She Took Her Sister’s Place at the Altar—Then the Mafia Boss Chose Her

PART 1

The humidity in São Paulo clung to my skin like a second layer, thick and oppressive, even at 10:00 at night.

I wiped the back of my hand across my forehead as I locked the door to my mother’s apartment, the sound of her labored breathing still echoing in my ears.

Her medication was running out again.
There were 3 more days, maybe 4 if I stretched it, and then I would be back to watching her suffer while I scrambled to find money that did not exist.

My phone buzzed in my pocket as I descended the narrow staircase, the concrete walls covered in graffiti that changed every week. I did not recognize the number, but something in my gut twisted as I answered.

“Deanna Pradati?”

The voice was male, American, with an accent that immediately reminded me of my father. The father I had not seen in 15 years. The father who had dumped my mother and me in Brazil like unwanted luggage and returned to his precious family

in New York.

“Who’s asking?” I switched to English, though my Portuguese accent colored every word. I had learned English from American movies and tourists, not from the family that had abandoned me.

“My name is Carlo Benedetti. I’m calling on behalf of the Pradati family.” A pause followed. “Your sister is dead.”

The world tilted slightly.

Sister.

I had a half sister I had never met, born from my father’s first marriage to some mafia princess. Isabella. I had seen her face once in a magazine article about New York’s elite, all blonde perfection and designer clothes. Everything I was not.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said carefully, not feeling sorry at all.

What did I owe a family that had pretended I did not exist?

“There’s more.” Carlo’s voice took on a harder edge. “She was engaged to be married. The wedding was in 2 weeks. Her

death has created complications for certain business arrangements. Your father has requested your immediate return to New York.”

I actually laughed, a sharp, bitter sound that made an old woman passing on the street glance at me nervously.

“My father? The man who sent exactly 0 birthday cards in 15 years wants me to drop everything and fly to New York? Tell him to go to hell.”

“Miss Pradati.” Carlo’s voice dropped into something colder and more dangerous. “Your mother’s medical care is expensive. The experimental treatment she needs, the one her insurance won’t cover, costs approximately $50,000 American per month.”

My blood turned to ice. “How do you know about that?”