On the day of my wedding to the mafia godfather, Bianca—the orphaned daughter of my fiancé's mentor—blocked my way and forced a glass of hard liquor on me. "Drink this to honor the elders of the underworld, and big sister's wedding will go off without a hitch." I was severely allergic to alcohol and refused with a smile. To my surprise, Bianca's eyes instantly brimmed with tears. My fiancé Dante's smile vanished. He pressed the glass to my lips: "Stop faking jealousy and telling lies over something this trivial. Drink it, then apologize to Bianca right now." My brother pinned me down, and my best friend forced the liquor down my throat. Just like that, I suffocated to death on my fiancé's back. As a ghost, I could only watch as that vicious ward slapped my corpse and smothered the angry allergic rash spreading across my body under layer after layer of heavy foundation. I screamed myself hoarse trying to tell everyone I was already dead, but not a sound came from my throat. All I could do was watch, in an agony of dead silence, as the very people who had sworn to protect me for life blindly pushed me into the abyss. Just as Dante was about to lift my wedding veil— My soul circled coldly in the air above, my heart utterly still: This wedding was about to become a funeral. Chapter 1 On what should have been the proudest day of my life—the day I would be crowned the mafia's godmother—my billionaire fiancé pressed a lethal shot of grappa against my lips, while my own brother and my best friend pinned my arms down from either side. They hissed warnings in my ears: if I did not drink this poison to soothe that sniveling orphan, the two families would erupt into a street war before the vows could be spoken. The bridal suite at the Rossi estate was stifling, the air thick with a suffocating, unspoken tension. I stood in the center of the room in a custom black lace wedding gown—designed by Dante Cavallaro himself. He was the Godfather of the New York mafia, a cold-blooded tyrant who ruled the underworld with an iron fist—yet he had once spent months personally selecting pearls and sewing them onto the bodice of my gown one by one. But now his icy eyes were fixed on me, without a trace of warmth. Bianca stood barring the bedroom door. She was the orphaned daughter of Dante's late mentor, and in her hands she carried a silver tray bearing a small glass of high-proof Italian grappa. "Drink it," she demanded, her voice trembling with rehearsed piety. "You must drink it to honor our forebears of the underworld." It was an ancient tradition every bride was meant to follow. I stared at that clear liquid, and cold sweat instantly soaked the back of my neck. I was severely allergic to alcohol, yet every one of them stubbornly insisted it was nothing more than the itchy rash I'd had as a child. They believed I had long since outgrown it—and Dante clearly assumed my refusal was nothing but petty nitpicking, a deliberate stunt to humiliate the orphan girl under his protection. But even a single drop would make my throat swell shut. This was a fast-acting, lethal allergy. I looked at Dante, my heart slamming against my ribs. "Could I... have tea instead?" I begged softly. Bianca's shoulders slumped, her eyes brimmed with tears, and she let out a sob of injured innocence. "This is a slap in the face to my dead father!" she cried. "You're just using your status as a mafia princess to bully an orphan!" Dante took a step forward, and the dangerous pressure of a godfather filled the room. When it came to shielding his own, he lost all reason where his ward was concerned. He lifted the glass from the tray and pressed it directly to my mouth. "Stop being dramatic," he said, his tone brooking no argument. "Drink it, and apologize to Bianca." Fear seized my chest, and I shook my head desperately. "It will kill me," I told him, my voice shaking beyond recognition. My brother Lorenzo stepped up behind me. He was the second-in-command of our family. He seized my left arm with a grip that nearly crushed bone, and I gasped at the pain. "The dons are all waiting outside," he snapped through clenched teeth. "How is the entire Rossi family supposed to hold its head up over this petty jealousy?" Valentina moved to my right side. She was my closest friend, the girl I'd grown up with, my sworn sister—bound to me by a blood oath to protect each other for life. Moments earlier, Bianca had whispered to her that the tray held nothing stronger than Prosecco. She grabbed my right arm and wrenched it behind me without mercy. "That's enough. Stop acting like a spoiled princess," she said, rolling her eyes impatiently. "Bianca poured you low-alcohol Prosecco. It won't kill you." I fought with everything I had, twisting my body, trying to break free. "Please, just listen to me!" I begged. Valentina seized my jaw, her fingers digging hard into my cheeks, and forced my mouth open. Dante stood by with cold, imperious detachment, letting Valentina snatch the glass, watching without moving a muscle. Without a moment's hesitation, Valentina dumped the entire shot down my throat. The scalding liquid had barely touched my tongue before it slid down my throat like fire. Only then did they let go. I crumpled, my knees slamming into the thick carpet. The allergic reaction came fast, violent, and lethal. Within seconds, my airway swelled completely shut. I clawed at my own throat, fighting for air that would not come. My lungs burned as if I were burning in hell. Terrified, eyes bulging, I looked up at Dante and reached for him, silently pleading for help. Bianca was quick—she snatched up the heavy bridal veil and threw it over my head. In an instant, the heavy fabric dragged me into darkness. It cruelly hid my bulging eyes—and the angry red hives erupting across my neck. Lorenzo and Valentina seized my arms again and roughly hauled me up off the floor. My body made its last hopeless fight against suffocation, legs kicking wildly in the air. Lorenzo grunted in irritation and shoved my struggling body onto Dante's broad back. Dante reached back to hook my knees, adjusted my weight, and carried me out of the suite on his back. His stride was steady and powerful as he swept down the corridor. The extreme lack of oxygen drained the strength from my limbs; my desperate convulsions faded into weak, feeble spasms. The heavy fabric of Dante's suit and his rapid strides completely muffled my weakening struggles. My body jolted with his steps, and the world went black. My heart beat out its final, desperate rhythm in my chest, on the verge of failure. I tried to pat his shoulder, but my fingertips only slid feebly across his expensive jacket. My lungs stopped working entirely. The last wisp of oxygen in my brain burned away. My arms dropped limply to my sides—a heavy, lifeless shell slumped across the back of the man I loved. Then, suddenly, I felt a strange pull. In the next instant, I blinked and found myself floating at the ceiling, looking down at them. I was dead. My soul hovered above the corridor, fully severed from the body below. Dante walked out through the main doors carrying my corpse on his back and lowered my body, effortlessly, into the back seat of the lead armored SUV. He slid in beside me, took my stiff, ice-cold hand, and laced his warm fingers through mine. Feeling the bone-deep chill of my skin, he frowned slightly—then ordered the driver to turn the heat to maximum. Looking at my veiled, lifeless form slumped against the window, a mocking smile curled at the corner of his mouth. "Sulk at me all you like," he began, rambling on about our honeymoon in Switzerland, his voice laced with dark amusement, "but tonight, you will surrender to me." The car door was suddenly yanked open. Bianca stood outside, eyes wide, reciting an old Sicilian superstition: "It's a terrible omen for the bride and groom to ride in the same car before the vows!" She leaned in, roughly seized my arm, and coldly dragged my corpse out of the SUV. My body hit the pavement with a sickening thud. The black veil slipped slightly, exposing my chin. Bianca quickly climbed into the car, settled beside Dante, naturally took his arm, and told the driver to go. Dante did not so much as glance back. Trusting her completely, the lead vehicle drove off toward the cathedral, leaving a cloud of dust behind. Lorenzo and Valentina rushed to where my body lay. Lorenzo swore under his breath and hastily pulled the veil back over my face. They dragged my limp, heavy body across the concrete and shoved it into the back seat of the bridesmaid's SUV serving as our decoy. Lorenzo touched my ice-cold arm, and his brow knitted tight. He hesitated for a moment, then slowly reached out, preparing to lift the heavy veil and look at my face.

Valentina's hand shot out and smacked Lorenzo's fingers away from my veil with a sharp crack. The slap echoed through the tense, dead silence of the decoy SUV, piercing as a gunshot. She glared at my brother with the absolute authority of the underworld's oldest rule: "Only the groom may lift the bride's veil!" she snapped. She crossed her arms and looked down, cold and superior, at my lifeless body. "You're only sulking out here because Dante let Bianca ride in his car," she hissed, her words dripping with contempt. Lorenzo rubbed his stinging hand, his brow knotted tight, undisguised irritation and disgust creeping across his face. He bent close to my veiled face, his hot breath soaking into the heavy fabric. "You don't get to disrespect this family over a little wine," he barked. "Stop behaving like a spoiled child!" I drifted through that cramped, suffocating cabin. I screamed at them, hysterical. I screamed that I was dead. I screamed that they had killed me with their own hands. But not a sound came out. My phantom hands passed straight through Lorenzo's broad shoulder as if he were a wisp of smoke. All I could do was watch in agony—watch the brother who had once fought our enemies to keep me safe blindly push me into the abyss; watch the sworn sister who was closer than blood now defend the very person who had killed me. Valentina heaved a heavy sigh, and her tone softened just a little. She extended her little finger and hooked it toward my cold hand, limp on the leather seat. It was our childhood secret signal for making up—a silent offer of truce. But my hand did not move. It had gone iron-heavy in the stillness of death, utterly unresponsive. Valentina waited, aching, for three seconds. When I gave no response, that flicker of vulnerability shattered instantly, and her beautiful face twisted into a mask of fury. She screamed at my corpse, venomously reciting every sacrifice she had ever made for me. She shrieked accusations of how she had given up her freedom—how she had been forced to stay on these blood-soaked New York streets just to keep me company in my loneliness. Her rage finally boiled over, and she slammed her palm against the partition. "Stop the car!" she barked at the driver. "Pull over onto the emergency lane. Now!" The heavy armored SUV shuddered to a halt with a scream of brakes. Valentina lunged forward, tore the heavy veil aside with her perfectly manicured nails, and seized the thin silver chain around my neck—the chain holding the charm we had once prayed for together in a church. She yanked hard. The chain bit into my flesh and snapped. She flung the charm onto the floor mat and ground it mercilessly under her stiletto heel. With a sharp, brittle crack, the glass pendant shattered into glittering fragments. Her chest heaving, she spat at my veiled face. "We're done. From this day on, our sisterhood is severed forever!" she declared viciously. Then, without a backward glance, she stormed out of the car, slamming the heavy door behind her with a bang. Lorenzo let out an exhausted, heavy sigh, muttering under his breath about how stubborn and willful I was, how I never bowed my head to anyone. Deaf to my heartbroken wailing, he shook his head, pushed open his door, and abandoned me too. The syndicate bodyguard driving the decoy SUV watched them go with an expressionless face, saying nothing. He glanced at my slumped body in the rearview mirror, shook his head, and muttered a curse. "Fuck. These high-and-mighty mafia princesses. Such drama—nobody gets a moment's peace." He shifted back into gear, the armored car rumbled low, and he merged back into the river of highway traffic. The speed climbed rapidly, and the hot air blasting from the vents beat directly against my already cold, stiff, dead flesh. Suddenly the headlights caught a blur of movement—a wild cat darting desperately across the asphalt. On pure instinct, the driver slammed the brakes to the floor. The enormous tires shrieked deafeningly, skidding wildly across the road. The violent momentum flung my unsupported body forward. My head smashed into the back of the front passenger seat with a sickening, muffled thud. Under the impact, the heavy veil slid completely from my head, pooling in my lap like a spill of dark red silk. Cursing, the driver twisted around to check on me. But when his eyes fell on my fully exposed face, every sound died in his throat. My skin had turned a horrifying purple-blue, dark veins showing grotesquely beneath it. My lips were black. Great swaths of vivid red hives covered my swollen neck and cheeks. My half-open eyes were clouded, dull, and vacant, frozen emptily on nothing. The driver's breath caught, and every drop of color drained from his rough, hard face. Pure, instinctive terror overwhelmed his reason. He shoved the door open and stumbled out onto the highway, traffic roaring past on both sides. Like a madman, he waved his arms wildly at the oncoming cars, his scream tearing the night apart: "Something's wrong with the bride! Get out here, hurry!" Dante's lead SUV was only forty or fifty meters ahead. The instant the commotion reached him, the brake lights of Dante's car flared a glaring red. The massive SUV skidded violently, then slewed sideways across the road, arrogantly cutting off two full lanes. Dante shoved his door open and stepped into the cold night wind, his subordinate's terrified screams still ringing in his ears. In that instant, every trace of color left Dante's face. From his black, deep-set eyes burst pure, undisguised horror—an emotion the mafia godfather had never once shown in his life. Without a word, he tore across the cold asphalt in a dead sprint, running for the decoy car as if his life depended on it.

Bianca threw herself directly in front of Dante, blocking his path. She planted her body in the way of the decoy SUV, her trembling, frantic hands clutching his lapels. "It's a curse!" she screamed, invoking the old-country superstition at the top of her lungs. "If the groom sees the bride's face before he stands at the altar, it will end in blood!" Her grip on his suit suddenly tightened. "Dante, if you look at her now, your marriage will be soaked in blood!" Dante's chest heaved, the panic in his eyes plain to see. He grabbed her wrists, trying to shove her aside. But Bianca dissolved into hysterical sobs. "Please, don't gamble with your own future," she begged through her tears. "Let me go see what's wrong with her." Dante stared hard at the decoy car, his jaw clenched tight. In the end, he yielded to those calculating tears. He released her wrists and told her to go see what the driver was screaming about. I drifted above the highway like a ghost—which was exactly what I was—and watched him take that step back. Bitter memories flashed through my mind: the movie nights, the lingering dinner dates, even the fairytale night he proposed. Every time Bianca wielded weakness as a weapon, he abandoned me without hesitation. Today was no exception. Bianca climbed into the cramped, oppressive back seat of the decoy SUV. After closing the heavy door, she deliberately turned her back to the tinted windows, so that Dante, outside, could not read her expression. The moment she slipped into the shadows, the fake tears vanished from her face. Across that flawless visage crept a vicious, ugly smirk. She looked down at my face, livid with deathly cyanosis. Without a shred of pity, she raised her hand and delivered a hard slap across my lifeless cheek, the crack sharp and clear. Then she hit me again. I threw myself at her, desperate to shove my attacker away, desperate to scream for Dante, to beg him to look through that damned window just once. But my phantom hands passed uselessly through her body, unable to summon a fraction of force. Bianca pinched the soft flesh of my arm viciously, sneering down at me in a low, venomous voice. "Stop playing dead to get Dante's attention," she spat. She seized my chin and shook me hard. Suddenly, her movements froze, and terror flickered into her eyes. She had finally noticed the angry hives spreading like a plague across my neck and chest—and her fingertips had registered the cold, unnatural rigidity of my jaw. A horrible truth detonated in her mind: the allergy was real. I was dead. Real panic finally swallowed her, and she seized my corpse by the shoulders and shook it hard, as if to shake the truth away. Driven by cold-blooded, instinctive self-preservation, she yanked open her designer handbag and pulled out a bottle of heavy-coverage foundation and a blood-red lipstick. She smeared the foundation roughly over my neck and cheeks, frantic and erratic, trying to cover the horrifying rash. Then she took that vivid lipstick and painted my blackened, purple lips, burying the undeniable gray pallor of death completely. She gripped my stiffening shoulders, propped my heavy body upright against the window, and carefully draped the veil loosely around my hair to hide the details of my face. She lowered the window to a narrow sliver and looked out at Dante's tense face on the highway. She smiled gently and told him a towering lie to his face. "She passed out from the alcohol and is sleeping like a log," she said smoothly. "The driver just scared himself over a fainting spell, that's all." Dante let out a long, shaky breath, and the naked panic drained from his handsome face. He walked to the cracked window, pushed two fingers through the narrow gap, and pinched my swollen, powder-caked cheek hard. He must have felt the creepy cold, but his signature arrogance instantly rose from the ashes. He decided I was throwing a tantrum over being kept waiting—deliberately playing the high-and-mighty, pampered princess to punish him—and he sneered. "Then let her sleep. Wake her at the altar," he ordered Bianca. Lorenzo and Valentina sauntered back over. Hearing Bianca's watertight lie, both of them laughed in relief. "Infantile beyond belief," Lorenzo muttered, cursing me under his breath for staging such a spectacle on the highway. Valentina only rolled her eyes. "She's always like this," she sighed, then turned and walked back to her own car. One by one, they all returned to their vehicles. The convoy's engines roared back to life, weaving into a deafening mechanical thunder. Floating in that cramped back seat, nestling beside my own ghastly pale, heavily made-up corpse, I watched my last chance of survival slip away. I watched this ugly truth get buried alive by the very people who swore they loved me. A suffocating tsunami of despair crashed over me and tore my phantom soul into thousands of broken shards.