spine.

“I didn’t marry you for affection,” he whispered. “I married you for a reason. You’ll discover it… soon enough.”

The ceremony was over, but something had begun unraveling inside her.

As the guards led her out, a portrait on the wall caught her eye. A young woman in her exact gown. The same eyes, jawline, lips.

“Elena… who is she?”

“That,” the maid whispered, “was Isabella Garlacci. His first wife.”

“She… died?”

“Yes. On her wedding night.”

Ariana’s pulse thundered as Leonardo extended his hand. Cold. Waiting. Unyielding.

She realized with terrifying clarity:

She wasn’t his first bride.