The Mafia's Wrong Woman

CHAPTER ONE

THE GIRL IN THE KITCHEN

Her eyes stayed glued to the sauce she was whisking, the copper pan held steady in one gloved hand, her dark curls swept under a net. Despite the heat pressing against her skin and the pressure bearing down on her spine, she looked calm.

Years in kitchens had taught Fortune Daquino to keep her head down and her spirit quieter. In places like this, palaces of excess masquerading as homes, being invisible was survival.

"Three lamb chops for Table Four, one halibut for the vegan client upstairs, and the truffle risotto for the mistress," called out Darien, the French executive chef who barely tolerated her.

"Risotto is almost done," Fortune answered coolly, stirring. "I'll handle the plating."

"You'll what?" he snapped, spinning on her. "You want to take credit for the mistress's plate?"

"She likes my plating. She complimented it last week." Fortune said softly.

Darien sneered, trying to match her tone. "That was luck."

But he didn't stop her. Because the truth was when it came to the food, no one could deny Fortune had magic in her fingers.

She ladled the rich, creamy risotto onto the plate, spreading it with a practiced swirl. Thinly shaved truffle followed, a whisper of gold dust, then a delicate drizzle of white wine reduction. Perfect.

She set the plate on the silver tray. The butler took it without a glance and disappeared toward the elevators.

The kitchen roared back into motion. But Fortune stood still for a second, staring at the empty plate in front of her as though it were a crystal ball.

Twenty three minutes later, the butler returned looking pale, nervous and alone.

Darien noticed him first. "Where's the tray?"

The butler swallowed hard. "Miss Emily says she is unwell. She's blaming the food."

"She what?" Darien asked sharply.

"She said the risotto made her ill. That it was sour. That it ruined her appetite. She's demanding someone be held accountable."

Darien's face turned red. Then he turned.

"Fortune."

Her blood chilled.

"She ate the whole plate," Fortune said, stunned. "She didn't even send it back. That dish was flawless..."

"You're dismissed."

"What?"

"You're fired. Immediately. Pack your things and leave."

"I did nothing wrong!" Fortune's voice rose just slightly but in a room full of eyes and ears, it was enough to paint her as hysterical.

Darien stepped toward her. "Do you think I'm going to argue with the daughter of the man who signs my paychecks? Miss Emily says the food was poison, you made it, yeah?"

"I did," Fortune said defiantly, shoulders squaring. "And there was nothing wrong with it. She's lying."

"You think I don't know that?" Darien hissed, low. "But I need this job. And so do you...except, now you've lost it."

Fortune knew Emily hated her. Ever since the day she tripped over her dog and blamed Fortune. Ever since she called her "kitchen scum" in front of two senators.

She wanted her gone. This was just the excuse.

"She's doing this on purpose," Fortune said, quieter now. "To humiliate me."

Darien gave a cold shrug. "Then consider yourself humiliated."

Tears burned at the corners of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She pulled off her apron, tossed it on the counter, and walked out. Not a single person stopped her.

Fortune stepped out into the night with a plastic container of leftover bread and her bus pass stuffed into the pocket of her jeans. The wind hit her skin like a slap. Her throat tightened as the Carter mansion glowed behind her, golden and untouchable.

She'd worked there for two years. Two years of late nights and brutal shifts. Of missing holidays, working through fevers, and biting her tongue every time Emily Carter pretended she didn't exist or worse, that she was furniture.

Now, she was nothing again.

Just a girl with a dream and no money. A chef with no kitchen or a house.

She sat on the curb, hugged the container of bread, and let her head fall forward.

The cool evening air prickled her skin, the night buzzed with the distant sounds of traffic, wind brushing over hedges.

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She stared at her scuffed sneakers, breaths coming slow and tight.

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Then it hit her, her backpack!

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Her heart dropped.

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It was still in the staff quarters, the tiny shared room behind the main kitchen. Her phone, ID, transit card, worn copy of The Silver Spoon cookbook, and what little cash she had left were all in that bag.

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"Shit," she muttered, rising abruptly to her feet. "What was I thinking?"

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Her fingers dug into her coat pocket for the spare keycard. It was still there, she hadn't yet turned it in.

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She took a deep breath and started back toward the rear service entrance, slipping through the side hedge, down the path where caterers and chauffeurs came and went unseen.

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The kitchen was quieter now, less chaos, more clinking, clean up mode. Lights were still on, but the tension had thinned.

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She bypassed the kitchen door and cut around to the staff wing, glancing over her shoulder as she did. Her shoes barely made a sound on the stone pathway.

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Inside the dim hallway, she could perceive the scent of bleach and lavender. She moved quickly, her heart pounding with every step. Her room was the third door on the left.

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She slid the keycard through the lock.

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A soft click and she slipped inside.

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The room was dark, just two narrow beds, thin linens, and lockers barely big enough for anything. Her backpack sat right where she'd left it, slouched against the foot of her bed like it had been waiting for her.

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She rushed forward and snatched it up, her fingers curling around the fraying strap with relief. Slinging it over one shoulder, she turned to leave but froze when she heard voices coming down the hall.

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That same voice from outside. Smooth, cold, amused.

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"You're sure she was alone?"

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"Positive. Walked out with nothing but a container of bread," answered someone else, maybe a staff, she wasn't sure This one didn't sound familiar. "Didn't cause a scene."

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"And the Carter girl?"

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"She's in her suite, prolly happy. Getting ready for the after party. She's taking forever to get dressed."

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The footsteps drew closer.

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Fortune backed toward the closet then slipped inside just as the door grated open.

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CHAPTER TWO

THE DRESS SHE DIED FOR

Emily Carter was not used to waiting. Not for drivers, not for chefs, and certainly not for stylists.

Yet here she was, alone in her suite, pacing in four inch Louboutins, furious and gleaming like a lioness ready to pounce.

The dress hung on the armoire like a sin she couldn't wait to commit.

She stopped to admire it for the hundredth time. Midnight black, velvet and sheer mesh, the fabric clung to curves that hadn't even touched it yet. The neckline plunged like a silent threat, a clean V that revealed the slope of her sternum and a hint of the swell below.

Tiny crystals scattered like stardust across the bodice, catching every flicker of light. The slit up the right leg climbed scandalously high, almost to the hipbone. It was more seduction than style and that was precisely the point.

Zeke Zee Armani would be at the after party.

Not just a name, a legend. The man people whispered about in glass corridors and diamond drenched clubs. Blood soaked money, warlord swagger, devil's grin. Mafia royalty.

And Emily wanted him.

Not in the petty, passing way she'd wanted rappers or heirs or politicians. This was different.

She imagined his hands on her hip, his mouth brushing her collarbone, his fingers sliding that slit higher. She smirked at her reflection and ran her hands down her bare arms, watching goosebumps bloom.

"You are the storm, baby," she whispered to herself. "And tonight, he's going to drown in you."

She turned again to the mirror and tilted her head, testing the angle that made her look the most lethal. Her blonde hair was blown into loose, tumbling waves. Skin bronzed to honey. Lips stained red like bitten cherries.

"Where the hell are they?" she muttered, grabbing her phone off the nightstand. No new messages. She rolled her eyes and tossed it down again.

A soft creak behind her made her whirl.

A woman stood in the doorway. Slender. Unsmiling. Dressed in black slacks and a silk blouse. Dark hair tucked behind one ear, a makeup case in hand.

"Finally!" Emily threw her hands up. "Took you long enough. Jesus. What do I pay you people for?"

The woman didn't respond. She stepped in slowly, eyes reading the room like she was taking stock of something more than just lighting.

Emily huffed. "Do you speak English, or is attitude included in the price now?"

Still nothing, the woman said nothing.

The woman approached her, heels silent on the carpet. She set the makeup case on the vanity and turned. Her eyes locked with Emily's in the mirror.

Emily frowned. "You're not the regular girl, where's Sienna? I hate you already."

Still no answer.

The woman was close now. Too close. She reached out, and before Emily could react, her fingers pressed gently against Emily's lips.

Shhh...

That was the last warning. She saw a flash of silver and what followed was a stinging, wet heat.

Emily gasped, a sick, sucking sound as the blade plunged into her neck. Not once. Twice. The second jab was deeper, crueler, as if it knew her bones. Her knees buckled instantly. Blood bloomed in furious red against her throat, spilling down her chest, seeping into the bra she hadn't yet removed.

Her hands flew up in instinct, trembling, trying to clutch at the wound. But she couldn't scream, couldn't beg and could barely breathe.

The woman pressed her mouth again with firm fingers, guiding her silently to the floor like one might lower a candle into water.

Emily's back hit the carpet with a thud. Her vision danced gold chandelier, blood speckled ceiling, velvet shadows twisting at the edges of her sight.

She was still, her mouth was still parted. Her eyes wide, frozen in that last flicker of disbelief.

The assassin crouched, checked her pulse, there was none.

She stood slowly, covered her nose with a handkerchief, and turned toward the mirrored vanity. Her own reflection stared back, cold and clinical. She unzipped her blouse sleeve, revealing a faint scar on her wrist, then reached into her jacket and pulled out a phone.

A few seconds passed before the call connected.

"She's done," the woman said simply.

A voice crackled on the other end, feminine, deep, amused. "Messy?"

"There's blood on the rug. She struggled, but not much. No screaming."

"Take her to the bathroom and leave her there, Poison will dispose her. Clean the scene. Burn the bedding, strip the cameras, change the scent profile. And for God's sake, don't forget her phone."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good girl."

The call ended.

She turned back to Emily's body.

Blood had soaked into the ivory carpet like spilled wine. It ran in crooked lines toward the bathroom tiles, painting a grotesque trail across Emily's pale ankle. Her fingers were curled, useless claws.

The woman gathered a towel and lifted Emily's limp form under the arms, dragging her across the suite. The body left a crimson smear along the floor, and her hair caught on the doorframe as she passed.

Inside the bathroom, the lights buzzed low. Marble counters, gilded taps, a claw foot bathtub still filled with cold lavender scented water, someone had started drawing a bath before all of this. Perfect.

She dumped the body in, watched the blood cloud the water, and reached into her pocket for a vial. A few drops of an oily blue liquid followed, the water darkened instantly, neutralizing the crimson stains.

She worked quickly now, pulling off Emily's heels, rings, earrings, and necklace. Everything went into a sealed pouch. The room had to be wiped of her presence like she never existed.

Twenty two minutes later, the suite was immaculate.

The makeup case was gone. So was the towel, the knife, and the phone. The dress hung exactly as before, untouched and perfect.

The woman stood by the door one last time, adjusting her collar, wiping down the handle. She took one final glance at the girl in the bathtub.

Emily floated just beneath the surface, face up, eyes closed, looking almost peaceful now. Like some tragic myth, a goddess drowned in her own vanity.

The woman switched off the lights and vanished into the hall.

CHAPTER THREE

BECOMING HER

Her heart galloped as she pressed herself against the marble wall outside the suite marked CARTER.

Fortune Daquino slipped through the hallway like a shadow stitched in silk.

She wasn't supposed to be here not now, not ever again. But she couldn't leave without telling Emily Carter what she really thought of her.

The audacity of making her swap rooms in the middle of the night like some pawn on a marble chessboard.

She adjusted the hood of her jacket, her fingers trembling slightly as she tapped the keycard she'd stolen. A soft green light flashed and the door opened.

The suite was dim, moody with soft sconces flickering against gold veined wallpaper. Expensive. Dramatic. So very Emily.

Fortune stepped inside cautiously, letting the door click shut behind her. "Emily?" she called out, her voice low but firm.

She expected music, laughter, or the sound of high heels pacing on marble. Instead, nothing. The air smelled faintly of lavender and burnt amber, like a luxury spa just cleaned.

She stepped further in, eyes darting round the room.

The dress Emily had planned to wear still hung pristine on the armoire, shimmering midnight black, sheer in scandalous places. It looked untouched. On the vanity, makeup brushes were lined like soldiers. Lipsticks. Lashes. Foundation trays. Not a smudge out of place.

But where was Emily?

Fortune stepped closer, arms crossed, narrowing her eyes. "Seriously, Carter, did you ditch to go seduce him early?" She muttered under her breath. "Is it King Arthur's son tonight or Michael Jackson?"

She moved to the bedroom. The bed was made, silky sheets stretched tight. No clothes, no mess, not even a spilled drink. It looked staged, like no one had ever slept here.

She made her way to the bathroom door, hesitated. Knocked once.

She heard nothing, not even a sound.

She opened it slowly. Cold light spilled over gleaming marble tiles and a claw foot tub filled halfway with still water. Strange. She stared for a moment longer. No sign of Emily.

Fortune backed out, baffled.

She sighed deeply then came a knock. She jumped. Her breath caught mid throat.

This time the knock came harder, a female voice followed. "Miss Carter? We're late. We need to begin styling. Your mother is not happy that we're yet to style."

Fortune froze. She rushed to the peephole. Three women stood outside. One of them, a tall, razor cheeked stylist in leopard print and gold chains, tapped her foot with practiced irritation.

"Sienna..." Fortune whispered. "No, no, no."

Panic bloomed like ice across her spine. She glanced once more around the room, it was empty. Emily was gone. Just...gone.

She must have left. Snuck out somehow.

That had to be it. Fortune told herself this over and over as her pulse climbed. If she told the stylists she wasn't Emily, they'd scream. Call security. She'd be dragged out in seconds and probably thrown in jail.

But what if...what if she just played along?

Just for tonight.

She eyed the dress. The makeup. The heels.

The party.

Her stomach twisted. "Just for tonight," she whispered. "Just long enough to get into the party."

She turned and headed for the bathroom again.

Inside, she locked the door. She took off her jacket, revealing her bare skin, smooth as rosewood. She rolled her neck and took a breath.

She placed her palm flat against the mirror, the glass shimmered faintly beneath her touch. A gentle pulse of heat rolled through her veins.

She closed her eyes and reached.

It was like fishing through silk. Pulling something from the bottom of herself. She found Emily's image, burned into memory, her high cheeks, glossy lips, arrogant tilt of her chin.

She dragged it upward, folding herself into it.

The morph began.

Her skin prickled, shivered, then shifted. Her shoulders narrowed. Her waist shrank. Her hips curved out wider, her breasts fuller. Her bones clicked, reshaping with a dull internal ache. Like being rewritten from the inside out.

Her nose sharpened. Lips inflated into that familiar cherry pout. Blonde curls spiraled from her scalp in cascading waves, falling around her collarbones. Her eyes burned sapphire blue.

She gasped softly, sharp and winded.

The process always stole her breath.

When she opened her eyes, Emily Carter stared back at her.

Perfect.

Indistinguishable.

But beneath the flawless face, it was still Fortune.

She tilted her head, practicing the smirk. Then the glare. Then the infamous Carter pout.

There was another knock, an impatient one.

"Miss Carter?" came Sienna's voice again, this time firmer. "We're opening the door. Your mother needs you at the after party."

Fortune grabbed a towel and stepped into the main room. Just as the lock clicked, she reached for the handle and swung it open.

Sienna raised an eyebrow, immediately followed by two assistants carrying garment bags and cases.

"You're late," Fortune said in her best Emily drawl. It came out smooth. Dismissive. Just rude enough.

Sienna blinked, then exhaled. "Well. She does speak. Let's move."

"Don't talk to me like that," Fortune snapped her head towards her. "Or I'll throw you out this very moment...and don't be blinking at me."

"I'm sorry ma'am." Sienna said, swallowing hard. "It won't happen again."

"It better not." Fortune stared at her. "Now get to work, silly."

The women bustled in like a fashion hurricane. Brushes, palettes, pins, and lashes were flying within seconds.

They sat Fortune down at the vanity and unzipped their weapons of transformation. Fingers tugged her hair, brushed her cheekbones, applied primer and powder and shimmer.

"How do you want the eyes?" one assistant asked.

"Smoky. Kill-a-man smoky," Sienna said without hesitation.

Fortune remained still, letting them work, her insides buzzing like hornets. She watched herself in the mirror, watched as they painted this false version of her.

"Are we going with the black velvet or the champagne satin?" asked the second assistant, holding up two hangers.

"The black," Fortune said quickly.

Sienna gave a sharp nod. "Good. The slit alone could start a war."

They zipped her into the dress. It fit like poured sin. Cool fabric hugged every inch of her. The slit rode high, dangerously high.

Everything was set, her heels, jewelry. Final spray of perfume...jasmine, vanilla, and power.

"You look," Sienna said, taking a step back, "dangerously beautiful."

Fortune met her own eyes in the mirror.

"Whatever."

The suite door opened again. "Miss Carter," a voice called. "Your car is waiting."

Fortune rose, her heels clicking across the marble. The stylists trailed her, still checking details, fluffing the hair, fixing the hem, touching up gloss.

Outside, a convoy waited.

Three black Range Rovers gleamed under the golden lights. Security personnel in sleek suits opened doors without comment. The lead bodyguard, a man with a bullet scar over one brow, nodded at her.

"Evening, Miss Carter."

Fortune nodded coolly.

She slid into the back seat, hands clutching her tiny purse like it contained a detonator. The car pulled into motion, part of a larger beast of power and privilege.

As the city lights blurred past the window, Fortune's breath caught in her throat.

She had become her.