Chapter 2
Cesare
Istood at the altar with Piero beside me, my brother's presence the only warm thing in this cathedral of cold limestone and colder ambition.
"You good?" he murmured.
I didn't answer. I was always good. Emotion was a luxury men like me couldn't afford.
The church was packed—three hundred of New York's most dangerous people acting like they were here to celebrate out of the goodness of their hearts.
Politicians who took my money. Judges on my payroll.
Business associates whose hands were as bloody as mine.
All pretending this was about love instead of what it really was.
Warfare by other means.
This marriage would end a blood feud that had lasted three years. The Lombardos got my protection, my money, my connections. I got their political influence, their old money legitimacy, their East Coast shipping routes.
My father would have approved. If he hadn’t been gunned down six years ago in a "peace meeting" that turned into an ambush.
I flexed my left hand—the platinum wedding band caught the light. Heavy and binding, it felt like an omen. Or maybe fate.
Strategy. Control. Power.
There was no room for anything else.
The flowers were excessive—white roses everywhere, their scent cloying. The music swelled from an organ that probably cost more than most people's houses. Designer dresses, tailored suits, enough diamonds to fund a small country.
All of it performative bullshit.
I'd met Bianca Lombardo exactly once. Three months ago, at the contract signing.
She'd walked into my conference room like she owned it—polished to a shine, designer everything, perfectly manicured nails that drummed once on the mahogany table before she sat. Cold beauty and calculating eyes. She'd looked at me with appraisal, not fear.
I'd respected that.
"The terms are acceptable," she'd said, skimming the contract without actually reading it.
"You don't want to review it more carefully?"
Her smile was sharp. "I know what I'm getting. Unlimited money, social status, protection of the Monti name. You get a wife who won't embarrass you and an alliance with my father."
"And?"
"And heirs, eventually. Once we've established the parameters."
She'd signed without hesitation.
Perfect. A woman who understood the game. Who wouldn't expect love or devotion or any of the things I couldn't give. She'd stay out of my business, host dinners for my associates, look beautiful on my arm, and ask no questions about the blood that occasionally stained my hands.
In return, she'd have everything money could buy.
Fair exchange.
The music changed. The wedding march.
Guests rose in a rustle of silk and expensive fabric. I turned to watch my bride enter.
There—at the back of the church. A figure in white.
The veil was thick, obscuring her face entirely, but I could see her shape. Slender. Moving down the aisle… too slowly.
Something prickled at the base of my skull—instinct honed by years of survival in a world where hesitation meant death. The way she walked was uncertain, almost stumbling.
Bianca hadn't stumbled into anything in her life. I’d learned that from the background checks and surveillance.
"She okay?" Piero's voice was barely audible.
I didn't answer. Kept watching.
The young woman’s hands were shaking. Even from here, I could see it—the bouquet trembling, roses quivering.
Nerves, maybe. Even Bianca Lombardo might be nervous on her wedding day.
Except I didn't believe that.
The bride moved closer. Halfway down the aisle now. The veil obscured everything—face, expression, eyes.
My mind drifted.
Tonight. After all this ceremony and performance. My penthouse, ninety floors above Manhattan. The bedroom with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a city that belonged to me.
Finally alone with my new wife. One of the benefits of marrying Bianca Lombardo was that she would surely understand the… necessities of our relationship.
I'd been celibate for months—unusual for me, but necessary. Couldn't risk complications during the alliance negotiations. No mistresses who might become liabilities. No one-night stands that could be used as leverage. Just work. Strategy. Building toward this moment.
The abstinence had been strategic. It had also been torture.
Tonight, that ended.
I imagined it—in the car, I would pull her close, my lips brushing her ear.
“You’re mine now,” I’d murmur, my voice rough with a need I couldn’t quite place.
She would shiver, her breath hitching as I pressed her against the leather seat, my hand sliding up her thigh. Her dress was a barrier, but I’d tear it apart if I had to.
My fingers found the edge of her lace panties, damp with anticipation. I smirked, my thumb brushing her core, feeling her shudder.
“Wet for me already?” I whispered, my breath hot against her neck.
Her eyes closed, her lashes fluttering as she tried to pull away, but I held her firm.
“Cesare, please…” she whispered, her voice trembling.
“Don’t fight it, Bianca,” I growled, my lips trailing down her jawline. “You’re mine now. Mine to claim, mine to possess.”
At the penthouse, I didn’t wait for the elevator. I carried her, her legs wrapped around my waist, her lips hungry against mine.
The door slammed shut behind us, and I was relentless, backing her against the wall, my mouth devouring hers. Her hands tugged at my suit, desperate, and I let her, my jacket discarded, my shirt unbuttoned as those perfect, expensive nails scraped my chest.
I lifted her, her legs locking around me, her core grinding against my throbbing cock.
“Fuck, Bianca,” I groaned, my lips trailing down her throat, her collarbone, lower.
I kicked the door open to the bedroom, the city lights a dazzling backdrop as I laid her on the bed.
Her dress was a hindrance, and I ripped it, the fabric tearing with a satisfying sound.
Her perky breasts spilled free, her nipples tight and begging for my mouth. I took one, sucking hard, my tongue swirling as she arched, her moans filling the room. My hand slid between her legs, her pussy wet and hot, her clit throbbing under my touch.
“So fucking tight,” I muttered, my fingers sinking into her, her walls clenching around me.
I stripped, my suit discarded, my cock hard and ready.
She watched, her eyes dark with desire, her lips parted as I crawled onto the bed. I kissed her again, deep and demanding, my tongue tangling with hers as I positioned myself at her entrance.
“Ready for me?” I asked, my voice a low growl.
She nodded—
The music swelled louder, pulling me back.
The bride reached the altar.
I blinked, refocusing. My body was tense with arousal, but my face remained impassive. Perfect control. No one could see what I'd been thinking.
Father Lawrence greeted her with warm words I didn't hear, but the familiarity did nothing to calm her trembling. Strange. The ceremony began. Standard vows–love, honor, cherish—meaningless words people said before breaking every promise.
Father Lawrence continued, oblivious: "Do you, Bianca Lombardo, take this man—"
"I do."
Her voice was barely audible. Trembling. But she said it.
"And do you, Cesare Monti, take this woman—"
"I do." My voice was steady. Final.
My mind was still half in that fantasy, anticipating tonight. Imagining Bianca beneath me, around me, taking everything I gave her.
"I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."
Time to make this official.
I reached for the veil, lifted it.
The fabric fell back.
Everything stopped.
This was the wrong woman.
Not Bianca. The same face—nearly identical—but different.
My mind cataloged the differences in microseconds: the freckle on her right cheek that Bianca didn't have. Eyes a brighter green. Softer features, less makeup. Fuller bottom lip.
But more than physical differences—the energy was wrong.
This woman looked terrified. From what I’d gathered in the last few months, Bianca Lombardo was as cold and cunning as I was–so why wasn’t she standing before me? And who was this woman?
Her eyes were wide with fear, practically pleading. Her hands shook so badly the bouquet rustled audibly.
This was not the woman I'd agreed to marry. It could only be Bianca’s sister, the other Lombardo girl who had practically disappeared from society when she went away to college… But why? She clearly didn’t want to be here.
Options raced through my mind in the space of a heartbeat.
Expose this, stop the ceremony, and demand answers.
But three hundred witnesses sat behind me. Third row, left side—Viktor Kozlov. Russian mafia boss. My oldest enemy. He was watching with sharp eyes, waiting for any sign of weakness.
If I exposed this deception, showed I didn't even know my own bride, I looked like a fool. Weak. Uninformed. Not in control.
The Lombardo-Monti alliance would collapse publicly. The fragile peace would shatter.
Viktor would move on my territory within days. There would be war and blood in the streets. My men dead.
All because I couldn't control one simple wedding.
Decision made.
I leaned in close—to the guests, it looked romantic. Intimate.
My lips nearly touched her ear. My voice dropped to barely a whisper, cold as death:
"You're going to smile. You're going to kiss me when I tell you to. You will not cry. You will not run. You will play the devoted bride until we're alone."
She drew in a sharp breath. Her body went rigid.
"If you don't, people you love will die tonight. Your father. Your friends. Anyone you've ever cared about. I promise you this." I let the threat settle. "Do you understand?"
A tiny nod. Barely perceptible.
Good. She was smart enough to be afraid.
I pulled back, resumed position.
Tears gathered in her eyes—she blinked them back, following instructions. Smart girl.
I cupped her face—my hands were large enough to frame her entirely. She flinched at my touch.
The kiss was harder than I'd intended as I claimed her mouth, tasting fear and something else underneath.
Defiance.
Under the terror, there was defiance.
Interesting.
The guests applauded. Music played. We were married. I took her arm—my grip firm, proprietorial—and we walked back down the aisle as husband and wife.
She was shorter than I'd expected. Maybe 5'6" in heels, with a delicate build. But she wasn't collapsing despite obvious terror.
She was stronger than she looked.
But who was she? Why was she here instead of Bianca?
Viktor caught my eye as we passed. The Russian was smiling.
Did he know something?
Paranoia spiked. I kept my expression neutral, my grip on my new wife's arm unbreakable.
We exited into blinding sunlight and camera flashes. Photographers, guests, chaos.
I guided her to the waiting limousine—black, bulletproof, tinted windows. The door closed behind us, and the soundproofing cut off the world.
Silence. Heavy and dangerous. The limo pulled away from the church.
She pressed against the opposite door, as far from me as possible. Still in that ridiculous dress, veil pushed back, eyes wide.
Young. Scared. But not broken.
"Look at me."
She did. Green eyes met gray.
Up close, the differences from Bianca were obvious. This woman was softer. Less polished. More... real.
"Who are you?"
Her voice shook. "Paola Lombardo."
There was a beat of silence as I took her in, trying to fit together pieces of a puzzle that I’d been surprised with.
"I'm her twin. Bianca's twin."
Twin. That explained the identical face. Nothing else.
"Where is Bianca?"
"I don't know. She drugged me yesterday. I woke up this morning in a wedding dress. My father said I had to go through with it or people would die. That's all I know."
I studied her—her body language, eye contact, micro-expressions. Years of detecting lies told me that she was genuine. Terrified but genuine.
"Did you know about the marriage arrangement?"
"No. Not really… I knew Bianca was getting married, but we weren’t close… I'm not—I don't know anything about your world. I work at an art gallery. I teach painting to kids on weekends. I'm not supposed to be here."
An art gallery. How utterly pedestrian.
I sat back, thinking. This was either an elaborate setup or a colossal fuck-up. Hard to accidentally drug someone’s twin, though.
Either way, I was stuck with her now. The ceremony was done. The marriage couldn’t be annulled, or there would be questions from the other Dons–and from my enemies as well.
"What happens now?" Her voice interrupted my thoughts.
I looked at her—this stranger who was legally my wife—and said the only truth that mattered:
"Now you're mine. Whatever game your sister is playing, whatever reason your father had for sending you—none of that matters anymore. You're Cesare Monti's wife. That means you belong to me."
She went pale. "I don't belong to anyone."
I leaned forward, invading her space. My voice dropped to something deadly soft:
"You're wrong. You said 'I do' in front of three hundred witnesses. You wear my ring. Your name is legally mine. Everything about you belongs to me now."
I let that sink in. Then added: "Starting with tonight."
The color drained completely from her face. She understood.
The limo pulled up to the reception venue.
I straightened my tie, smoothing the silk with deliberate precision while my mind calculated what came next.
The weight of the situation pressed against my temples—a fake bride, a missing sister, a political shitstorm waiting to explode—but my face remained impassive.
Business. This was always business, even when wrapped in lace and lies.
I caught her reflection in the tinted window. She looked fragile, breakable. Scared.
Something stirred in my chest—not quite sympathy, but an awareness of the trap closing around both of us.
She hadn't asked for this. Neither had I.
But we were bound together now, legally, publicly, and by the end of tonight, physically.
The contract would be sealed in blood and consummation, just as tradition demanded.
I needed an heir and she needed protection from whatever had pushed her into my path.
The thought sent a dark satisfaction through me, followed immediately by something uncomfortably close to guilt.
I shoved both feelings down deep, where they couldn't interfere with what needed to be done.
I turned to face her fully, letting my gaze sweep over her trembling form with cold assessment. "Smile, wife," I said, my voice dropping into that commanding tone that made grown men flinch. "We have a performance to give."
The word wife tasted foreign on my tongue. Wrong. This woman was a stranger, a substitute, possibly a pawn in someone else's game.
But she was mine now.