PART 1: EVERYONE IGNORED THE LONELY SINGLE MOM—UNTIL THE MAFIA BOSS CLAIMED HER AS HIS WIFE

EVERYONE IGNORED THE LONELY SINGLE MOM—UNTIL THE MAFIA BOSS CLAIMED HER AS HIS WIFE — PART 1

The champagne tasted expensive on my tongue.

Bubbles danced against the roof of my mouth like tiny, effervescent promises of a better life, the kind of life I did not have.

Around me, the wedding reception hummed with clinking glasses, peals of laughter, and the soft rustle of designer dresses that probably cost more than my monthly rent.

I sat alone at table 19, the singles table, the afterthought table, the place for people they had to invite but did not know where to put.

My black dress was from a department store sale rack. Even though I had spent an hour trying to steam out the wrinkles, it still looked like what it was: cheap.

It was a painful reminder of how far I had fallen since Mark left me with a mountain of debt and a beautiful 2-year-old daughter who had his eyes.

“Mommy misses you, Lily,” I whispered to no one.

I ran my

finger along the rim of my glass. My daughter was with my sister that night, probably fast asleep, clutching the stuffed bunny I had saved 3 weeks of coffee money to buy for her birthday. The thought of her peaceful face was the only warmth in the cold, glittering ballroom.

I had not wanted to come to Vanessa’s wedding. We had been friends in college, before life took us in dramatically different directions.

She went toward success and marriage to a hedge fund manager.

I went toward single motherhood and working 2 jobs just to make ends meet.

But she had insisted, and I had been too proud to admit I could not afford a gift.

The centerpiece of white roses and baby’s breath blocked my view of the dance floor, which was just as well. I did not need to see happy couples spinning beneath crystal chandeliers.

I was

considering a discreet exit when I felt it: a shift in the air pressure, as if the atmosphere itself was making way for something dangerous.

He entered from a side door.

He was flanked by 2 broad-shouldered men in dark suits who scanned the room with military precision. Even from across the ballroom, his presence was magnetic, commanding, almost suffocating.

The crowd parted unconsciously, and conversations faltered mid-sentence.

A waiter nearly dropped his tray of champagne flutes.

The man wore a black suit that screamed custom Italian craftsmanship, the kind where the price was never discussed because anyone who had to ask could not afford it.

His dark hair was trimmed perfectly, accentuating sharp cheekbones and a jaw that could cut glass.

But it was his eyes that caught me.

They were cold and calculating, the color of steel on a winter morning.

I looked away quickly, knowing instinctively that

this was someone I should not be caught staring at.

But like a moth to a flame, my gaze was drawn back to him.