36 """She died two years ago,"" the mafia boss whispered, staring from the framed photo on the wall to the exact same face on mine.

The next morning, I woke up to the smell of fresh coffee and the sound of soft babbling.

I opened my eyes to find Leo sitting on the plush rug near the bed, surrounded by wooden blocks, playing happily under the watchful eye of Marco.

"Good morning, Miss Mara," Marco said respectfully, tipping his head. "Don Matteo had to leave for an emergency meeting at the docks. He ordered us to bring you breakfast."

"Thank you, Marco," I said, sitting up and rubbing my eyes.

Mia—or rather, my life—had completely transformed in less than twelve hours. I was no longer a struggling waitress worrying about rent. I was a guest—or a prisoner—in a mob lord's fortress.

After showering and changing into clothes that had been placed in the closet (all high-end designer silk and cashmere cut precisely to my size), I picked up Leo and walked down to the grand dining room.

The day passed in a strange, surreal quiet. I spent hours in the estate's massive library, playing with Leo, reading him stories, and slowly realizing that this little boy was capturing my heart completely. Every time he giggled, every time he reached his tiny hand up to touch my face, the emptiness I had felt since my mother's passing two years ago seemed to heal just a little bit.

At six o'clock in the evening, the grand front doors swung open, but it wasn't Matteo who walked in.

It was a woman.

She was impeccably dressed in a tailored crimson suit, her dark hair pulled back into a slick bun, her high heels clicking sharply against the marble floor. She was beautiful, but her eyes were cold, calculating, and sharp as razor blades.

Two guards walked behind her, looking nervous.

"Where is he?" the woman demanded in a crisp, aristocratic accent.

"Miss Bianca," Bruno said, stepping forward quickly to block her path. "Don Matteo is still at the port facility. He did not inform us you were visiting."

"I don't need my fiancé's permission to visit his home, Bruno," Bianca sneered, crossing her arms over her chest.

My heart slammed against my ribs. Fiancé?

Bianca's eyes swept across the foyer, locking onto me standing at the top of the grand staircase, holding Leo in my arms.

Her expression instantly transformed from arrogant annoyance to pure, horrific shock. Her face turned ghost-white, and she staggered back half a step, clutching her throat.

"Clara...?" Bianca gasped, her voice shrill with terror. "No... no, that's impossible! You're dead!"

"She isn't Clara, Miss Bianca," Bruno interjected firmly, stepping between us. "This is Miss Mara. Don Matteo's guest."

Bianca recovered her composure quickly, though her eyes narrowed into venomous slits as she stared up at me. She walked up the staircase slowly, her heels echoing like a death march.

She stopped two steps below me, inspecting my face with intense hatred.

"So," Bianca hissed softly, her voice dripping with poison. "Matteo found himself a replacement doll. A cheap lookalike to dress up in Clara's memory."

"I am not anyone's replacement," I said coldly, holding Leo tighter. "And I certainly didn't ask to be here."

Leo, sensing the hostile energy vibrating off the woman, let out a soft whine and hid his face in my neck.

"Look at you," Bianca sneered, reaching out a manicured fingernail toward Leo, though the baby flinched away from her touch. "Playing mother to a half-breed child whose real mother died in a fiery wreck."

"Do not speak about his mother like that," I snapped, my blood boiling with sudden rage. "And do not touch him."

Bianca chuckled dark, bitter sound. "You have no idea what world you've stepped into, little girl. I am Bianca Moretti. My father controls the European shipping lines. My marriage to Matteo was arranged to unite our families and end the war."

My breath caught in my throat. Moretti. The same name as the men who had shot up the restaurant last night.

"Matteo will never love you," Bianca whispered leaning in close, her breath smelling of heavy perfume and cold malice. "You are just a ghost he's clinging to because he's too weak to let go. And ghosts... have a habit of disappearing twice."

"That is enough, Bianca!"