The Mafia Bride Who Said No

My fiancé was going to humiliate me at our own wedding.

I know because I heard him think it.

I'm Isabella Rossi — mafia heiress, future bride to Lorenzo Falcone, the golden boy of New York's underworld. Our marriage was supposed to unite two empires.

I also have a secret. I can read minds. But only when people want to use me, hurt me, or destroy me.

Lorenzo's thoughts had been silent for three years. I thought that meant he loved me.

The night before the wedding, I finally heard him. The mistress he'd planted in the crowd. The fake pregnancy reveal. The plan to humiliate me at the altar so he could play the victim — and steal my family's power in the chaos.

I didn't show up.

I took his money. Ruined his name. And left the country.

Isabella's POV

"Darling, this dress was made for you."

Lorenzo Falcone stood by the floor-to-ceiling window of the bridal boutique, whiskey in hand. Those brown eyes of his were warm enough to melt steel. He crossed the room and kissed my bare shoulder.

"You'll be the most beautiful bride on the entire East Coast. Hell, in the whole damn country."

"Thank you." I kept my eyes on my reflection.

The lace and diamonds covering every inch of the gown caught the light from the crystal chandeliers overhead, scattering tiny sparks across the walls.

As the eldest daughter of the Rossi family, this wedding was never just about two people. This was a union between two of New York's most powerful crime families — Falcone and Rossi. The alliance of the century.

I was about to turn and kiss him when a voice detonated inside my skull.

"This dress is way too heavy. When Sophia bursts in after the ring exchange tomorrow, Isabella won't be able to chase her down wearing this thing. Perfect. I'll just throw my hands up and tell the old men I can't abandon a woman carrying my child. The Rossis will swallow it whole — they can't afford the embarrassment."

Every drop of blood in my body went ice cold.

I stood perfectly still, eyes locked on Lorenzo in the mirror. His lips hadn't moved. That flawless, devastating smile was still right where he'd left it.

Once I was sure — dead sure — that those words had come from inside his head, I didn't move. Didn't breathe.

Not entirely because of the cheap, soap-opera bullshit he was planning. Mostly because of the other thing. The thing that knocked the floor out from under me.

I had just heard his thoughts.

I discovered the ability when I was sixteen. I could hear what people were thinking — but with one brutal catch: it only worked on people who didn't love me. People who wished me harm, or simply didn't give a damn.

Lorenzo and I had been together three years. Engaged for one. In all that time, whenever he was near me, my head stayed quiet. I'd told myself it was because he truly loved me. That he was the exception.

Turns out, he was just the delay.

"Hey — what's wrong, Bella?" Lorenzo noticed my stillness. He frowned. "You look pale."

He reached for me.

"Don't you DARE get sick right now. Tomorrow is the day Falcone swallows the Rossi docks whole. The wedding cannot go sideways. I just need to survive tomorrow — then I can set Sophia up in the Long Island house, nice and quiet."

His voice again. Grinding through my head like broken glass.

I swallowed hard, turned slightly, pretended to fix my earring. His hand found nothing but air.

"Oh, I'm fine." I turned back, smile locked and loaded. "Just the corset. It's too tight."

Growing up inside a world built on blood and betrayal, the first lesson they teach you is this: never let your enemy see you crack.

"Okay, good." He relaxed. He glanced at his watch. "Hey, I gotta go over tomorrow's security with my father. With all five family heads attending, we can't afford any gaps."

"And I need to check on Sophia. Poor stupid girl is probably falling apart right now. I have to make sure she cries hard enough tomorrow — put on enough of a show that everyone buys the whole 'couldn't fight fate' angle."

"Go." I kept smiling. "Don't keep him waiting."

The moment the heavy mahogany door clicked shut, my face dropped.

I stared at the woman in the mirror — pristine white lace, diamonds, the whole performance — and let out a slow, hollow laugh.

Who the HELL would've thought that this kind of trashy, basic-cable plotline — the secret girlfriend crashing the wedding — would happen to me? Isabella Rossi. The most feared heir in New York's underworld.

Lorenzo. Lorenzo. You're not just a liar. You're a goddamn idiot.

You actually thought you could walk all over the Rossi name — use our family's wedding as cover for your little reunion with some civilian girl?

I grabbed my phone off the sofa and pulled up a contact: Firecracker.

"Chloe." She picked up to a wall of thrashing metal. I talked right over it. "I need you to pull everything on a woman named Sophia. Three years of call records, medical records — and I specifically want any OB-GYN files from the last few months."

I paused.

"Oh, and book me a first-class seat on the ten a.m. flight to Geneva. Tomorrow."

The music cut out.

"Okay, hold on." Chloe's voice sharpened. "Ten a.m. tomorrow? Isabella, that's when you're supposed to be walking into St. Patrick's Cathedral. What the hell is going on?"

"I'm not losing my mind, Chloe." I poured two fingers of vodka. Threw it back.

It burned all the way down. Good. I needed to feel something that clean.

"I'm just finally thinking straight." I set it down. "He wants a scene?"

I smiled.

"Fine. Then let's give the man a show."