Chapter 1 - She Took Her Sister’s Place at the Altar—Then the Mafia Boss Chose Her
The humidity in São Paulo clung to my skin like a second layer, thick and oppressive, even at 10:00 at night. I wiped the back of my hand across my forehead as I locked the door to my mother’s apartment, the sound of her labored breathing still echoing in my ears.
Her medication was running out again.
There were 3 more days, maybe 4 if I stretched it, and then I would be back to watching her suffer while I scrambled to find money that did not exist.
My phone buzzed in my pocket as I descended the narrow staircase, the concrete walls covered in graffiti that changed every week. I did not recognize the number, but something in my gut twisted as I answered.
“Deanna Pradati?”
The voice was male, American, with an accent that immediately reminded me of my father. The father I had not seen in 15 years. The father who had dumped my mother and me in Brazil like unwanted luggage and returned to his precious family in New York.
“Who’s asking?” I switched to English, though my Portuguese accent colored every word. I had learned English from American movies and tourists, not from the family that had abandoned me.
“My name is Carlo Benedetti. I’m calling on behalf of the Pradati family.” A pause followed. “Your sister is dead.”
The world tilted slightly.
Sister.
I had a half sister I had never met, born from my father’s first marriage to some mafia princess. Isabella. I had seen her face once in a magazine article about New York’s elite, all blonde perfection and designer clothes. Everything I was not.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said carefully, not feeling sorry at all.
What did I owe a family that had pretended I did not exist?
“There’s more.” Carlo’s voice took on a harder edge. “She was engaged to be married. The wedding was in 2 weeks. Her death has created complications for certain business arrangements. Your father has requested your immediate return to New York.”
I actually laughed, a sharp, bitter sound that made an old woman passing on the street glance at me nervously.
“My father? The man who sent exactly 0 birthday cards in 15 years wants me to drop everything and fly to New York? Tell him to go to hell.”
“Miss Pradati.” Carlo’s voice dropped into something colder and more dangerous. “Your mother’s medical care is expensive. The experimental treatment she needs, the one her insurance won’t cover, costs approximately $50,000 American per month.”
My blood turned to ice. “How do you know about that?”
“We know everything about you, Deanna. We know about the 3 jobs you work to keep her alive. We know about the loan sharks you’ve been avoiding in Jardins. We know you’re 2 months behind on rent and that your landlord is planning to evict you next week.” He paused, letting that sink in. “Come to New York. Meet with your father, and all of that goes away. Your mother gets the treatment she needs. Your debts disappear. You’ll want for nothing.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then your mother dies slowly and painfully while you watch. The choice is yours.”
The line went dead.
I stood there on that dirty São Paulo street, surrounded by the sounds of traffic and distant samba music, and felt the trap close around me. They had found my weakness, the 1 thing I would do anything to protect.
My mother. The woman who had sacrificed everything for me. The woman who had been cast aside by the Pradati family like trash.
Two days later, I was on a plane to New York, wearing the nicest clothes I owned: a simple black dress from a secondhand shop that probably cost less than the price of my ticket. I had said goodbye to my mother, promising her I would be back soon, knowing it was probably a lie.
Whatever the Pradatis wanted from me, it was not going to be a quick visit.
The first-class seat felt like an insult. I was surrounded by wealthy travelers who belonged in that world of luxury while I sat rigid and uncomfortable, my hands clenched in my lap. I had never been on a plane before. I had never left Brazil. Now I was flying toward a family that had spent my entire life pretending I did not exist.
When I landed at JFK, there was a man waiting with a sign bearing my name. He was built like a tank, with cold eyes that assessed me in 1 sweeping glance and found me wanting.
Welcome to the family, his expression seemed to say. You’re already a disappointment.
“I’m Marco,” he said, taking my single battered suitcase. “I work for Mr. Unaretti.”
“Who?”
The name meant nothing to me. Something that might have been amusement flickered across Marco’s face.
“You’ll meet him soon enough. Come.”
The car was a black Mercedes that probably cost more than every apartment in my building combined. Marco drove in silence through streets I had only seen in movies. The late September air was crisp and cool compared to São Paulo’s eternal summer. We headed north out of the city until we reached a sprawling estate that looked like something from a Godfather film.
“Where’s my father?” I asked as Marco opened my door.
“Inside with the others. They’re waiting for you.”
Others. Plural.
My stomach churned as I followed Marco through massive wooden doors into a foyer that could have fit my entire apartment. Everything screamed old money, old power, and old blood. This was the world my father had chosen over us. Over me.
Voices drifted from a room down the hall, speaking rapid Italian that I could not quite follow. My mother had taught me some, but not enough for this.
Marco pushed open a door, and 6 pairs of eyes turned to stare at me.
My father stood by a window, older than I remembered but still recognizable: tall, graying at the temples, with the same dark eyes I saw in the mirror every morning. Next to him stood an older woman dripping in jewelry, who had to be his wife, the one who had replaced my mother. Three other men I did not recognize stood in expensive suits, all watching me like I was a specimen under glass.
And in the corner, leaning against a bookshelf with his arms crossed and an expression of barely contained disdain, stood the most intimidating man I had ever seen.
He was tall, easily over 6 feet, with dark hair styled back from a face that could have been carved from marble. Sharp jaw. Straight nose. Eyes so dark they looked almost black. He wore his suit like armor, and even standing still, he radiated a kind of controlled violence that made every instinct I had scream danger.
“Deanna.” My father’s voice was careful, formal. “Thank you for coming.”
“I didn’t have much choice, did I?” I kept my Portuguese accent strong, refusing to soften it for his comfort. “You threatened my mother.”
“We offered you an opportunity,” one of the other men interjected. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” I looked at my father. “Why am I here, really?”
The intimidating man in the corner made a sound, something between a scoff and a laugh. When he spoke, his voice was deep and dark, laced with sarcasm.
“She doesn’t know. Cristo, you didn’t even tell her.”
“Tell me what?” I looked between them, feeling the trap tighten even though I still could not see its shape.
My father cleared his throat. “Isabella’s death has created certain complications. She was engaged to be married. That marriage was important for maintaining peace between families, for honoring old agreements.”
“Okay.” I still did not understand why that involved me.
“The agreement must be honored,” my father continued. “A Pradati daughter must marry as promised. Since Isabella is gone—”
“No.” The word escaped before I could stop it, before my brain had fully processed what he was saying. “No. Absolutely not. You cannot be serious.”
“Deadly serious,” the dangerous man said, pushing off from the bookshelf.
He moved with a predator’s grace, closing the distance between us until he stood close enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
“Hello, Deanna. I’m Dominic Unaretti. I was supposed to marry your sister. Now I’m going to marry you instead.”
His voice was flat and emotionless, as though he was discussing a business transaction.
With growing horror, I realized that was exactly what this was.
“Over my dead body,” I said, proud that my voice did not shake.
He smiled, but there was no warmth in it. “That can be arranged. Or you can marry me and your mother lives. Your choice.”
“Some choice.” I looked at my father. “This is why you brought me here? To sell me off like cattle?”
“To fulfill your family duty,” he replied. “Isabella would have done the same.”
“Isabella was raised for this.” My voice rose despite my efforts to stay calm. “I wasn’t. I don’t know anything about your world, about the mafia, about being some mob wife. I don’t even know you.”
“You’ll learn,” Dominic said simply. “The wedding is in 3 days. That gives you 72 hours to make your peace with your new reality.”
Three days.
I had been in New York for less than an hour, and my entire life was being ripped away from me. I looked around the room at the men in their expensive suits, at my father who had abandoned me, at the stepmother who looked at me with barely concealed contempt, and at Dominic Unaretti with his cold eyes and colder voice.
“And if I run?” I asked quietly.
“We’ll find you,” Dominic replied. “I always find what belongs to me. And make no mistake, Deanna. Whether you like it or not, you belong to me now. You became mine the moment your sister died.”
“I don’t belong to anyone,” I shot back, fury replacing fear. “I’m not property.”
“In this world,” he said, leaning closer, his voice dropping into something almost intimate despite the threat in his words, “everyone is property. The only question is who owns you. Would you rather it be me, with the resources to keep your mother alive, or would you prefer the loan sharks in São Paulo? I hear they’re not nearly as patient as I am.”
The reminder of my mother suffering in her bed thousands of miles away killed the rebellion burning in my chest.
He knew it too. I could see the satisfaction in his eyes as I deflated, as the fight drained out of me.
“3 days,” I whispered.
“3 days,” he confirmed.
Then, surprisingly, he reached out and caught my chin, tilting my face up to his. His touch was gentle but firm. Possessive.
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“Don’t look so tragic, piccola. Some women would kill for the life I’m offering you.”
“I’m not some women.”
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