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THE WEDDING
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2025-05-09 00:16:05BLOOD AND VOWS
--- CHAPTER THREE THE WEDDING “A vow made under pressure is still a chain.” --- Rain fell like gunfire on the church roof. The stained-glass windows cast blood-colored light across the pews. Men in suits filled every row—mafia kings, their soldiers, their ghosts. Nobody smiled. This wasn’t a wedding. It was a ceasefire dressed in silk. Emilia stood at the back of the aisle, veil covering half her face, spine straight. Rosa adjusted her train with trembling hands. “You don’t have to look happy,” Rosa whispered. “Just look lethal.” Emilia smirked. “That I can do.” The doors creaked open. The organ groaned to life. As she stepped forward, she could feel every eye on her. Not admiration—judgment. Calculations. Everyone in this room was weighing what her body, her loyalty, her blood was worth. Alessio waited at the altar in black-on-black. Shirt, tie, jacket—like he was already dressed for the funeral of whatever soul this marriage was supposed to save. His expression was a mask: unreadable, sharp. Not even cold—just detached. Their eyes locked as she walked down the aisle, the fabric of her gown whispering threats against the stone floor. Each step was a countdown. --- When she reached him, he didn’t offer his hand. She didn’t expect him to. The priest’s voice echoed under the vaulted ceiling, ancient and heavy. “We are gathered here today…” Emilia barely heard the words. Her ears rang with memory—her father’s voice, his laugh, the fire. The first lesson he ever gave her: never trust a Moretti. She tried not to look at Don Salvatore in the front row. He looked pleased. Powerful. Like the world was folding back into his hands. “Do you take this man—” “I do,” Emilia said. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. “Do you take this woman—” “Yes,” Alessio said, without hesitation. It wasn’t a promise. It was a contract. --- The rings were simple. No engraving. No sentiment. Just symbols—cold and binding. When the priest declared them husband and wife, no one clapped. No cheers. Just silence. The kind that settles in before something explodes. --- The reception was a pageantry of polite violence. Crystal glasses clinked. Mob bosses offered congratulations through gritted teeth. Men with blood on their hands kissed her cheek like she was a trophy passed between factions. The wine was sharp. The music too soft. Everyone smiled too wide. At the head table, Emilia sat beside Alessio in practiced stillness. Cameras flashed. Whispers flew. He leaned toward her once, voice low. “You played your part well.” She sipped her champagne. “You didn’t stutter on your vows. I’m impressed.” He raised an eyebrow. “You expected me to?” “I expected more resistance.” His eyes slid over to her, calm as glass. “This isn’t about resistance. It’s about control.” She met his gaze. “And what do you think you control now?” His smile was slow. Dangerous. “The one thing I was never supposed to have. You.” --- Later, she slipped away to the balcony overlooking the garden. Her dress felt heavy, her skin colder than the rain that still misted the night air. Rosa joined her with a soft step. “You okay?” Emilia exhaled. “Define okay.” “You looked like a queen up there.” “I felt like a hostage.” “No one chains you, Emmy. Not even him.” Emilia didn’t respond. She wasn’t so sure. --- They entered the bedroom in silence. Alessio tossed his jacket on the chair. She didn’t take off her gown. Neither spoke. She crossed the room and locked the bathroom door behind her. Stripped off the dress. Washed her face. Looked in the mirror at a woman who no longer looked like a daughter—or a bride. When she came out, he was pouring himself a drink, tie loosened, gun still holstered under his arm. He didn’t glance at her. She walked past him without a word, climbed into the bed fully clothed, and slid her hand under the pillow to check. The gun was still there. Loaded. Message received. ---
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