The Mafia King's Pretend Wife

Elena De Luca always knew her life would end in blood.

She just hadn't expected to walk down the aisle to get there.

The heels of her Louboutin stilettos echoed like gunshots down the marbled corridor of the Palazzo De Luca, her father's mansion perched on the edge of the Amalfi Coast. Her mother's emerald necklace clung to her throat like a noose. Her spine was straight, her face a porcelain mask.

To anyone watching, she was the perfect mafia bride: elegant, composed, and silent.

Inside?

She was already burning.

Behind her, four guards flanked her like a funeral procession. Ahead, the chapel doors stood open, glowing with golden light.

Her wedding was waiting.

To a man she didn't love.

To a man who might kill her.

Dante Callahan - the Butcher King of the West Syndicate. American. Irish blood. Mafia royalty with a body count longer than a shipping manifest. The man who'd turned Chicago's underworld into an empire. He was ruthless. Cold. Calculating.

And now, he was her husband-to-be.

A political marriage, they'd said. To merge empires. To end the blood feud between the De Lucas and the Callahans.

But Elena wasn't a pawn.

She was a ticking bomb.

And this marriage would be her detonation.

Thirty Minutes Earlier

"Elena. Sit down."

Her father's voice was as sharp as the blade tucked beneath his suit jacket. Alessandro De Luca stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, a glass of Chianti in hand. The Mediterranean Sea glittered behind him like an insult.

Elena remained standing. "I said no."

Across the room, her mother, Isadora, flinched.

Alessandro turned slowly. "You don't get to say no."

"I'm not marrying a murderer."

"You are," he said calmly, "or I'll hand your mother over to the Marquette family myself."

Elena's mouth went dry.

That name. Marquette.

They weren't just enemies. They were butchers in designer suits. And they didn't take prisoners.

"You wouldn't," she whispered.

Her father shrugged. "Try me."

Isadora choked out, "Please, Elena. Just... survive. That's all that matters."

Elena looked at her mother, then back at the man who had sold her future like stock in a crumbling company.

"Why him?"

"Because Dante Callahan is the only one who can protect what's left of our name," Alessandro said. "Because the Marquettes are circling like wolves. Because your brother was too weak to live. And because you, my daughter, were born a De Luca. Not a dreamer. Not a romantic. A weapon."

Elena's fists clenched.

She wanted to scream.

She wanted to run.

But she didn't.

Because her mother's eyes were begging.

And because behind every trapped woman in this world was another woman who had already paid the price.

So Elena nodded.

And sealed her fate.

Present

The music swelled.

Organ. Latin choir. Bells.

Dante stood at the altar like a statue carved from vengeance. Black suit, black shirt, no tie. Not even the priest dared tell him how to dress.

His eyes locked onto hers as she stepped into the chapel.

Sharp. Unforgiving.

And hungry.

They didn't blink. Didn't smile.

Didn't pretend.

It wasn't love at first sight.

It was war at first glance.

Elena reached the altar. Alessandro stood between them, hands folded.

"By the power vested in this bloodline," he said, not bothering with the priest, "we now bind the houses of De Luca and Callahan."

Dante held out his hand.

Elena took it.

His skin was warm.

His grip was steel.

"Do you, Dante Callahan, take Elena De Luca as your wife, under the protection of the old codes and the law of blood?" Alessandro intoned.

"I do," Dante said, never looking away from her.

"Elena?"

She stared up at him.

Into the eyes of a killer.

And nodded.

"I do."

Alessandro stepped back. "Then the oath is sealed."

They kissed.

It wasn't gentle.

It was possession.

Later that night, the honeymoon suite was nothing like Elena imagined.

No rose petals. No soft jazz. No champagne.

Just silence, and the sound of the lock turning behind them.

She stood in the center of the room, still in her wedding gown. Dante tossed his jacket on the bed and loosened his cuffs.

"You're quiet," he said.

"I'm calculating."

He arched his brow. "Care to share?"

"How long before you decide to kill me like you did the Marquette heir?"

Dante turned. Slowly.

"I didn't kill him," he said. "I just made him wish I had."

"Comforting."

He walked toward her, unhurried. "You don't like me."

"I don't know you."

"That'll change."

"And if I don't want it to?"

"You made a vow."

Elena's jaw tightened. "Under duress."

Dante stopped just short of her. He smelled like smoke and leather and blood-soaked silk.

"Do you think I wanted this?" he said quietly. "A De Luca wife? Tied to the same bloodline that ordered the hit on my mother?"

Elena flinched.

Dante didn't miss it.

"Thought you'd know, since your father signed the papers."

"My mother had nothing to do with it," she said, voice sharp.

"And you?"

"I was sixteen."

"Sixteen is old enough to hold a gun."

She stared at him. "I didn't kill your mother."

He stared back. "And I haven't killed you. Yet."

Midnight

Elena couldn't sleep.

The suite was too cold. The sheets are too smooth. The man in the adjoining room was too dangerous.

She got up, barefoot, and wandered onto the balcony. The sea stretched endlessly before her.

Below, two armed guards paced the grounds.

Behind her, she felt him approach.

"You always walk around in silk and defiance?" Dante asked.

She didn't turn. "You always sneak up on your wife?"

"I prefer 'observe.'"

"Is that what this marriage is to you? A game of observation?"

"No. It's a power play."

She turned now. "Then here's your first lesson: I'm not a pawn."

Dante stepped closer. "You're a queen in the wrong castle."

"And you're a king with a throne built on bodies."

"Better than bones."

She tilted her head. "Not by much."

They stared at each other.

Something electric passed between them.

Not love.

Not yet.

But something more dangerous.

A recognition.

"I have rules," he said.

"So do I."

"You don't lie to me. You don't spy for your father. And you don't run."

Elena smirked. "You'll have to catch me first."

Dante smiled.

Not warm.

But real.

Three Days Later-Callahan Estate, Chicago

The private jet touched down at midnight. Elena stepped into her new kingdom with a spine of steel.

The Callahan Estate was a fortress wrapped in velvet.

Security at every exit. Marble halls, steel doors, and a staff that bowed without eye contact.

Dante's empire was efficient. Silent. Deadly.

And cold.

No family portraits. No laughter. Just the smell of power.

"You'll sleep in the west wing," Dante said, leading her down a private corridor. "You have the right to request security or deny it. Luca handles operations. You'll meet him tomorrow."

"And if I decide I want to leave?"

Dante paused.

"You're free to walk out the front door."

"And the sniper on the roof?"

"He's not as forgiving as I am."

"Good to know."

He opened the door to her suite.

Lavish. Clean. Empty.

Like her future.

"I don't want your silence," she said as he turned to go. "Or your threats."

He looked back. "Then what do you want, Elena?"

She didn't blink. "The truth."

He smiled faintly. "Be careful what you wish for, Mrs. Callahan."

And then he was gone.

Meanwhile-Unknown Location

A screen flickered.

Grainy security footage played on loop-Elena in her wedding gown, standing beside Dante. Accepting his kiss.

A man watched from a leather chair, cigarette smoke curling around him.

His face was hidden in shadow.

"Beautiful, isn't she?" A voice purred beside him.

Celeste Marquette stepped into the light, wearing red like war.

"She's more than that," the man murmured. "She's the key."

Celeste raised a brow. "You think she doesn't know?"

"She hasn't yet. But she will."

He stood, adjusting his ring.

"She's not a De Luca. Not truly. And once she learns the truth... she'll burn them all."

Celeste smiled.

And the screen went black.