She Was Having Tea Alone—Until the Mafia Boss’s Mother Whispered: Pretend You’re My Son’s Fiancée

Sophia Rossi sat alone at a linen-draped table near the back of the reception hall, cradling a delicate china cup of chamomile tea between her palms.

The wedding of her college friend Bianca Vitali glittered all around her.

Crystal chandeliers scattered golden light across marble floors. Laughter floated above the music of a live string quartet. Guests in couture gowns and tailored suits clinked glasses of prosecco, their conversations effortlessly weaving through money, legacy, and power.

Sophia felt invisible among them.

Her navy-blue dress—simple, elegant, but modest—marked her as an outsider in a room filled with Italian high society. Still, she had flown all the way to Tuscany for Bianca. She would have crossed oceans for her.

What Sophia didn’t know—what Bianca herself barely understood—was that she had married into a family whose wealth came with shadows.

Needing a moment to breathe, Sophia had retreated to a quiet corner by a marble pillar. She sipped her tea slowly, letting its warmth steady her nerves.

That’s when she noticed him.

Two tables away, a man sat alone with his own cup of tea.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a midnight-black suit that looked less like fashion and more like armor. His face was striking—sharply sculpted, unreadable. His eyes scanned the room with controlled vigilance, as though danger were something he expected rather than feared.

Unlike the other guests, he wasn’t laughing.

He was watching.

Sophia wondered who he was. A relative of the groom, perhaps. Or one of Bianca’s elusive older brothers she’d heard about but never met.

She had just lifted her cup again when someone slipped into the chair beside her.

Sophia startled, nearly spilling her tea.

“Easy, cara.”

The voice was smooth, cultured, and edged with authority.

Sophia turned to find Signora Juliana Vitali, Bianca’s mother, seated far too close. The elegant woman wore champagne-colored lace, her dark hair streaked with silver at the temples, her posture flawless.

Her smile was polite.

Her eyes were not.

Before Sophia could speak, Juliana leaned in, her perfume expensive and her whisper urgent.

“Pretend you’re my son’s fiancée.”

Sophia blinked.

“I—what?”

Juliana’s manicured fingers closed gently but firmly around Sophia’s wrist beneath the table.

“Please,” she hissed softly. “It’s an emergency. Just for tonight. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t vital.”

Sophia’s heart slammed against her ribs.

Her gaze flew back to the man in the black suit.

He had set his cup down.

And he was watching them now.

“That’s him,” Juliana murmured. “My son. Luca Vitali.”

Sophia swallowed hard. Bianca had mentioned Luca—private, dangerous, unmarried despite endless pressure. No one had ever said he was engaged.

“Who’s coming?” Sophia whispered.

Juliana’s breath hitched. “Don Marello Greco.”

The name alone sent a chill through Sophia.

An older man in an ivory suit was crossing the hall, flanked by associates. Laughter dimmed in his wake. Smiles tightened. Power moved with him like a shadow.

“If he learns Luca isn’t taken,” Juliana whispered, “he’ll force an alliance. Or worse.”

Sophia’s instincts screamed to run.

But Juliana’s fear was real.

Sophia nodded once. “All right.”

Relief flooded Juliana’s face. She stood at once, looping an arm through Sophia’s and drawing her up just as Don Greco arrived.

“My dear Juliana,” Greco greeted smoothly, kissing the air beside her cheeks. His eyes slid to Sophia. “And who is this?”

Juliana beamed. “Sophia Rossi. My son Luca’s fiancée.”

Greco’s gaze sharpened.

“Fiancée?” he echoed.

Before Sophia could falter, a calm voice cut in.

“Don Greco.”

Sophia turned—and Luca was suddenly beside her.

Up close, he was even more imposing. Steel-gray eyes. Controlled power. A man used to command.

He slid an arm around Sophia’s waist, pulling her flush against him.

“My fiancée,” he confirmed coolly.

Sophia’s breath caught—but she leaned into him, playing her part.

Greco studied them, thin smile unbroken.

“Congratulations,” he said at last. “You surprise me, Luca.”

“I prefer choosing my own future,” Luca replied.

A dangerous beat passed.

Then Greco nodded. “Enjoy your evening.”

Only when he walked away did Luca release her—slowly.

“That was reckless,” he murmured.

“So was cornering me with a crime lord,” Sophia shot back, trembling.

Their eyes locked.

Something shifted.

And the night was only beginning.

Part 2 — The Toast That Turned the Wedding Into a Bloodbath

The music softened.

Glasses chimed.

And somewhere deep inside Sophia Rossi’s chest, dread bloomed like a bruise.

Luca Vitali kept his arm around her waist as if she were precious—or fragile—or both. To anyone watching, they looked like an engaged couple stealing a quiet moment at a wedding. Only Sophia felt the tension in his body, coiled and ready, like a blade waiting to be drawn.

“Stay close,” Luca murmured without moving his lips.
“Always,” Sophia whispered back, though fear prickled along her spine.

Across the hall, Don Marello Greco lifted his glass, laughing easily with a cluster of men whose smiles never reached their eyes. Power hummed around him—old, cruel power. The kind that didn’t need to shout.

Sophia leaned closer to Luca. “He’s still watching us.”

“I know,” Luca said. “That’s why this lie can’t break.”

The master of ceremonies stepped up to the microphone.

“Signore e signori,” he announced cheerfully, “it’s time for the father of the bride’s toast!”

Applause rippled through the hall.

Sophia’s stomach dropped.

Luca stiffened.

That’s when she saw it.

The Crack in the Celebration

The lights dimmed—just slightly.

Not enough for darkness.

Enough for shadows.

Sophia’s eyes swept the room instinctively, no longer seeing chandeliers or silk gowns, but angles, exits, blind spots.

Near the dais, a waiter stepped forward.

He wasn’t serving.

His hand was inside his jacket.

Sophia’s breath caught.

“Luca,” she whispered urgently. “Behind your father.”

Luca turned—just as the room plunged into full darkness.

A silenced gunshot cut through the music.

Pfft.

Glass shattered.

Someone screamed.

The projection screen flared to life with Bianca’s childhood photo—bright, innocent—just as Don Vitali staggered backward, champagne flute exploding in his hand instead of his heart.

“DOWN!” Luca roared.

Chaos detonated.

When the Lie Became War

Guests screamed and scattered. Chairs toppled. Tables overturned.

Sophia felt Luca shove her hard toward the floor as another muffled shot hissed past where her head had been.

“Stay down!” he barked.

She hit the marble, heart hammering, ears ringing.

Through the strobing light of the slideshow, she saw Luca launch himself at the waiter, tackling him mid-aim. They crashed into the dais in a violent tangle of limbs.

More gunfire erupted—real now, unsilenced.

Security men surged from the shadows.

Sophia crawled blindly, fingers scraping against cold stone, until strong arms yanked her behind an overturned table.

Juliana.

The older woman clutched Sophia tight, her elegant composure shattered. “Madonna santa…”

Sophia couldn’t answer.

Her eyes were locked on Luca.

The Man She Pretended to Love

Luca fought like a man who had done this before.

No hesitation. No mercy.

He wrenched the gun from the attacker’s hand and slammed the man’s wrist against the floor until bone cracked. The pistol skittered away.

A second attacker burst from the side hall—

And Luca fired.

The man dropped.

The lights snapped back on.

Screams echoed against marble.

Blood stained white linen.

Don Vitali stood frozen at the head table, Bianca clinging to him, sobbing in confusion and terror.

And Luca—

Luca stood between the fallen gunman and his family, chest heaving, eyes blazing.

Alive.

Sophia’s knees nearly gave out.

The Truth Comes Out

Security swarmed the room, dragging attackers away.

Don Greco was gone.

Vanished.

Sophia felt Luca before she saw him—his hands on her shoulders, his voice rough with fear.

“Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, tears streaming freely now. “You—you could’ve been killed.”

“So could you,” he said fiercely.

For a moment, the lie between them evaporated.

There was nothing pretend about the way he pulled her into his chest.

Nothing fake about the way she clung to him.

Don Vitali approached, blood on his cuff, fury in his eyes.

“This was Greco,” he said grimly. “And there’s a traitor inside our family.”

Sophia’s blood ran cold.

“A traitor?” she echoed.

Luca’s jaw tightened. “I already know who.”

No Turning Back

An hour later, the wedding hall was empty—sealed, guarded, scrubbed of celebration.

Sophia sat alone in a private room, hands wrapped around a cup of untouched tea, shaking worse now that the danger had passed.

The door opened.

Luca stepped inside.

He looked different.

Less distant.

More dangerous.

“This night didn’t just ruin a wedding,” he said quietly. “It started a war.”

Sophia met his gaze. “And me?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“You’re in it now,” he said. “Whether you want to be or not.”

She swallowed. “Because of the lie.”

“No,” Luca replied softly. “Because you stayed.”

Silence stretched between them.

Then he added, “If you want to walk away, I’ll protect you until you’re safe.”

Sophia thought of the gunshot.
Of the way he’d shielded her without thinking.
Of how her heart had nearly stopped when she thought he’d fallen.

She stood.

“I’m not walking away,” she said quietly. “Not now.”

Something unguarded crossed Luca’s face.

“Then,” he said, voice low, “from this moment on, you stay by my side. Not as a lie.”

He took her hand.

“As my fiancée. For real.”

Sophia’s breath caught.

Outside the room, sirens wailed in the distance.

Inside, two people stood at the edge of something terrifying—and inevitable.

Say “3” when you’re ready.