I Married the Don Instead of His Nephew

Marco stepped forward, positioning Carla behind him like some kind of shield, his face wearing this weird, expectant expression. But I didn't give him the reaction he was clearly hoping for. Minutes passed, and his smug little face started to falter. Then, he sneered, "Well, look at that. At least you've grown up a little. No screaming or throwing a fit like you used to." I didn't even dignify his jab with a response. As the gathering at the social club wound down and the made men drifted toward the doors, their drivers already idling at the curb, Marco stopped me in my tracks. "It's late, and these streets aren't safe for a Bellandi woman alone," he said. "I'll have you driven home." Since I wasn't about to walk through Falcone territory after dark, I didn't argue. I climbed into the back of the car, but Marco was faster than me. He blocked the front passenger seat and said, "You're sitting in the back." With that, he gently helped Carla into the front seat, like it was the most natural thing in the world. "I'm sorry, Adriana," Carla said with feigned concern. "Marco's just being protective. He's afraid I'll get car sick…" I didn't say anything. I just slid into the backseat, exactly where I'd planned to sit in the first place. The whole ride was just Marco and Carla talking and laughing like they were the only two people on the planet. At a red light, Carla teased Marco, asking him to help her with some lip balm. They exchanged this look, and I swear, the tension in the air thickened. Marco whipped his head toward the rearview mirror like he'd just remembered I was in the car. When his eyes met mine, and I pointedly stared out the window, trying to ignore them, his expression faltered for a moment. He smoothed back his hair with one hand, and his laugh came a beat too quick. For a moment, I saw raw anger flash across his face. Then, before I could even process it, he slammed his foot down on the gas pedal. When we pulled up to my place, Marco did something I really wasn't expecting. He grabbed my arm again. "Alright, enough with the act," he said, his tone dismissive. "Don't pretend like you don't care. It's beneath you." With that, he shoved a bracelet into my hand. "This is your engagement gift from me," he added, his voice dripping with condescension. "As long as you stay in line, I'll throw you a wedding. At least, on paper, the whole famiglia will think you're my wife." I glanced up at him, locking eyes. "And who exactly are you planning to marry? Carla?" Marco's face twisted with rage, but there was something almost smug underneath it, as if he was enjoying the chaos he was causing. "I knew it. You've been pretending the whole time," he sneered. "Listen up. Don't you dare breathe a word of this to anyone in either of our houses. What's between me and Carla is none of your business. She's kind and fragile, nothing like your petty little schemes." His voice dropped low, almost a warning. "If you ever hurt her, don't think for a second I'll still go through with this wedding." I couldn't help but laugh. He was too much of a coward to be honest with the Falcone elders, too afraid of what Don Lorenzo's blood would say. And yet somehow, I was the one painted as the villain in all of this. I didn't say another word. I just turned on my heel and walked into my building, the weight of it all pressing down on me. My thumb moved on its own, tracing the bare inside of my ring finger. The moment I stepped through the door, my phone buzzed in my hand. It was a video from Carla. I hesitated before opening it, but when I did, there they were. Marco, gently helping Carla fasten a necklace around her neck. The brand was unmistakable. And then it hit me: the bracelet Marco had just given me was the freebie that came with that very necklace. They were so close, their necks almost touching. And then, as the camera zoomed in, they kissed. The sound of it pierced the silence of the car. Sharp, intrusive, like a slap to my chest. [Adriana, Marco must have told you by now, right? After the wedding, he's going to marry me for real.] [Just so you know, without a real marriage, there's no claim to the inheritance. Guess it's my turn to become the richest woman in this city!] Carla… she'd been reborn too. It all clicked. Even though Marco and Carla had no connection in our past life, this time, just days into it, they were already acting like a couple. Doing all the things lovers do. It was as if they had an unspoken understanding. As if they were trying to pick up exactly where they left off. I lowered my gaze, memories of my past life flooding back. I thought about when I first married into the Falcone bloodline. Right after the wedding, it felt like everything changed. The Family's fronts started drawing partners out of the woodwork, locking down new territory and new earners left and right. The Falcone operations swelled, their tribute pouring in, and before long, they had risen to the most powerful house on the West Coast.

The old patriarch of the Falcone bloodline was convinced I was the one bringing good fortune to Marco. Strangely enough, the Family seemed to take to me more with each passing day. They treated me as one of their own, as though my blood ran the same as theirs. Despite Marco's cold indifference, I honestly thought I was happy. That was until I found the photos. One afternoon, my mother came into my room with word that changed everything. "Lorenzo, Marco's younger uncle, is returning from Sicily in five days," she said, smoothing a wrinkle from her dress that wasn't there. I froze, caught off guard. Lorenzo had never taken a wife in my past life, and I certainly hadn't expected our blood-alliance pact to move so quickly. I remembered Lorenzo only in fragments. One thing was clear, though. He had always been a good man, almost like an older brother to me. Binding myself to him now felt like it would bring me more peace than any other name the Families could have set against mine. I wasn't sure why, but the thought of him felt… right. The next morning, I was up early in my atelier, the legitimate front where Family money came in clean and my own work earned me what little standing a woman could claim. I'd been sketching my dream wedding dress since I studied couture, building the design line by line. But every gown I'd drawn back then had to suit Marco's taste. He'd never let me use a single element I loved. Everything had to be for him. But now? Now, I was free. Free to design the gown I loved, the one I'd actually want to wear, while binding myself to another man. A few days later, I set the final stitch and decided to step away for a coffee. That was when I saw Carla's post. In the photo, she was wearing my wedding dress. But it wasn't the gown I had envisioned. The gown had been cut in half and butchered into a scrap of a skirt. Worse still, she was grinding against Marco, their bodies pressed close as they danced. [Marco knew I needed something to wear, so he had this sent over just for me. Dio, I feel so spoiled.] I could hardly believe my eyes. My heart pounded in my chest as anger shot through me. Without a second thought, I went straight toward the fifth-floor ballroom, furious and ready to come apart. There they were. Carla and Marco, dancing like the world had vanished around them. Their bodies were pressed tight, swaying with an intensity that made it seem they were the only two souls left alive. "This is my wedding dress!" I shouted, unable to keep my fury in check. "How dare you give it to her? And ruin it like this?" Carla launched into her act at once, the helpless innocent. Her eyes flicked once to Marco, the only man in the room who could shield her, before the fake tears welled and her voice began to quiver. "Marco, did I do something wrong? Why is she so angry?" she whimpered, all soft and fragile. Marco, of course, stepped in front of her, blocking me from her like I was a threat to be answered. "Adriana, it's just a dress." His hand went up to smooth back his hair, and he laughed, a beat too quick. "Besides, you're still going to wear it for me at the wedding. So what's the problem? If it means that much to you, make another one." My blood boiled. "Who says I'm wearing it for you?" I shot back, my voice colder than I meant it to be. "This is the dress I'm wearing for my wedding." Marco scoffed and shook his head like I was some naive child. "Come on, Adriana, don't pretend. Your wedding is our wedding. I already agreed to take you. There's no need to keep up this act." That was it. I was done. I caught sight of the scissors on the nearby table, took them up, and walked straight toward Carla's dress. Without hesitation, I sliced the hem near her leg. "Marco," I said, my voice cold and sharp, every word carrying its own weight, "since you're so sure of yourself, watch closely. I won't settle for anything dirty. And I won't keep the dress stained." My thumb traced the bare inside of my ring finger, the ghost of a vow I would never repeat. Marco froze, his eyes wide. In the past, no matter how I'd behaved, playful or bratty, he'd never seen me like this. Never seen me so serious, so set on it. His instinct kicked in, and he reached for me, but before he could move, Carla's high voice cut through the tension. "Marco, my leg. I think I'm bleeding. It really hurts, but don't worry about me. Go to her. This is all my fault…" Marco hesitated, torn between me and her. His gaze moved from my retreating back to her, then back to me. After a long, suffocating pause, he sneered, contempt dripping from every word. "Don't trouble yourself over her. An insecure woman like her needs to be taught her place. Maybe this will give her something to reflect on." I couldn't answer. My body went numb, and my heart felt as if it had dropped into a void. I just stood there, watching as my wedding dress, the one I'd poured myself into, came apart in my hands. The delicate fabric unraveled, like everything else in my life. I wiped my eyes quietly, trying to hold myself together, but the weight of all I'd lost hit me like a freight train. All that work, all that hope… ruined in an instant.

If a single ruined wedding dress could teach me everything I needed to know about a man's blood, then maybe I should consider myself lucky. After all, I was finally seeing Marco for who he really was. No delusions left. Tonight was the Sunday sit-down where I'd officially meet Lorenzo Falcone. First impressions were everything in our world, and I knew I had to look my best. I didn't want to give anyone at that table a reason to question me, especially not after everything that had happened with Marco and Carla. I took a quick moment to compose myself and gave myself a little pep talk. When I felt ready, I headed down to the underground garage. And that's when I noticed it. Marco's Maserati, rocking gently back and forth in the far corner, away from the soldier posted at the elevator. Curiosity gnawed at me as I walked closer, but when I got close enough to see inside the half-open window, my stomach twisted. There they were. Marco and Carla. She was sprawled across his lap, her eyes half-lidded as she moved up and down. Even though I already knew Marco didn't love me, seeing it with my own eyes still hit like a punch to the chest. For a brief moment, our eyes met. There was a flash of panic in his gaze, but it was gone in a second, quickly replaced by that smirk of his. To taunt me even more, he gently swept Carla's hair aside and kissed her deeply, his movements slow and exaggerated. Carla's soft whimpers echoed off the concrete, loud and calculated. I turned away, keeping my face neutral, and climbed into my own car. I had more important things to focus on tonight. On the way to the Falcone estate, I stopped to pick up a gift, a high-end silk tie for Lorenzo. When I arrived, I was surprised to find Marco pulling through the gates at the same time, the guard waving him past without a word. He stepped out of his car, and from where I stood, I could clearly see used condoms scattered across the passenger seat. 'Real classy.' For a moment, his expression flickered with something like embarrassment when he saw me holding the gift bag. But that passed quickly, replaced by his usual smug look. "Bought me a gift?" he drawled, taking a step toward me. "Let me see it." I jerked the bag behind my back, pulling it out of his reach. "It's not for you," I said flatly. Marco snorted, blowing out a cloud of smoke like I wasn't even worth his time. "You saw what happened in the garage, right?" he said, his voice annoyingly casual. "I know you're obsessed with me, but I've told you before. This wedding is yours, but the pact under Omertà belongs to Carla. She's the one being slighted here." He leaned in a little closer, his arrogance growing. "It's perfectly normal for us to do what we just did. She's my wife-to-be by blood, after all. Oh, and the house I keep for us? She'll probably stop by once in a while for a night or two. You'll have to get used to it eventually. It's for your own good." I couldn't believe the audacity of this man. Even though I'd already decided I wouldn't marry him, I hadn't expected him to be so shameless, so blatant in flaunting his infidelity right in front of me. I turned to walk away, but, of course, he grabbed my arm again. "Listen," he said, his voice lowering, "my uncle will be at the table tonight. He carries weight on the Commission, so this is a big deal. I'm giving you a lot of respect by letting you sit there at all." I barely suppressed the urge to roll my eyes. "One more thing. If the old man and your father ask about the pact, just tell them it's already been sworn, alright? And about Carla's little injury this afternoon, you'll need to apologize to her after dinner. Don't forget. Until the wedding is final, I can still change my mind." With that, he strode through the doors of the Falcone estate like he hadn't just made a complete fool of himself. I let out a long breath, gripping the gift bag in my hand. Under it, my thumb moved on its own, tracing the bare inside of my ring finger, the ghost of a marriage I would not repeat. 'Fine,' I told myself. 'He'll find out soon enough who I'm really marrying.' Most of the Falcone patriarchs were already seated inside the dining hall, the air thick with cigar smoke and the faint trace of garlic from the kitchen. Lorenzo hadn't arrived yet, so I quietly slipped into a chair far from Marco, deliberately leaving the seat beside me empty for him. Marco noticed immediately and frowned, irritation crossing his face. Annoyed, he got up and moved to sit right next to me. "You're getting more dramatic these days," he muttered, eyeing the empty chair on my other side. "There's already a seat saved for you down there. Why are you trying to make a scene?" I ignored him. I was just about to tell him that the seat wasn't for him when a tall, commanding figure appeared in the doorway, and every conversation at the long table died at once. Lorenzo entered the dining hall, his tailored suit cut close to a frame that moved like contained violence. His strides were steady and unhurried, each one radiating a poise the whole room straightened to acknowledge.