Mafia Don’s Virgin Bride (Mafia Don’s Lies #6)

Chapter 1

Paola

Istood back from the canvas, paintbrush balanced between my fingers, studying the way morning light caught the edges of the half-finished piece. Three months of work, and I still couldn't get the shadows right.

The problem was the window. Or maybe it was me.

I'd been trying to capture the exact quality of early morning light as it spilled across my studio apartment—that brief golden hour when everything looked softer, more forgiving.

But something was off. The contrast too harsh. The warmth not quite there.

I dabbed more yellow ochre onto my palette, mixed it with a touch of white. Tried again. The brush moved across canvas in short, careful strokes.

Better. Maybe.

My phone buzzed on the table beside my easel. I ignored it, focused on the light. Saturday mornings were sacred—the only time I had to work on my own art instead of teaching other people's kids how to hold a brush properly.

Not that I minded teaching. I loved watching teenagers discover they could create something beautiful, loved the moment when a struggling student finally understood perspective or color theory. But this—my canvas, my vision, my quiet Saturday mornings—this was mine.

The phone buzzed again, insistent.

I sighed and set down the brush. Probably Anna canceling our afternoon coffee. She did that when she was drowning in student essays, which was basically always. Being an English teacher meant perpetual grading hell.

But the screen showed Bianca's name.

My twin. Who I hadn't really talked to in months, not since Father announced her engagement to some Monti heir. Some strategic alliance that had nothing to do with love and everything to do with power and territory and things I'd chosen to stay far away from.

Can you come over? Need to talk. Important.

I stared at the message. Bianca didn't do "need to talk." She did "handle everything herself" and "don't ask for help" and "I'm fine" even when she clearly wasn't.

Everything okay?

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Please? Just come. I need my sister.

The words made my chest tight. When was the last time Bianca had needed me? When was the last time she'd even wanted to see me?

We'd been close once. Inseparable, actually. Identical twins who shared everything—clothes, secrets, that weird twin telepathy people always asked about but which actually existed. We'd known what the other was thinking, feeling, wanting.

But that was before. Before Father's world pulled her in one direction and I'd deliberately run in the other way. Before she'd accepted her role in his organization and I'd chosen art school and teaching and a cramped studio apartment that was mine.

Before she'd gotten engaged to a man she'd never mentioned, never introduced me to, never even seemed to know beyond his last name.

Be there in 20.

I looked at my painting. The light would be gone in an hour anyway, and the angle just might be wrong; the magic moment had passed. I could come back to it tomorrow. Start fresh with new eyes.

Maybe Bianca wanted to talk about the wedding. What were the chances she was having second thoughts about marrying a stranger for Father's benefit? Perhaps she wanted my opinion, wanted someone to tell her she didn't have to do this.

Or maybe—and this was the hope I was afraid to acknowledge—maybe she just missed me. Missed us. Missed being sisters instead of strangers living parallel lives in the same city.

I cleaned my brushes quickly, changed out of my paint-stained t-shirt into something presentable. Jeans, a soft sweater Anna had given me for my birthday. Comfortable but not sloppy.

This was just my sister wanting to see me. We’d reconnect, possibly rebuild what we’d lost.

I grabbed my keys and headed out into the April morning, locking my apartment behind me.

The light was beautiful outside—that perfect spring clarity that made the city look almost magical. I'd be back soon. Back to my canvas and my quiet life and my autonomous, uncomplicated existence.

I had no idea I'd never set foot in that apartment again.

Bianca's apartment was everything mine wasn't.

Twenty-third floor of a luxury building in the Financial District.

Despite my infrequent visits, the doorman knew my name.

Floor-to-ceiling windows with views that probably cost more per month than my annual rent.

Modern furniture that looked expensive and uncomfortable.

Nothing warm, nothing personal, nothing that said "home. "

Father's money had bought this place. Father's connections had gotten her the job at his company that paid for the lifestyle. Father's will had orchestrated the engagement that would cement his alliance with the Monti family.

I'd chosen the opposite path. Student loans for art school and teaching gigs that barely covered rent. A studio apartment where I slept ten feet from where I painted. Independence that came with a side of constant financial stress.

But it was mine. My choices. My life.

The elevator opened directly into her apartment—that kind of money, that kind of building. I knocked anyway, some instinct telling me not to just walk in.

Bianca opened the door before I could knock twice. Like she'd been waiting by it.

"Paola. Hi." Her voice came out strained, thin. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, as if she'd been crying for hours.

"Bianca?" I stepped inside immediately, concern flooding through me. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I mean—" She closed the door behind me. Locked it. Her hands shook as she turned the deadbolt. "I just needed to see you."

"You're scaring me. What happened?"

I looked around her apartment, trying to understand. The curtains were drawn despite the beautiful morning light outside. All the blinds closed. The space felt dim, suffocating, wrong.

And there on the glass coffee table: champagne. An expensive-looking bottle, already opened. Two crystal flutes waiting.

"Champagne?" I gestured to it, confused. "At ten in the morning? Bianca, what are we celebrating?"

"I just—" Her voice cracked. "I wanted to have a drink with my sister. Is that so strange?"

Yes. Yes, it was strange. Bianca never day-drank. Bianca was controlled, composed, perfect. Father's ideal daughter in every way I'd never been.

But she looked like she was barely holding herself together.

"Talk to me." I moved toward her, reaching for her hand. "Please. You're crying. Something's obviously wrong—"

"Let's just have a drink first, okay?" She pulled away, moved to the coffee table with jerky, unnatural movements. "Then we'll talk."

She poured champagne into both glasses. Her hands trembled so badly liquid sloshed over the rim, pooling on the glass table.

"Bianca—"

"Please." She thrust a glass toward me, desperation clear in her red-rimmed eyes. "Just—just drink with me. Please, Paola."

I took the glass because I didn't know what else to do. My sister was falling apart in front of me, and I'd never seen her like this. Vulnerable. Desperate. Almost manic in her need for me to stay, to drink, to not ask questions.

"Okay," I said softly. "Okay. But then you tell me what's going on."

She nodded. Raised her own glass with a shaking hand. "To sisters."

"To sisters," I echoed, watching her carefully.

The champagne tasted slightly bitter. Not bad, exactly, just… off. I made a face. "When did you open this? It tastes—"

"It's fine. Just—just drink it." She was crying now. Silent tears streaming down her face, cutting through expensive makeup that was probably supposed to hide the fact that she'd been crying all morning.

"Bianca, what is going on—"

"I need you to know something first." Her voice broke completely. "I love you. You're my sister. My twin. Nothing changes that."

"Of course nothing changes that." I set the glass down—when had I finished it? I didn't remember drinking it all, but the crystal flute was empty. "But you're really freaking me out. What's—"

The room tilted.

Just slightly at first. Enough to make me blink, shake my head, and try to clear whatever was happening.

"I'm so sorry."

Bianca's voice came from far away now, even though she was right in front of me.

"I'm so, so sorry, Paola. I can't do it—I can't marry him—Father said you could—I had no choice—"

"What?" I tried to focus on her face, but she was blurring. The whole apartment was blurring. "Bianca, what did you—"

My legs wouldn't hold me. I reached for the back of the couch, missed, stumbled.

"Please forgive me." Bianca's hands caught me as I fell, lowering me to the couch. "Father will explain everything. He promised—he promised you'd understand—"

Strong hands caught me before I hit the floor. Not Bianca's; they were too large, too strong. Men's hands.

When had a man entered the apartment? Was there more than one? I couldn't turn my head to see, couldn't focus, couldn't think past the drug pulling me down into darkness.

"I'm sorry," Bianca said one last time. Her voice shattered, broken. "I'm so, so sorry, little sister."

Then: nothing.

My head felt like it had been stuffed with cotton and hit with a hammer. Repeatedly. I tried opening my eyes. Where—

Light stabbed through my skull like shards of broken glass.

I groaned and tried to roll over, but my body wouldn't cooperate. Everything felt heavy—limbs weighted down, thoughts moving through molasses. The silk sheets beneath me whispered against my skin, too smooth, too cold. Wrong.

My mouth tasted like something had died in it. Bitter and chemical. The kind of taste that made my stomach lurch and my throat close up.

I forced my eyes open. The ceiling above me swam into focus—the familiar fresco my mother had commissioned before she died. Cherubs and clouds. I was in my bedroom at the Lombardo estate.

But that didn't make sense. I hadn't lived here in years.