14.

~NICO~

I shouldn’t have read another day out of her journal before standing at the altar.

I knew that before I opened it.

I knew it while my fingers hovered over the page. I knew it and I did it anyway.

Day 54.

If I ever get married, I hope he looks at me like I matter.

That was the first line.

Not like I’m useful.

Not like I’m convenient.

Not like I’m something he acquired.

I hope he looks at me like I’m the only person in the room. Like he chose me even when he didn’t have to.

My jaw tightened.

I hope he’s in love with me the way I’d be in love with him. Not carefully. Not halfway. I want the kind of love that makes you stupid.

I exhaled slowly.

I hope he touches me like he wants me. Like he doesn’t need permission. Like he’s been waiting. I don’t want gentle all the time. I want real.

There it was.

Cake, unfiltered.

I hope he knows how to please me better than I know how to please myself. I hope he treats me like a princess after taking my virginity. I hope he wants to. I hope he enjoys it.

I hope he enjoys ME.

I closed the book.

Not because I was finished.

Because I was too aware of my body, because my pulse hasn’t settled since I read last night’s entry.

Even after breakfast, even after people spoke to me, even after Enzo spoke about business I didn’t respond to, the tension stayed. It lived under my skin.

So I locked myself in my room and read her words like they could anchor me, and they did.

By the time I stepped outside, everything was already set.

The wedding was outdoors. Grass trimmed down to precision. White chairs arranged in perfect rows. Flowers lining the aisle. The walkway itself was mirrored, reflecting sky and light and movement.

On my left sat allies and enemies alike.

I saw Sienna immediately. Deep green strapless dress, her hair pulled back, smiling like she knew something I didn’t. Enzo sat beside her, relaxed, leg stretched out. Adriano had made it. Good. Raffaele sat composed as ever, watching everything, missing nothing.

Behind them, my men. Stationed. Alert.

Further to the left, Tomaso. Bianca beside him.

I met Tomaso’s gaze and smiled.

The scowl he gave me was worth the entire effort.

This was only the beginning.

I adjusted my jacket. Navy blue suit. Sienna had vetoed black and cream both.

“You already look like death,” she’d said. “Try not to scare the guests.”

The music starts, as every conversation dies instantly.

I lift my head, and when she steps into view, I forget how to breathe.

Madonna santa. {Holy Mother of God.}

The dress is nothing like I expected.

It isn’t soft in a fragile way. It’s structured, intentional, almost severe.

The bodice is fitted, sculpted to her like it was designed with her measurements carved into stone. Boning lines her torso, holding her upright, regal, unbreakable. The neckline dips just enough to be dangerous, sheer lace laid over skin like a promise instead of exposure.

Her shoulders are bare. The fabric doesn’t float, it commands.

Layers of ivory fall straight down her frame before spilling into a long, dramatic train that drags behind her like history she refuses to carry alone. The veil is cathedral-length, trailing far enough that everyone has to acknowledge her entrance whether they want to or not.

This isn’t a dress you wear to be chosen.

This is a dress you wear because the choice has already been made.

Her hair is pulled back into a low, sleek bun, no loose strands. Nothing to distract from her face, from her eyes.

From the way she looks at me like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.

I swallow.

This dress wasn’t made to make her look beautiful.

It was made to make her look untouchable.

And standing there, watching her walk toward me, I realize something unsettling.

I didn’t dress my bride.

I armed her.

She doesn’t look at the crowd. She looks at me.

Only me.

No nerves. No hesitation. Just focus. Like she was walking toward something she had already decided belonged to her.

Cazzo. {Fuck.}

This woman does not look like someone being traded.

She looks like someone choosing.

By the time she reaches me, I am barely breathing.

She stops. Tilts her head just enough for me to hear her. “I didn’t know you had good taste, Mr. Vescari.”

My mouth curves before I can stop it. “I do,” I murmur. “Look at my wife.”

She huffs softly. “I’m talking about the dress. But thank you for the compliment.”

Then she faced forward as the priest began to speak. “Dearly beloved…”

And for the first time since this began, I understood something clearly.

This was not just a contract to her, this was a moment she once hoped for.

And I was standing in the center of it.

And that realization? That was far more dangerous than attraction.

The priest turns toward her.

“Do you, Cake Coogan, take Nico Vescari to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

She inhales. “I do.”

The priest nods and turns back to me. “And do you, Nico Vescari—”

“I do,” I say, before he can finish. A ripple of quiet amusement passes through the crowd.

The rings are brought forward.

I open the velvet box and take hers first. The diamond catches the light, it was sharp enough to draw blood if someone got too close.

Miguel never disappoints.

She inhales sharply when she sees it.

An actual gasp.

Her eyes flick to mine, wide, disbelieving, like she didn’t expect this. Like she expected any ring, not this one.

I slide the ring onto her finger slowly, watching the way her breath stutters when it settles into place. Perfect fit.

Of course it is.

She stares at it for half a second too long, like it might disappear if she blinks.

Then it’s her turn, she takes my hand. She slides the ring onto my finger slowly, her thumb brushing my knuckle as it settles into place.

Brava {Well done}

The priest finishes the formalities, voice rising slightly, signaling the end.

The priest smiles, satisfied. “By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife,”

“And now,” he continues, “you may kiss the bride.”

There’s a fraction of a second where she looks at me like she’s waiting for something… polite.

A peck. A safe gesture.

She doesn’t know me well enough yet.

I step closer, one hand sliding to her waist, the other lifting to her jaw. I feel the exact moment she realizes what I’m about to do.

Her eyes widen.

Too late.

I kissed her. It wasn’t a brief, gentle or ceremonial kiss—no.

I tilt my head and deepen it, my mouth claiming hers like this isn’t a wedding stage but a private promise. My tongue brushes her lower lip, biting and sucking on her lips.

She freezes.

Then—just barely—she responds.

A soft sound escapes her before she can stop it, swallowed by my mouth. I keep it short enough not to scandalize, long enough to be unmistakable.

Enough that there is no confusion.

Enough that Tomaso sees.

I pull back slowly, my thumb brushing her jaw like it belongs there.

She’s stunned, properly stunned.

Her lips part, breathing uneven. If the priest said anything else right now, she wouldn’t hear it.

Applause erupts around us.

I glanced past her shoulder, to see Bianca glaring, whilst Tomaso had a neutral expression on.

This is only the beginning.

I lean in, my mouth brushing her ear. “Respira, moglie.” {Breathe, wife.}

She blinks. Swallows. Then she nods once, still speechless.

The crowd erupts into a louder applause, but all I see is my ring on her finger, my name engraved to it, and shock still written across her face.

She didn’t expect that kiss.

Neither did anyone else.