Substitute Bride: Taming The Masked Mafia Don

Cleo POV:

"You will marry Damien Valachi in Jalynn's place."

My father's-no, my adoptive father, Burdette Jennings's-voice cut through the thick, suffocating air of the study. It wasn't a request. It was a command, delivered with the casual authority of a man used to getting his way.

It had been a month since that hypocritical family dinner. This was the first time in a month that Burdette had spoken to me-telling me to marry a stranger.

Ever since they adopted me from the countryside, I had been living in a small, shabby hut on the edge of the estate, and I was only allowed into the main house when they needed to put on a show of family harmony to the outside world. Burdette's voice was restrained, but I had long seen through his contemptuous gaze. If they didn't need something from me, they would never have set foot here.

Behind Burdette, my sister, Jalynn, peeked out from behind her mother, Anita. A flicker of triumph, quickly masked by feigned concern, flashed in her eyes.

"Oh, Cleo," she simpered, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "For the family. You're so brave."

Anita stepped forward, her perfectly manicured hands reaching for mine. Her face was a mask of maternal love, a role she played with nauseating skill. "Cleo, darling. This is your duty. You know, your birth is nothing special. Marrying a Don is a far better match than you could ever hope for. An honor, really."

That wasn't an honor. It was a lie. What I knew was that Jalynn had given her heart to another man, and the Jenningses simply refused to let their precious daughter be wed to Damien-a crippled Don, and everyone knew it.

I had heard this performance a hundred times before. The saccharine tone, the painted concern, the way her eyes never quite reached mine-it was all a script she'd perfected for the sole purpose of her own convenience. But today, I refused to play my part.

I shifted my weight, just enough. Her fingers grazed empty air.

"You speak of charity, Anita, but we both know who's begging now. What makes you think I would gladly accept this marriage?"

The mask cracked. Her painted smile tightened into a snarl.

"You ungrateful whelp! We gave you food and clothes! We gave you a roof over your head! If it weren't for your pretty face, we would never have brought you back. Without us, you'd be rotting in some ditch by now!"

Anita's hand flew up, aimed for my cheek.

I caught her wrist.

It was a simple movement, clean and precise. But the strength behind it made her gasp. Her eyes widened, first in shock, then in pain, as my fingers dug into the delicate bones. The color drained from her face.

"Let go of me!" she shrieked, struggling. "How dare you!"

Jalynn stumbled back, her hip knocking against the heavy oak desk with a dull thud. She stared at me as if I'd grown a second head.

"Cleo!" Burdette's voice was a whip crack. "Release your mother."

I let go. Anita's arm dropped to her side as if it were made of lead. I flexed my fingers, dismissing the contact like brushing away a fly.

Ignoring her whimpering, I met Burdette's furious gaze. The air crackled with unspoken violence.

Then, I smiled. A cold, sharp thing.

"I'll marry him."

The tension in the room snapped. Relief washed over their faces, smug and self-satisfied. They thought they'd won.

"But not for the family," I continued, my voice low and even. "For the money."

Anita's eyes blazed with fury. "You want money? You think you've won something, you little bastard?" she spat, her voice trembling with rage. "Once you're married to that cripple, he'll break you. And when he does, don't expect anyone to come for you. You'll be forgotten, just like you always were. You were never part of this family-you were just a placeholder. A scapegoat. And when they're done with you, you'll be nothing."

I couldn't care less about her incessant whining-it's nothing but a mosquito's buzz to me.

I held up two fingers. "Twenty million dollars. Cash. Wired to my Swiss account."

I let the number hang in the air, a beautiful, obscene thing.

"This is the price for my life."

Burdette's face went from red to purple. A vein throbbed in his temple. "Are you insane? Who the hell do you think you are?"

"I'm the daughter you dragged back from the countryside to die in your place," I said, my voice dropping to a near whisper. I took a step closer, invading his personal space. The scent of his expensive, cloying cologne filled my nostrils. "And this life is worth exactly that much."

I leaned in, my voice so low only he could hear. "Or perhaps you'd prefer I tell the Valachi family that their intended bride, Miss Jalynn Jennings, has been warming another man's bed for the last six months?"

That was the kill shot.

His pupils contracted to pinpricks. He knew. Of course he knew. He just never imagined I would.

The blood drained from Burdette's face, leaving it a pasty, terrified white. Anita, who had been rubbing her wrist, froze, her eyes wide with a primal fear I recognized instantly. It was the fear of total ruin.

Burdette's gaze was locked on mine, searching, pleading, threatening. He saw nothing but a placid, frozen lake.

A long, suffocating silence stretched. The only sound was the frantic ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner, counting down the seconds of his crumbling authority.

"What... do you know?" he finally rasped, the words torn from his throat.

I shrugged, a casual gesture that belied the steel in my spine. "Enough to burn the Jennings name to the ground. So. Twenty million. Do we have a deal?"

Sweat beaded on his upper lip. He saw it then. The girl he'd left to rot in obscurity was gone. In her place stood something he couldn't control, couldn't predict, and couldn't afford to fight.

He closed his eyes, a shudder running through his expensive suit. When he opened them, they were filled with a toxic mix of humiliation and murder.

"Fine," he bit out. "I'll give it to you."

I knew what he was thinking. Let her have it. Once she's dead, it all comes back to me anyway.

Fools.

I turned my back on them, the performance over. I walked to the door, my steps measured and unhurried. My hand on the brass knob, I paused.

"The money needs to be in my account before the wedding tomorrow," I said, not bothering to look back. "If it's not, the whole world will know just how dirty the Jennings' laundry really is."

I opened the door and walked out, leaving the wreckage of their perfect little family behind me.

In the hallway, I heard Burdette's muffled voice on the phone, low and venomous.

"Get the twenty million ready... And yes. The plan remains the same."

I let the heavy door click shut, a sound like a tomb sealing.

Let them plan. They had no idea who they were dealing with.

Cleo POV:

I locked the door to the guest room, the cheap brass of the lock feeling flimsy in my hand. The room was decorated in cloying pastels, a saccharine prison designed to make a young lady feel cherished. It made my stomach turn.

From the false bottom of a worn leather suitcase, I pulled out a satellite phone. It was heavy, solid, and blessedly free of any Jennings sentimentality.

I dialed the number from memory. It connected on the first ring.

"Boss." Eddie's voice was crisp, professional.

"Get ready," I said, my voice low. "Twenty million dollars is coming your way tomorrow. I want it clean. No traces, no loose ends."

There was no surprise in his voice. No questions about where the money came from. Just calm competence. "What do you need me to do?"

"It'll come through a trust. They'll try to be clever. They won't be." I laid out the steps, the firewalls, the shell corporations. "And Eddie... I'm getting married. To Damien Valachi. I'll need you on standby."

A beat of silence. Then, a hint of concern crept into his tone. "Boss, the Don of the Valachi family... the rumors say he's a reaper. That his brides don't..."

"Rumors," I cut him off, my voice sharp, "are meant to be broken."

I ended the call and tossed the phone onto the frilly bedspread.

Burdette POV:

I was on the phone with my lawyer. My voice oozed smug confidence as I laid out the terms.

"A trust fund. Make the terms ironclad. The beneficiary has to be present, in person, to claim it. And she has to verify she's alive every month for the next year. Otherwise, the funds revert back to me."

The lawyer probably warned me it was complicated, but I just laughed. "Just do it. She won't live past tomorrow. The money will just take a little vacation in her account."

The next morning, I handed Cleo the documents and a pristine bank card myself. My smile was a grotesque parody of fatherly affection. "Your compensation, Cleo."

She took the folder, her eyes scanning the dense legal jargon. She didn't blink. Not once.

Outside, a man in a courier's uniform was waiting. Cleo handed him the folder and the card. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second. He nodded curtly and walked away.

I watched him go, a smirk playing on my lips. My plan was flawless.

Then my phone buzzed. A text from my bank.

Notification: The balance of your trust account is now $0.00.

I stared at it. My face went slack with disbelief, then contorted in pure rage. I jabbed at my phone, screaming at my lawyer, at my banker. The answer was the same. The funds had been legally transferred.

I'd been played. Utterly and completely.

With a roar of fury, I hurled my phone against the wall, where it shattered into a hundred useless pieces.

The wedding car was waiting. I stood in the foyer, trembling with rage, my face a blotchy red, as Cleo walked down the grand staircase. She wore a simple, elegant white dress. Her face was calm, her smile serene.

She paused at the bottom of the stairs, her eyes finding mine. She mouthed two words at me.

Thank you.

Then she turned and walked out the door.

Damien POV:

I sat in my wheelchair in the dark, opulent heart of the Valachi estate. The shadows clung to me like a second skin. Kyle O'Neil, my second-in-command, stood before me, his voice low and deferential.

"Don, the Jennings family made a last-minute change. Jalynn Jennings has been replaced by her older sister, Cleo Long. She was the Jennings family's adopted daughter, raised in the country."

I slowly turned the heavy signet ring on my finger. The silver mask covering half my face was impassive. "The reason."

"The story they're putting out is that the sister was jealous and schemed to take the marriage for herself. A social climber, desperate for Valachi power."

A soft, contemptuous sound escaped from behind the mask-not quite a laugh. She must be yet another of my so-called brother's lackeys.

"A pawn from Chairman Constantine is still a pawn, no matter the name."

I turned my head, the gray eyes visible through the mask's opening fixing on Kyle. They were devoid of any warmth.

"Proceed with the original plan. After the ceremony is over... handle her."

"Yes, Don."

Kyle bowed his head and retreated from the room, leaving me alone with the shadows and the rain. I watched the droplets trace paths down the glass, my reflection a distorted phantom in the dark pane.

I did not know the woman who was coming. I did not care to. She was a Jennings. And like all pawns, she would be removed from the board when her purpose was served.

Damien POV:

The black town car carrying my new bride pulled up to the main gate. From my vantage point in the west wing, I watched on the security monitor. Everything was proceeding as planned.

My house manager, Winston Reynolds, spoke into the intercom, his voice dripping with the precise amount of disdain I'd instructed.

"The Don's orders. The new Mrs. Valachi's vehicle is to use the service entrance."

A small, petty humiliation. A reminder of her place. She was not a guest of honor. She was cargo being delivered.

The driver hesitated. The car began to turn.

But then, the back door opened.

She stepped out. A splash of white against the gray, overcast day. She stood there for a moment, surveying the imposing black iron gates, the armed guards, the cameras watching her every move.

She looked... unimpressed.

Then she did something unexpected. She made a small, sharp gesture to a beat-up looking gardening truck parked down the road. A man got out, handed her a set of keys, and then melted back into the scenery.

My guards on the monitor exchanged amused glances. What was she doing? Going to haul her own luggage?

She walked to the truck, her simple dress fluttering in the wind. She pulled open the driver's side door and climbed in.

And then I saw it. The glint of reinforced steel. The thick, bulletproof glass. The heavy-duty chassis.

It wasn't a gardening truck.

It was an armored transport vehicle. Military grade.

The engine roared to life, a guttural, angry sound that vibrated through the security feed's microphone.

In the control room, Reynolds's voice cracked with panic over the comms. "Stop her! She's insane! Stop her!"

The guards raised their rifles. Warnings were shouted.

She ignored them all.

The truck surged forward, a steel beast unleashed. It hit the gates with a sound like a thunderclap. Metal screamed, groaned, and then buckled inward. The custom-made, half-a-million-dollar gates were torn from their hinges like they were made of tin foil.

Bullets sparked uselessly against the armored plating.

She didn't slow down. She drove right over the wreckage, tearing up the manicured lawn, and screeched to a halt at the bottom of the main steps.

Alarms blared across the estate.

Dozens of my men poured out from the main house and the grounds, surrounding the vehicle, their weapons all trained on the driver's side door.

The guests, drawn by the commotion, were crowding the windows, their faces a mixture of shock and disbelief.

Kyle burst into my room, his usual composure gone. "Don... she... she rammed the gates. With an armored truck."

I was in the middle of cleaning my favorite pistol. My hands stilled.

For the first time in a very, very long time, I felt something other than cold calculation or weary anger.

It was... interest.

A thin, dangerous smile touched my lips beneath the mask.

The driver's door of the armored truck swung open.

She jumped down. The white dress was now smudged with dirt and grease, but somehow, it only made her stand out more. A fallen angel in a warzone of her own making.

She ignored the dozens of guns pointed at her head. She ignored the blaring alarms and the shouting men.

Her eyes lifted, scanning the facade of the house, and I knew, with absolute certainty, she was looking for me.

She brushed a speck of dust from her skirt, a gesture of supreme, almost insulting, calm.

Then she raised her voice, clear and carrying over the chaos.

"The bride is here."

A collective intake of breath from my men. They were frozen, unsure how to react to this madness.

"Now," she continued, a sharp, mocking edge to her voice, "can we start my wedding?"

Reynolds came stumbling out of the house, his face pale, pointing a trembling finger at her, utterly speechless.

She looked right past him, her gaze still fixed on my window.

"Or," she called out, her voice a direct challenge, a slap in the face to my entire family, "is the Don of the Valachi family too scared to come out and meet his new wife?"