The mafia boss stood silently before the coffin of his deceased fiancée when the funeral doors suddenly opened, and a woman who looked exactly like her walked in, stunning everyone in the room. The secret about his twin sister, whom he had never known, overturned all his hidden emotions.

I hadn’t set foot in Chicago for three years.  Standing ouThe mafia boss stood silently before the coffin of his deceased fiancée when the funeral doors suddenly opened, and a woman who looked exactly like her walked in, stunning everyone in the room. The secret about his twin sister, whom he had never known, overturned all his hidden emotions.tside St. Augustine Cathedral, watching mourners file through heavy oak doors,  I knew exactly how long it had been. Three years, two months, and sixteen days since the fight  that severed me from my twin sister. The cab driver had asked if I was okay when I gave  him the address.

 I must have looked as hollow as I felt. My reflection in his rearview mirror showed  a stranger with blonde hair pulled back too tight, blue eyes rimmed red from crying on the  flight from Prague. Twenty-eight years old and I’d just lost the only person who shared  my face, my DNA, half my childhood memories. Natalie was dead. Car accident, they said.

  The words in the email from her neighbor felt clinical, detached. Your sister passed away in  a single-vehicle collision on Lake Shore Drive. Funeral services Friday at two. I should have been here sooner. Should have answered her calls six months ago. Should  have forgiven her for falling in love with a man whose world I couldn’t stomach.

 But pride is  a poison that works slowly, and now I’d never get the chance to tell her I was sorry. The cathedral steps were crowded with people I didn’t recognize. Expensive suits, designer  dresses, the kind of polished crowd that didn’t belong at the funeral of a woman who used to steal  my clothes and eat cereal straight from the box. These weren’t Natalie’s people. At  least, not the Natalie I remembered.

I pushed through the entrance, late because  my connecting flight had been delayed. The service had already started. A priest’s  voice echoed through the vaulted space, but I couldn’t focus on his words. My  eyes locked on the casket at the front, draped in white lilies. She was in  there. My mirror image, forever still.

Then I felt it. The weight of attention  shifting like a physical force. Heads turned. One by one, the mourners  twisted in their pews to stare at me. Gasps rippled through the crowd. A woman  in the third row clutched her chest, her face draining of color. An older man stood  abruptly, his chair scraping against marble.

They were looking at me like I was a ghost. Of course. They saw Natalie. We were identical twins, same bone structure,  same blue eyes, same wheat-blonde hair. The only differences were invisible. She’d  been fire where I was ice. Impulsive where I was calculated.

 Our parents had trained us  both, passed down their skills in observation, languages, survival. But Natalie had wanted  freedom from that legacy. I’d embraced it. “Natalie?” Someone whispered  her name like a prayer. I kept walking down the aisle, my heels  clicking against stone. Every eye followed me. I didn’t belong here, that much was clear.  But I needed to see her one last time.

 Needed to say goodbye to the girl who used to hold my  hand during thunderstorms when we were six. My gaze swept across the front rows, searching  for anyone familiar. That’s when I saw him. He sat in the first pew, shoulders rigid  beneath a black suit that probably cost more than my rent for a year. Dark hair,  perfectly styled.

 Strong jaw, the kind of profile that belonged on Roman statues. Even from  behind, he radiated power. Authority. Danger. Gabriel Donatelli. Had to be. The  man Natalie had chosen over me. He turned, and the world stopped. Devastation carved into every line of his face transformed into something else. Shock.  Desperate hope. Disbelief.

 Dark brown eyes, nearly black in the cathedral’s dim light, went  wide. His lips parted as if to speak, but no sound came. He rose from his seat, stumbling  slightly, one hand reaching toward me. “Natalie?” His voice broke on her name, raw and  desperate. “How… how is this possible?” The pain in his voice gutted me. He thought  she was alive.

 He thought I was her, standing here when she should be in that casket.  Everyone in the cathedral held their breath, waiting for the impossible. I stopped three feet away from him, close enough to see his hand trembling as  it reached for me. Close enough to see tears gathering in his eyes. Close enough to watch  hope and grief war across his features.

“I’m not Natalie,” I said quietly,  my voice steady despite the chaos. “I’m her sister. Her twin sister.” The words hit him like a physical blow. His reaching hand froze in mid-air, then slowly  lowered. The desperate hope in his eyes died, replaced by crushing realization. Then  confusion. Then something harder.

“Sister.” He said the word like he was testing it,  trying to make sense of reality. “Twin sister.” “Identical,” I confirmed, watching him  process this. “My name is Lauren Cooper. Natalie never mentioned me?” Something flickered across his face. Pain. Betrayal. “She said her parents  were dead. No siblings. No family.

” His jaw clenched. “She never mentioned you.” Around us, whispers exploded. The crowd had gone from watching a miracle to watching a revelation.  I could feel their eyes boring into me, could hear fragments of conversation in multiple  languages. My training kicked in automatically, cataloging reactions, measuring threats.

 “We had a falling out,” I said, forcing myself not to back away from his intensity. “Three  years ago. When she told me about you.” His dark eyes searched mine, looking for  Natalie in my features and finding someone else entirely. “You’re real. You’re not…”  He stopped himself, closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, the devastated man  had been replaced by something colder.

 More controlled. “We need to talk. After.” “I came for my sister’s funeral, not—” “After,” he repeated, and it wasn’t a request. He  pulled a card from his jacket pocket and pressed it into my hand. “One hour. The address is on  there. Come alone, or don’t come at all.” He turned back to the service before I could  respond, sitting down with rigid control.

But I’d seen his hands. They were shaking. I forced myself to look away, to focus on the casket. Made it to the third row before my  legs threatened to give out. Slid into an empty space beside an elderly woman who crossed  herself and muttered something in Italian. The priest continued speaking, but I caught  fragments of whispered conversations around me. Phrases in English, Italian, languages I  recognized from my work as a translator.

“Does he know about the twin?” “How did she hide this?” “Look at his face. He’s  destroyed all over again.” I studied the mourners while pretending to listen  to the eulogy. There were too many of them, first of all. Natalie had been a free spirit,  a photographer who traveled light and kept few friends. Yet the cathedral was packed. Second, the  security.

 I counted at least six men positioned at intervals along the walls, their jackets cut  to conceal weapons. They weren’t looking at the priest. They were scanning the crowd, watching  exits, communicating with subtle hand signals. This wasn’t a normal funeral.  This was a fortress. My eyes drifted to conversations happening in  hushed tones.

 A man in the fifth row was speaking rapid Italian to his companion, and I caught  the words “accident” and “albanesi” and “too convenient.” Albanian. That sent ice through  my veins. The Balkan mafias were notoriously brutal. If they were involved in Natalie’s  death, then this wasn’t an accident at all. I leaned forward, straining to hear more.

 The  man continued, mentioning Lake Shore Drive, brake lines, and something about  a message. My translator’s brain assembled the pieces automatically. They  were discussing sabotage. Murder. Someone had killed my sister. The service ended in a blur. People filed out to the reception hall attached  to the cathedral. I stayed rooted in my seat, staring at the casket as workers prepared to move  it. My hands trembled in my lap.

 I’d suspected something was wrong from the moment I read  that email. Natalie was an excellent driver, paranoid about maintenance after our father  had drilled vehicle safety into us as kids. A single-vehicle collision on a straight  stretch of road? It didn’t add up. “Miss Cooper?” I turned to find an older man with silver hair standing in the  aisle.

 His movements were careful, respectful, but his eyes held warning. “I’m Franco Rinaldi.  I handle security for the Donatelli family.” “The mafia family, you mean.” “Mr. Donatelli would like to speak with you. Privately. Away from here.” His tone was  gentle but firm. “Please. For your own safety.” “My safety?” “You look exactly like a woman who was murdered three days ago.

 There are people in this  church who might not immediately understand you’re not her. People who might see you as a threat,  or an opportunity, or…” He paused. “Please come with me. Mr. Donatelli is waiting.” I looked back at Natalie’s casket one last time, then at the card Gabriel had given me.  Just an address. No name, no business. The kind of place that didn’t advertise. “I’ll follow you in my own car,” I said.

“I’m not getting into a vehicle  with people I don’t know.” Franco’s mouth twitched in what might  have been approval. “Smart. The address is the reception venue. Many people will  be there. You won’t be alone with him.” I stood, grabbed my purse, and followed  Franco toward a side exit. As we passed through the doorway, I glanced back one more time.

  Gabriel stood by the casket, one hand resting on the white wood, his head bowed. Even from a  distance, I could see his shoulders shaking. He’d loved her. Really loved her. And  I’d just shattered whatever fragile hope my appearance had given him. I walked out into cold Chicago air, following Franco to a waiting car. My sister  deserved the truth about her death.

 And if that meant walking into the world that had  killed her, then that’s exactly what I’d do. Even if it destroyed me in  the process. The reception was held in a private room that  screamed old money and older secrets. Crystal chandeliers cast fractured light across  marble floors. Wait staff moved between clusters of mourners, offering champagne  and whispered condolences.

 I accepted a glass I had no intention of drinking  and positioned myself near a window. Black cars lined the curb. Expensive ones. Drivers  stood at attention, hands folded, eyes alert. This wasn’t just wealth on display. This was power. I stayed on the periphery, listening. People talked more freely when they thought you  weren’t paying attention.

 My father had taught me that. Listen first, act later. “You look just like her.” A woman’s voice, soft and sad. I turned to find someone around  Natalie’s age, with kind eyes and a tissue clutched in her hand. “I’m sorry. I’m Rachel. I  worked with Natalie at the gallery downtown.” Gallery. That was new. “She never  mentioned working at a gallery.

” “She started about eight months ago.  Photography exhibits, mostly.” Rachel’s smile trembled. “She talked about you  once. Said she had a sister she missed.” The words hit harder than they  should have. “She said that?” “Not in detail. Natalie was private.

 But I could  tell it hurt her, whatever happened between you two.” Rachel glanced around nervously. “She was  scared the last few weeks. Jumpy. Kept checking her phone, looking over her shoulder.” “Did you tell the police?” “The police?” Rachel’s laugh held no humor.  “Gabriel Donatelli owns half this city. The police don’t ask questions he doesn’t want answered.” Before I could respond, the room shifted.

Conversations quieted. Heads  turned. Gabriel had arrived, and he brought the temperature down with him. He moved through the crowd like a knife through water, people parting instinctively. Franco  walked two steps behind. Gabriel’s gaze found mine across the space, and he gave a  subtle nod toward a door on the far side.

“I should go,” Rachel said  quickly. “Be careful, okay?” She disappeared before I could thank  her. I made my way to the indicated door, acutely aware of the attention I drew.  Being Natalie’s ghost was exhausting. The door led to a smaller room, intimate and  windowless.

 Gabriel stood with his back to me, staring at a painting. Franco flanked  the entrance like a sentry. “Close the door,” Gabriel said  without turning around. I did. The sound of the lock  clicking felt ominous. “You wanted to talk,” I said, refusing  to show nervousness. “So talk.” He turned slowly, and the grief I’d  seen in the cathedral had been replaced by something harder. Controlled. “You said  you believe Natalie was murdered.

 Why?” “Because she was an excellent driver who  maintained her vehicle obsessively. Because single-car accidents on straight roads don’t  happen without cause. And because I heard your people talking about Albanians  and sabotage during the service.” Something flickered in his expression.  Surprise. “You speak Italian.

” “Among other languages. Translator. It’s  how I make a living.” I crossed my arms. “Your turn. Who are the Albanians and  why did they want my sister dead?” Gabriel moved to a sideboard and  poured amber liquid into two glasses. He offered me one. I shook my head. “The Kosovar organization,” he said, taking a drink. “They’ve been trying to move into  Chicago territory for two years.

 Natalie became a target because she was close to me.” “You mean because she was your fiancée.” “Yes.” He set down the glass with  precise control. “She knew the risks. I warned her what this life meant.” “And she stayed anyway.” The bitterness in my voice surprised me. “That sounds like  Natalie. Always running toward the fire.

” “She was brave.” “She was reckless.” I met his dark eyes. “There’s a difference.” Gabriel studied me with unsettling intensity. “You are nothing like her.” “Finally, something we agree on.” “When Natalie spoke, it was with passion,  fire. Emotion ruled her decisions. You…” He stepped closer, and I refused to back away. “You  calculate. You observe. You weaponize silence.

” “Is that an insult or a compliment?” “An observation.” He was close enough now that I could smell his cologne, something  expensive and cedar-dark. “One that makes me wonder why she never mentioned having a  twin. Especially one trained to disappear.” My blood went cold.

 “What?” “You move like someone taught you to avoid detection. You position yourself near exits. You  listen more than you speak. Those are not natural instincts, Miss Cooper. They’re survival skills.”  His head tilted slightly. “Who taught you?” I should have lied. Should have deflected.  Instead, something in his directness pulled truth from me. “Our parents. Before they died.

” “And what were your parents?” “Careful.” The corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “I could have you investigated. Find out  everything about you in twenty-four hours.” “Then why ask?” “Because I want to hear it from you.” We stared at each other, locked in some unspoken  battle of wills. Finally, I exhaled. “They fled Russia in the nineties. Started over here.

 Taught  us to protect ourselves, to leave no traces, to survive in a world that didn’t forgive  mistakes. Natalie rejected it. I embraced it.” “That’s why she couldn’t find you,” Gabriel  said, understanding dawning. “She tried. Hired investigators. They found nothing.” “Because I didn’t want to be found.” The admission tasted like ash. “I was angry. Stubborn.”