My Sister Stole the Man I Was Supposed to Marry—So Fate Gave Me the City’s Scariest Mafia Boss Instead

I resented him for it.

Not because I wanted his attention, but because his indifference made me aware of my own desperate need to be noticed by someone who would not immediately ask what was wrong.

Arthur would have asked.

Then he would have explained why my answer was inconvenient.

My mother would have asked whether I had embarrassed the family.

Lydia would have cried until I apologized for making her cry.

This stranger simply sat beside me, drinking his liquor as if the world had never demanded an explanation from him.

I poured another glass.

“You look like someone died,” he observed.

“Someone did.”

His eyes shifted toward me.

“Who?”

“The woman who thought her fiancé was a decent human being.”

He considered that.

“Was she attractive?”

I stared at him.

“What?”

“The woman who died. Was she attractive?”

“She was an idiot.”

“That wasn't my question.”

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. It sounded strange, almost painful, as though I had forgotten how to use the muscles involved.

The stranger's mouth moved slightly.

Not quite a smile.

“There's still a pulse, then.”

I raised my glass.

“To disappointing discoveries.”

He touched his glass against mine.

“To surviving them.”

I drank.

The whiskey had begun to warm my stomach, and the room no longer seemed quite so hostile. The stranger remained perfectly composed. Even the dim light seemed reluctant to settle on his face.

“What do you do?” I asked.

“Business.”

“What kind?”

“The kind that requires discretion.”

“Tax fraud?”

“Sometimes.”

I nearly choked.

He watched me with an expression that suggested my reaction was the most interesting thing he had encountered all evening.

“You're joking.”

“Occasionally.”

“Do you have a name, Discreet Businessman?”

“Matteo.”

“Just Matteo?”

“That's what people call me.”

“People who like you?”

“People who know better.”

I should have recognized the warning in his voice.

Instead, I decided he was exactly the kind of man I needed that evening: someone with no interest in my family, no knowledge of my engagement, and absolutely no reason to tell me to behave sensibly.

“Matteo,” I repeated. “Would you like to destroy a wedding?”

He set his glass down.

“Whose wedding?”

“Mine.”

“You're the bride?”

“Not anymore, apparently.”

I explained the situation with the unflattering precision of a woman who had spent the last hour replaying every humiliating detail.

I told him about Arthur, the wallpaper, my sister's stolen camisole, and the three hundred jars of honey.

I even told him about the brass belt buckle.

I did not tell him that I had spent the last six months believing my sister's occasional visits were evidence that she wanted to rebuild our relationship.

That detail hurt too much.

Matteo listened without interrupting.

When I finished, he asked, “What do you want to happen?”

I blinked.

“Excuse me?”

“What do you want to happen to them?”

I expected him to offer sympathy or tell me that time healed everything.

Instead, he sounded as though he were discussing a business proposal.

“I want Arthur to understand what it feels like to lose something he thought belonged to him.”

“And your sister?”

I looked down at my hands.

“I want her to stop pretending she was ever the victim.”

Matteo nodded once.

“Reasonable.”

“Reasonable?”

“Revenge is often an expensive hobby. You should decide what outcome you're purchasing before you spend the money.”

I studied him.

“You really are in business.”

“Unfortunately.”

“What if I wanted something spectacular?”

“Such as?”

“A wedding.”

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“My wedding was supposed to be in three weeks. I could still get married. Somewhere beautiful. Somewhere expensive. Somewhere Arthur would hear about it.”

“To whom?”

I lifted my glass toward him.

“You.”

Silence settled between us.

Matteo looked at me for several seconds, and for the first time, I saw something beyond exhaustion in his face.

Calculation.

“You don't know anything about me.”

“I know you have a nice watch.”

“That is insufficient information for marriage.”

“I know you drink expensive whiskey in terrible bars.”

“Also insufficient.”

“And you have the face of a man who could make my ex-fiancé reconsider every decision he has ever made.”

His expression remained unchanged.

“That's the first sensible argument you've offered.”

I laughed again, this time more naturally.

“Is that a yes?”

“No.”

The answer landed with surprising force.

I had not expected him to agree. I had expected him to play along long enough to make the evening bearable.

“Fine,” I said. “You could at least pretend to consider it.”

“I have considered it.”

“And?”

“And I don't marry strangers.”

“Neither do I. Look how well that worked out.”

Matteo looked toward the bartender.

“Another bottle.”

The bartender brought it immediately.

Something about that bothered me. Not the obedience itself, but the absence of any hesitation. The bartender did not ask which bottle Matteo wanted. He selected one from beneath the counter, placed it in front of him, and retreated.

“You come here often?” I asked.

“No.”

“Then how does he know what you drink?”

“Perhaps he has excellent instincts.”

“Perhaps you look like someone who tips well.”

Matteo slid a folded bill across the bar.

The bartender collected it without counting.

I decided I was too drunk to investigate the economics of his drinking habits.

“So,” I said, leaning my elbows on the counter. “If you won't marry me, will you help me ruin Arthur's wedding?”

“You said it was your wedding.”

“It was. Now it's an administrative problem.”

“Do you want to humiliate him publicly?”

“Yes.”

“Expose his professional misconduct?”

I hesitated.

Arthur was an ambitious corporate attorney. His reputation was the foundation of his career. He could survive an angry former fiancée, but a scandal involving his clients might cost him everything.

I had no evidence of misconduct.

I had no desire to become the kind of person who invented it.

“No,” I admitted.

“Good.”

“Why?”

“Because you would eventually regret it.”

The certainty in his voice irritated me.

“You don't know me.”

“I know you haven't asked me to hurt him. You've asked me to make him watch you move on.”

The words struck closer than I liked.

I looked away.

Outside, rain began to fall against the windows.

For several minutes, neither of us spoke.

Then Matteo asked, “Where are you staying tonight?”

“My apartment.”

“The apartment you left?”

“Yes.”

“The one your fiancé occupies?”

“My former fiancé.”

“Does he have keys?”

I thought about the question.

Arthur had a set of keys. So did my mother, who had insisted that keeping them was practical in case of emergencies.

“Yes.”

Matteo's expression changed.

It was subtle, but something in his posture became alert.

“Do you have somewhere else to go?”

“I can get a hotel.”

“Can you afford one?”

The question was so blunt that I stared at him.

“I have a job.”

“That wasn't my question.”

“I have savings.”

“How much?”

“Enough to survive without being interrogated by a stranger.”

He accepted the rebuke without offense.

“Fair enough.”

He reached for his phone.

I watched him type a brief message.

“Are you arranging my murder?” I asked.

“If I were, I wouldn't tell you.”

“Comforting.”

He slipped the phone into his pocket.

“I've arranged a car. It will take you to a hotel. You can decide what to do tomorrow.”

I frowned.

“I didn't ask you to do that.”

“No. You asked me to marry you.”

“Which you rejected.”

“I'm beginning to regret the decision.”

The words were delivered so dryly that I almost missed the humor.

I smiled despite myself.

Then I remembered who I was.

A woman with a broken engagement, an empty bank account waiting for the wedding expenses to clear, and a sister who had probably already started telling everyone that I was unstable.

“I can't accept money from you.”

“Then don't.”

He placed a card on the bar.

A name was printed in silver letters.

Matteo De Luca.

No company name. No address. Just a telephone number beneath it.

“If you need help, call.”

“What kind of help?”

“The kind you need.”

It was an infuriating answer.

I turned the card over.

Nothing was written on the back.

“Are you some kind of criminal?”

Matteo held my gaze.

“Yes.”

I waited for the punch line.

It never arrived.

My laughter faded.

“Seriously?”

“Very.”

“Drug dealer?”

“No.”

“Hitman?”

“Not personally.”

I should have stood up and left.

Instead, I asked, “Then what are you?”

Matteo's eyes settled on mine.

“Someone you should forget you met.”

A cold sensation moved down my spine.

For the first time that evening, I noticed the two men near the pool table had stopped playing.

They were watching us.

One had a small scar beneath his left eye. The other stood with his hands clasped in front of him.

Neither looked like a man who had wandered into a bar to enjoy a quiet drink.

Matteo followed my gaze.

“Gentlemen,” he said.

Both men straightened.

“Mr. De Luca.”

The title changed the atmosphere.

Even the bartender stopped polishing his glass.

I looked at Matteo.

Then at the men.

Then back at Matteo.

“Oh.”

He appeared almost amused.

“Yes.”

“You're that kind of criminal.”

“One of several kinds.”

I swallowed.

“I think I should go.”

“That would be wise.”

The car arrived five minutes later.

Matteo walked me outside, where a black sedan waited beneath the flickering streetlight.

A driver opened the rear door.

I stopped before getting inside.

“Why are you helping me?”

He looked toward the rain.

“Because you asked for help.”

“People don't usually do things for free.”

“No,” he agreed. “They don't.”

“Then what do you want?”

His attention returned to me.

“Nothing tonight.”

The qualification frightened me more than a demand would have.

I climbed into the car.

Before the door closed, Matteo leaned down slightly.

“Nora.”

I froze.

I had not told him my name.

He noticed my expression.

“It was on the identification card sticking out of your purse.”

I looked down.

My employee badge had slipped halfway out of its pocket.

“Right.”

“Get some sleep.”

He straightened.

“And don't return to that apartment alone.”

The door closed.

As the car pulled away, I watched him through the rain-streaked window.

He stood beneath the streetlight, one hand in his pocket, looking less like a man who had just met a heartbroken stranger than a man watching the final minutes of a situation he had already calculated.

I did not know that Matteo De Luca controlled half the city's illegal gambling operations, had spent fifteen years building a criminal empire, and had once ordered a man to disappear for threatening someone under his protection.

I did not know that his name was spoken in police stations, courtrooms, and private dining rooms with equal measures of fear and resentment.

I knew only that he had listened.

And when the hotel receptionist handed me a key to a room I could not afford, I discovered something else.

Matteo had not paid for a room.

He had purchased the entire floor.

My phone vibrated.

A message from an unknown number appeared on the screen.

Sleep well, Nora. Tomorrow, we can discuss your wedding.

I stared at it for a long time.

Then I typed the question I should have asked in the bar.

Why me?

His response arrived less than a minute later.