The Don’s Fake Wife: His Real Bride Was My Sister Novel – For five years, I’ve worn his ring but never had a wedding. There were no blooms, no procession, no vows exchanged in front of famiglia or allies. Just a bloodless contract on paper, arranged by my husband Vance—leader of the Moretti family. He said we’d handle the ceremony once things were more stable and his position was secure. That moment never came.
Just last week, I worked up the nerve to ask again. “Vance,” I began, folding one of his tailored suits. “Maybe we could finally have a wedding this year?” I kept my voice detached, like it didn’t mean everything. “For our fifth anniversary. We could do it at the estate, with the family.” He didn’t look up from the encrypted laptop. “Why bother, Eileen? We’re bound by contract. Ceremonies are for politicians and civilians—people who need to prove something.” “But you promised,” I said softly. “You said once the territory disputes were settled—” “Enough.” His voice was a blade. “You’re thinking like a naive girl.
This isn’t a fairytale. It’s a business. Our marriage is already recognized by the Family. That’s all that matters.” As always, I let it go. But today was different. It was our fifth anniversary. Vance claimed he was swamped—a shipment was coming in, a deal with the Irish mob needed his attention. He didn’t have time for sentiment. I believed him. I always did. So I decided to make it special anyway. I’d cook his favorite meal—osso buco, the way his Sicilian grandmother taught me. I bought candles. I even picked up white lilies—the kind he noticed the first time he came to my family’s compound years ago.
I was nearly home, just cutting through the quiet streets near our protected zone, when I passed by the old municipal hall—a place the Families sometimes used for quiet, unofficial paperwork. I shouldn’t have looked. But something—instinct, intuition, the same sense that tells you when you’re being followed—made me stop.