Married to the Mobster's mistake

The bouquet wasn't even that tardy. Lana Rossi slammed the car door shut with her heel, juggling a bunch of cream roses, a satin emergency sewing kit, and a clipboard that had definitely seen better days. She adjusted her sunglasses the only shield against the madness of New York in July and gazed up at the building before her. "This does not resemble a wedding venue." It didn't even seem like a place where people willingly congregated unless they were scheming for world domination or laundering cash. Given the bride's father's wealth, that possibility wasn't entirely far-fetched.

However, the address was accurate 271 Broome Street. Imposing gray stone exterior. Tall doors. No balloons, flowers, or women in pastel dresses arguing over centerpieces to be seen. Just two burly men in suits standing by the entrance, looking like they'd rather be anywhere else. Still, Lana pressed on. The taller of the two scrutinized her suspiciously, as if she had just stepped out of a perfume ad while carrying a ticking bomb instead of bridal flowers. "I'm with the florist," she declared, giving them her best Not-Today-Satan grin. "Emergency for the bride. I've got ten minutes to deliver this before someone has a meltdown and blames me for bad luck." The shorter guy frowned. "You sure you're at the right place?" "I confirmed three times. Rosa D'Amato. Big Italian wedding. And unless she suddenly decided against the peonies she insisted on three weeks ago, I'm going through that door." The taller one hesitated. "Alright. But don't touch anything." "I'll try my hardest not to breathe," she muttered as she swept past him before he could change his mind. Once inside, the atmosphere altered. Gone were the sounds of clinking glassware and DJ soundchecks. No lace or laughter in sight. Just polished wood, leather furniture, and an undeniable tension from individuals who didn't require weapons to make you feel uneasy. This was certainly not a wedding venue. She slowed her pace; her heels echoed sharply on the marble floor like gunshots. A low murmur of male voices resonated from a set of double doors ahead-deep and harsh, signaling that someone was about to lose something precious. A bet. A fortune. A limb. Lana contemplated turning back. However, the clipboard was digging into her side, and honestly, this wasn't her first encounter with being underestimated while wearing heels. So she squared her shoulders and strode towards the doors. Then they swung open. And out stepped Trouble himself. Tall and impeccably dressed, he paused at the doorway with an amber drink in one hand and a folder in the other. His black suit fit like sin; his hair was slightly tousled as though he'd just run his fingers through it out of frustration-or boredom-and a tattoo peeked just beyond his shirt collar. He raised an eyebrow at her. "You're not Tony." "Sharp observation," Lana replied coolly. "I'm looking for Rosa D'Amato. This is 271 Broome, correct?" He placed the glass down on a side table without sparing it a glance. "It is." "But this isn't the venue?" "Nope." Lana sighed slowly. "Fantastic. She sent me the wrong address again." Trouble smirked. "You're here for a wedding?" "I'm a planner. Fixer. Last-minute miracle worker. And right now, I'm about to be late delivering these to a bride with rage issues and an extensive collection of sharp-heeled shoes." He looked entertained. "Sounds delightful." "Oh, she's simply charming." Lana paused briefly. "Look, sorry for crashing your... whatever this is-intimidating business lunch? Secret society brunch? Mafia board meeting?" His smirk widened. "What do you think it is?" "Honestly? It feels like the start of a terrible Netflix thriller or an excellent rom-com; I haven't decided yet." He chuckled-a low, surprised sound. "You're not wrong; it depends on who's directing." "I hope it's not Quentin Tarantino," she muttered while glancing at the folder in his hand. "You have some sass," he remarked. "And guts too; most people would've turned around by now." "Most people haven't had to calm down a flower girl mid-tantrum while dodging sparklers and unapproved doves." Lana began retreating toward the door. "Anyway, this has been fun; thanks for confirming this isn't a wedding and that I've been sent to the Twilight Zone. I'll just" "Wait." She halted mid-step. "What?" "What's your name?" She blinked in surprise. "Why do you want to know?" "Because you might have just solved a rather significant problem for me." Alarm bells rang in her mind. "Okay, you're giving me that look." "What look?" "The one that suggests you're about to ask me for a favor that sounds legal but most certainly isn't." He stepped forward with charm and shadows surrounding him. "Vincenzo Moretti." Lana's stomach dropped. She recognized that name; anyone in the city with half a brain and internet access knew who he was. "You're that Moretti." "You sound surprised." "You don't look like someone who's facing racketeering charges." "Not recently." She stared at him while still holding onto the bouquet and suddenly felt very aware she was standing in a building owned by one of the city's most powerful families... and here she was sassing their heir apparent. "Well then, I'm going to leave now before walls start whispering secrets," she said. "Wait," he said again, more serious this time. "I mean it; you might be exactly what I need." "Oh, I doubt that," Lana replied as she continued inching toward the door. "I need a wife." She stopped dead in her tracks. "Excuse me?" "Not a legitimate one; just... one on paper for a little while." Lana turned slowly around to face him again. "You're kidding." Vince smiled. He wasn't joking. And that was how her most challenging delivery of the day transformed into the most absurd offer she had ever received.