His Testarda Wife

Wrong Girl

The temple bells were still ringing when the black SUV pulled up outside, engine idling like it had no business being there — because it didn’t.

Meera didn’t hear it. She was busy losing an argument with a stubborn strand of jasmine that refused to sit right in her braid, laughing at something her cousin had said, one hand still dusted with the turmeric from the morning’s prayers.

She noticed the men a second too late. Four of them, moving too fast for tourists, too quiet for locals.

“Which one,” the tallest one muttered into his collar, scanning the courtyard.

“Dark hair, red dupatta, the boss said—”

“That’s half the temple, genius.”

By the time they’d made their decision, it was Meera’s wrist they’d grabbed, not the girl thirty feet away they’d actually been sent for.

She didn’t scream. That would come later, she was fairly sure, once her brain caught up with the very obvious fact that strange men were dragging her toward a car. For now, all she managed was:

“Aahhh... chodo mujhe. Kaun ho tum?”

“Lady, get in the car.”

“I will absolutely not get in the—”

She got in the car. Mostly because someone put a hand on the back of her head and folded her into it like luggage.

Fourteen hours in a private jet passed in near total darkness, a black cloth pressed over her eyes the entire time, her wrists bound. She didn’t know when they’d landed. She didn’t know how long the car ride after had lasted, or how many hallways she’d been dragged through before she was finally pushed down into a chair, rope biting into her wrists as someone tied them behind her, quick and practiced, like they’d done this before.

Then, silence. Waiting.

Footsteps broke it — two sets, one heavier, more deliberate, the other trailing slightly behind.

“Finally, sei qui,” ( Finally, you're here.)a voice said. Deep, clipped, unmistakably in charge.

Mein kaha hoon... aur ye log kya bol rahe hain...

Meera strained against the blindfold uselessly, every sense on edge, trying to place a language she didn’t recognize at all.

“Togliete il velo,”(Take off the veil/blindfold.) the same voice ordered.

Hands fumbled at the back of her head, and then light hit her eyes all at once, sharp and disorienting. She blinked hard, vision swimming into focus — a marble hallway, unfamiliar faces, and directly in front of her, a man whose expression had gone from composed to furious in the space of a single breath.

His eyebrows drew together, jaw tightening.

“What the hell?” Dante’s voice cracked out in English, sharp with disbelief, before snapping back into Italian. “Questa non è lei.” (This isn't her.)

The men around her shifted, exchanging looks of genuine shock. “Com’è possibile?” ( How is this possible?) one of them muttered.

“Ci scusi, capo, non sappiamo com’è successo,” (We're sorry, boss, we don't know how it happened.) another said quickly, the words tumbling over each other.

“Zitti!” ( Quiet!/ Shut up!) Dante barked, and the room fell silent instantly.

Meera’s heart was pounding now, confusion curdling fast into fear. “Who the hell are you?” she demanded, voice shaking despite herself. “Where am I?”

No one answered her. Dante didn’t even look at her directly — his glare was still fixed on his men. “Ne parliamo dopo,” he said, low and dangerous. “Lasciate che mi occupi di lei prima.” (We'll talk about it later. Let me deal with her first.)

Beside him, Rohan spoke up, stress evident in his voice. “Cosa farai adesso? La rimandiamo indietro?” (What will you do now? Do we send her back?)

Dante’s jaw was still tight when he finally answered. “No. Ha visto le nostre facce. Non posso correre rischi.” (No. She's seen our faces. I can't take risks.)

Meera looked between them, catching nothing but tone — his anger, his men’s fear, the strange finality in his voice — and none of the actual words.

“What are you guys even saying?” she shouted, straining uselessly against the rope.

Dante turned to one of his men, voice flat. “Lock her in the room for now.”

The man nodded, moving to untie her from the chair and pull her up by the arm, guiding her firmly toward the door.

“Chodo mujhe,” Meera shouted, twisting against his grip. “Leave me!”

No one did. The door to a room down the hall opened, and she was pushed through it before she could fully process what was happening, the lock clicking shut behind her a moment later — the only answer she was going to get.