My Cousin Stole My Wedding—So I Married the Mafia Don

My cousin Lydia and I got married on the same day—I was marrying Damian, the only son of the Castelli family and my boyfriend; she was marrying Luca, the young Don of the Savieri family. But on the wedding day, she stole the ring Damian's mother Aurelia had given me. The Castelli family had one rule: whoever wears that ring is recognized as the bride. So she was the one they took away. When I realized they'd picked up the wrong bride, I grabbed my wedding dress and rushed to the ceremony, and I dragged what she'd done out in front of everyone. Humiliated, she swallowed pills that night and killed herself. A month later, Damian and I held our wedding again. But that very night, he smashed our wedding photo and replaced it with a picture of him and Lydia. "You have no idea how much I loved her. If you hadn't humiliated her on purpose, she would never have died. You killed her—you killed my wife!" I stood frozen, tears streaming down my face. So he had loved Lydia all along. Marrying me was only ever about revenge. From then on, every night he took his desire out on me, rough and wordless, never letting me make a sound—and he never spoke a single word to me again. It went on until the fourth year of our marriage, when I gave birth to a daughter. He named her Elena, taught her to call Lydia's photograph "Mama," and told her over and over that I was the one who killed her "Mama." "Lydia and I decided long ago—our first daughter would be named Elena. You killed her, so you'll pay for it with your own child!" Watching the hatred grow in my daughter's eyes, I finally broke and shot myself. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day Lydia and I both got married. … "It's time. The car's waiting outside." My mother helped Lydia up, then turned to me, her voice soft: "Vivian, you're the older one. Let Lydia get in the car first, all right?" Through my veil, I watched Lydia walk to the dressing table and lift the ring out of its velvet box. Aurelia had placed it in my hand three days earlier. She'd said it belonged to every mistress of the Castelli family before her, and that I had to wear it on my wedding day. It was the only symbol of being Damian's wife. And Lydia slipped it onto her finger and walked out. I followed to the window. Six cars were parked out front, and Damian stood at the bottom of the steps. He saw the ring on the bride's hand. Without a moment's hesitation he held out the bouquet, reached up, and took her hand in his. Then he looked up at me. Through the glass, through a veil, there was no way he could make out my face. But his eyes held a hatred that was barely hidden and utterly absolute. In that instant, everything snapped into focus—he had come back too. He led Lydia into the car by the hand, didn't look back once, and barked at the driver: "Go." I watched the car shrink into the distance, and the memory of ten whole years of torment from my last life wouldn't let go of me. My daughter's eyes—the look that wished me dead—seemed to be right there in front of me. My nails dug into my palm until blood came. I gritted my teeth and said nothing. I kept the veil on and waited for the Savieri motorcade to arrive. Luca Savieri hadn't come himself. He was the youngest Don in New York's underworld. Not many men in this city could make the old families bow their heads. He was one of them. I'd heard that a while back he'd been ambushed at the docks, a bullet shattering his spine. Not only crippled—unable to have children. His temper had turned foul and unpredictable, and he'd tortured several mistresses to death with his own cruel methods. This wedding was just his way of handpicking a wife to lock away at home and grind down slowly, and everyone stayed far away from it. Lydia knew all of that. So she stole my ring and my husband, and sent me off to die in her place. But what surprised me was how polite the people who came for me were. And the Savieri family had sent twelve luxury cars—a full twelve. As the line of them drove through the streets, plenty of people marveled at the Savieri family's show of wealth. I climbed in pretending I knew nothing. The Savieri wedding was being held at San Niccolò Church. By the time the car pulled up, the Savieri family was already waiting on the steps. The man receiving guests opened the door. As I stepped out, a gust of wind caught my veil and lifted it, baring my face. The man who'd come to collect me gasped: "Miss Roca? How is it you? Wasn't the bride supposed to be Miss Valentí?" I put on a look of pure panic: "What? You picked up the wrong person? Lydia left first—who put her in the Castellis' car?" His face went pale: "The one who left first was taken away by Mr. Damian. It was Mrs. Roca who said the second one into a car was Miss Valentí." I tore off the veil and threw it on the ground: "Get the car ready. Take me to the Castelli wedding." By the time I reached St. Angelo's Church, the place was packed. The bride in white was standing at the altar, veiled, both hands in Damian's. The priest's voice carried out over the crowd: "Damian Castelli, do you take this woman to be your wife, to love and honor her from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?" Damian looked down at the face he couldn't see beneath the veil, his eyes full of love. "I do—" "Stop!" Every head in the church turned toward me as I walked in, wedding dress in hand, and the shock was plain on all of them: "What's Miss Roca doing here? Then who's that bride up there?" The bride's grip on Damian's hand went white-knuckled. I took a step forward. "Damian, you've married the wrong woman. I'm your bride." "Lydia, you got into the wrong car and married the wrong man. There's still time to switch back." Lydia lifted her veil, eyes red, and looked at me: "Vivian, I've already said the vows with him."