Too Late, Vitiello: The Bride Strikes Back

I was about to walk down the grand staircase to marry Dante Vitiello, a feared mafia Don, sealing a powerful blood oath between our Families.

But at the bottom of the marble steps, I found his former mistress wearing an exact replica of my three-million-dollar bridal gown, bleeding from a minor scrape and screaming that I pushed her.

Dante immediately stormed into the foyer, his dark eyes furious, and crushed my wrist in a violent grip.

"Bow your head and apologize to her," he demanded in front of the entire underworld elite.

His mother stepped forward and spat at me, calling me a vicious, jealous girl who brought shame to their empire.

The surrounding made men and high-society guests whispered in condemnation, entirely taking his side.

But the deepest betrayal wasn't his mistress crashing the wedding.

I soon discovered Dante had ordered his legal team to draft a predatory annulment contract the night before.

It was titled "Major Fault of the Bride," a meticulously planned trap designed to frame me and strip my family's port territories as reparations for this staged disaster.

I looked at the man I was supposed to marry, realizing he thought I was just a naive pawn he could humiliate, rob, and discard.

He truly believed I would break down in tears and submit to his power.

Instead, I pulled out my encrypted phone and summoned the Mafia Commission's Arbitrator.

"Cancel the marriage ceremony," I commanded coldly, preparing to shed my heavy bridal gown. "Tonight, there is no wedding."

Chapter 1

Sienna POV:

The doors to the second-floor landing were of some heavy, dark wood, and I pushed them open, preparing to descend the grand marble staircase to marry a man whose name was a contagion of fear in the American underworld. My gaze fell not to the altar, but to the foot of the stairs, where a tableau had been arranged. My fiancé's former mistress was already composed at the bottom of the steps in an identical white bridal gown, screaming that I pushed her.

The velvet ring box in my hand felt like a block of lead. I had not yet set foot on the first step.

Natalia lay sprawled at the bottom of the sweeping staircase. Her white lace dress was a perfect replica of my own three-million-dollar couture gown.

She let out a piercing sob, clutching her ankle. Blood trickled from a small scrape on her forehead, stark against the pristine white marble.

Her eyes, wide and seemingly terrified, found mine. Her hand rose, and a finger, which she made to tremble, pointed in my direction.

"Sienna pushed me!" she cried out to the gathering crowd. "She tried to kill me!"

The first murmurs had not yet coalesced into a unified gasp when the mahogany doors of the grand ballroom burst open. Dante Vitiello strode into the foyer.

This was the man I was bound to by a blood oath—the Don who, on the occasion of his twenty-fifth birthday, had ordered the slaughter of the entire Russian syndicate while cutting his own cake.

His dark eyes swept the scene, coming to rest on Natalia. A fury darkened his features. He mounted the stairs, his movements not those of a wolf, but of some heavy, precise machinery about to be brought online.

Before I could speak, his large hand clamped around my wrist. His grip was a vice of violence, the pressure calculated to crush, not merely hold.

"Bow your head and apologize to her," he demanded, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the now-silent hall.

The surrounding made men and high-society guests began to whisper, a current of condemnation passing through the crowd.

Donna Vitiello, Dante's mother, stepped forward from the front row of guests, her face twisted in disgust.

"You vicious, jealous girl," Donna spat at me. "You bring shame to our Family before the vows are even spoken."

Natalia wept louder, her shoulders shaking.

"Please, do not blame Sienna," Natalia sobbed, playing the fragile martyr. "I never should have come. I just wanted to see him one last time."

I looked at the woman crying on the floor, then up at the man crushing my wrist. I did not break Omertà. I did not lose my composure. My pulse remained steady under his punishing grip.

I knew something he did not. Before leaving the bridal suite, my father had confirmed via encrypted message that Commissioner Ricci and his neutral enforcers were already seated among the guests—a precaution my family always took at hostile negotiations disguised as celebrations. One call, and the full weight of the Commission would descend upon this house.

"I will apologize," I said, my voice level and devoid of inflection.

Dante's jaw clenched.

"I will apologize," I continued, "the moment Natalia can precisely detail the mechanics of the push."

Dante stepped closer, his chest brushing against mine. His towering frame was built to intimidate me into submission.

"Stop playing games," he snarled.

I looked directly into his dark, murderous eyes.

"Unhand the accused before a blood feud begins between our Families," I warned him.

The certainty in my tone made him freeze. He knew the laws of our world. He slowly released my wrist.

I turned my attention back to the weeping woman on the floor.

"Fall again," I ordered Natalia.

The foyer went dead silent.

"Excuse me?" Natalia whispered, her tears faltering for a fraction of a second.

"If you cannot fall again, then recount the exact trajectory of the attack," I said, taking a slow step down the stairs. "Did I use my left hand or my right? Did I strike your shoulder or the center of your back? What was the exact angle of the force that sent you tumbling down twenty-four marble steps with only a minor scrape to show for it?"

Natalia opened her mouth and closed it, emitting only a short, wet sound. Her eyes darted nervously to Dante.

"I was too terrified," she choked out. "I do not remember the details. I just felt the shove."

I let out a short, humorless laugh that cut through the tension in the room.

"A convenient, selective memory for a woman who was certain of her murderer five seconds ago."

I reached into the hidden pocket of my gown, my fingers closing around the cold metal of my encrypted phone. The room shifted—Dante's men tensed, their hands moving toward their holsters. But Dante himself went still. He knew what device I was reaching for. And he knew exactly who would answer the call.