The Wedding

CATARINA

The dress was a fucking nightmare.

I stood in front of the full-length mirror in my childhood bedroom, staring at the monstrosity of white silk and lace that had taken three people to wrestle me into. The bodice was so tight I could barely breathe, the skirt so voluminous I couldn't see my own feet, and the train—Christ, the train was at least six feet long and weighed what felt like twenty pounds.

I looked like a wedding cake. An expensive, suffocating, ridiculous wedding cake.

"Oh, mia bella," my mother sobbed from somewhere behind me. "You look so beautiful. So perfect."

I caught her reflection in the mirror—Rosa Vitale, matriarch of our family, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief while she gazed at me like I was some kind of masterpiece.

She had no idea how much I wanted to take one of my blades to all this fabric.

"Mama," I said, trying to keep my voice even. "I can't move in this thing."

"You don't need to move," she said, still crying. "You just need to walk down the aisle and look beautiful. And you do, tesoro. You look like a princess."

A princess. Right.

Not a protector. Not a weapon. Not the woman who could take down three armed men before they even realized she was a threat.

Just a pretty decoration in an overpriced dress.

I tugged at the bodice, trying to find some way to breathe that didn't involve my ribs cracking. The dress had long sleeves—thankfully—which meant I could at least hide the leather cuff on my forearm. But the blade beneath it felt useless, inaccessible, buried under layers of silk and tulle.

If something happened today, I'd be completely helpless.

The thought made my skin crawl.

"The car is ready," Marco's voice came from the doorway. He took one look at me and his expression shifted—something between sympathy and amusement. "You look..."

"Like a nightmare," I finished.

"I was going to say 'very bridal,'" he said diplomatically.

"Same thing."

My mother shot me a look. "Catarina, please. This is your wedding day. Try to be happy."

Happy. Sure. I'd get right on that.

She fussed with my veil for another minute, adjusting the delicate lace so it fell perfectly over my face, then stepped back to admire her work one more time.

"Perfect," she whispered. "Absolutely perfect."

I looked at myself in the mirror again—at the woman I barely recognized staring back at me. The dress, the veil, the carefully styled hair and flawless makeup. I looked exactly like what everyone expected.

The perfect Vitale princess.

The perfect bride.

The perfect lie.

---

The church was massive—one of those old Catholic cathedrals with soaring ceilings, stained glass windows, and enough gold leaf to fund a small country. It was packed with people, hundreds of them, all dressed in their finest and waiting to witness the union of the Vitale and Connelly families.

I stood in the vestibule with my father, my hand resting on his arm, trying not to think about how much I wanted to run.

"You ready, figlia mia?" Carmine asked quietly.

"No," I said honestly.

He smiled slightly. "Good. That means you're paying attention."

The organ music swelled, signaling the start of the processional. Through the open doors, I could see the aisle stretching out before me like a death march—white rose petals scattered across the floor, candles flickering on either side, and at the end of it all, Jameson Connelly waiting at the altar.

"This is for the best," my father said, his voice low enough that only I could hear. "I know it doesn't feel like it right now, but this marriage will protect both families. It will make us stronger."

"I know," I said, because I did. I understood the strategy, the politics, the necessity of this alliance.

That didn't make it any easier.

"You'll adjust to your new responsibilities," he continued. "You'll make us proud. You always do."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

His hand covered mine, squeezing gently. "But Catarina—always be alert. Even today. Especially today. This wedding makes us a target. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Papa."

"Good girl."

The music shifted, and suddenly we were moving—my father guiding me forward, my feet somehow remembering how to walk despite the weight of the dress and the tightness in my chest.

Every eye in the church turned to watch us.

I kept my gaze straight ahead, focusing on the altar, on Jameson, on anything except the hundreds of people staring at me like I was some kind of spectacle.

The dress rustled with every step, the train dragging behind me, and I could feel the bodice digging into my ribs with each breath. My weapons were useless beneath all this fabric. If something happened right now—if someone tried something—I'd be completely vulnerable.

The thought made my jaw clench.

We reached the altar, and my father stopped, turning to face me. He lifted my veil carefully, his dark eyes meeting mine for a long moment.

"I love you," he said quietly. "No matter what happens. No matter what name you carry."

"I love you too, Papa."

He kissed my forehead, then placed my hand in Jameson's and stepped back.

And just like that, I was standing next to the man I was about to marry.

Jameson Connelly looked every inch the powerful mafia heir he'd been groomed to be—tall, broad-shouldered, devastatingly handsome in his tailored black suit. His dark hair was perfectly styled, his jaw sharp, his green eyes intense as they met mine.

He looked like every woman's fantasy.

And I wanted to punch him in his perfect face.

The priest began speaking—something about love and commitment and the sacred bond of marriage—but I barely heard him. I was too focused on trying to breathe in this goddamn dress, too aware of how exposed I felt without easy access to my weapons, too conscious of the hundreds of eyes watching us.

"Do you, Jameson Michael Connelly, take Catarina Rose Vitale to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

"I do," Jameson said, his voice steady and confident.

Of course it was. He wasn't the one being sold off like property.

"And do you, Catarina Rose Vitale, take Jameson Michael Connelly to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

I forced myself to meet Jameson's eyes. Forced myself to say the words I'd been practicing for two weeks.

"I do."

The lie tasted bitter on my tongue.

Rings were produced—simple gold bands that felt like shackles as they slid onto our fingers. Jameson's hand was warm, his grip firm as he held mine, and I hated how aware I was of his touch.

"By the power vested in me," the priest said, smiling like this was actually a happy occasion, "I now pronounce you husband and wife."

He paused, and I felt my entire body tense.

"You may now kiss your bride."

Jameson hesitated.

It was only for a second—barely noticeable to anyone else—but I saw it. Saw the way his eyes flicked over my face, taking in my expression, reading the unhappiness I couldn't quite hide.

And I saw the exact moment his jaw tightened.

The exact moment his ego took a hit.

The exact moment he decided to do something about it.

His hands came up to cup my face—not gently, not tenderly, but with a roughness that made my breath catch. His fingers pressed into my cheeks, holding me in place, and then his mouth crashed against mine.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a claim.

Hard, forceful, demanding—his lips moving against mine with an intensity that had nothing to do with affection and everything to do with control. With proving a point. With showing me—and everyone watching—exactly who was in charge now.

I wanted to bite his lip. Wanted to shove him away. Wanted to show him exactly what I thought of his little power play.

But I couldn't.

Because hundreds of people were watching. Because cameras were flashing. Because I was supposed to be the perfect bride, the blushing princess, the woman who was thrilled to be kissing her new husband.

So I stood there and took it, my hands clenched into fists at my sides, my body rigid with barely controlled fury.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes met mine—and there was something dark and satisfied in them. Like he'd won some kind of victory.

I leaned in close, my lips barely moving, my voice a whisper only he could hear.

"Don't ever do that again."

His eyes flashed, but before he could respond, the organ music swelled again and the priest was announcing us to the congregation.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Jameson Connelly!"

Applause erupted through the church—loud, enthusiastic, celebratory.

Jameson took my hand, threading his fingers through mine, and turned us toward the aisle.

I plastered on a smile. The perfect, radiant, blissfully happy bride smile I'd been practicing in the mirror for days.

And we walked.

Hand in hand, husband and wife, the picture of a perfect couple.

The cameras flashed as we passed. People were crying—actually crying—like this was some kind of fairy tale romance instead of a business transaction.

I kept smiling. Kept walking. Kept playing my part.

Because the real show was just beginning.

And I'd be damned if I let Jameson Connelly think he'd won.

---

JAMESON

I stood at the altar and tried not to look as irritated as I felt.

The church was packed—every pew filled with family, associates, business partners, and various hangers-on who wanted to witness the union of the Connelly and Vitale families. The who's who of Chicago's underworld, all dressed up and pretending this was a normal wedding instead of a strategic alliance.

I'd been standing here for twenty minutes, waiting, and I could feel the weight of every single pair of eyes on me.

Especially the female ones.

I'd heard the whispers as people filed in—the sighs, the murmurs, the not-so-subtle comments about how "devastating" it was that Jameson Connelly was finally getting married. I'd even seen a few women actually crying, dabbing at their eyes with tissues like I was some kind of prize they'd just lost.

It would have been flattering if it wasn't so fucking ridiculous.

The organ music shifted, and everyone stood, turning toward the back of the church.

And then I saw her.

Catarina Vitale—no, Catarina Connelly now—walking down the aisle on her father's arm.

The dress was... a lot. White silk and lace, layers of tulle that made her look like she was drowning in fabric, a train that seemed to go on forever. It was traditional, elegant, expensive—exactly the kind of dress you'd expect for a wedding like this.

And she looked absolutely miserable in it.

I could see it in the set of her shoulders, the tightness around her mouth, the way her eyes were fixed straight ahead like she was marching toward her execution instead of her wedding.

What the hell?

She should be thrilled. She was marrying me—Jameson Connelly, heir to one of the most powerful families in Chicago, a man who could give her anything she wanted. She should be glowing, radiant, excited.

Instead, she looked like she'd rather be anywhere else.

The realization hit me like a punch to the gut, and I felt my jaw clench.

Was I really that repulsive? Was the idea of marrying me so terrible that she couldn't even fake happiness for a few hours?

My ego—which I'd never really thought about before—suddenly felt bruised.

She reached the altar, and Carmine lifted her veil. For a brief moment, I saw her face clearly—beautiful, composed, and completely closed off. Then Carmine placed her hand in mine and stepped back.

Her hand was small in mine, her fingers cold despite the warmth of the church.

The priest started talking—the standard wedding ceremony bullshit about love and commitment and till death do us part. I barely heard him. I was too focused on the woman standing next to me, trying to figure out what the hell was going through her mind.

She should be happy. She should be grateful.

Instead, she looked like she was being forced into this against her will.

Which, technically, she was. But so was I, and you didn't see me sulking about it.

"Do you, Jameson Michael Connelly, take Catarina Rose Vitale to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

"I do," I said, my voice steady.

Because I did. Not because I wanted to, but because this was the price of leadership. This was what I had to do to take control of my family.

"And do you, Catarina Rose Vitale, take Jameson Michael Connelly to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

There was a pause—just a fraction of a second—before she answered.

"I do."

But her voice was flat. Emotionless. Like she was reading from a script instead of making a vow.

The rings were exchanged, the gold band sliding onto my finger feeling heavier than it should. I slipped hers onto her hand, and she didn't even look at it. Just kept her eyes fixed somewhere over my shoulder.

"By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife."

The priest smiled at us, completely oblivious to the tension crackling between us.

"You may now kiss your bride."

I hesitated.

Just for a second, I looked at her—really looked at her—and saw the unhappiness written all over her face. The reluctance. The clear desire to be anywhere but here.

And something in me snapped.

I'd done everything right. I'd agreed to this marriage, shown up, said my vows. I was giving her my name, my protection, my family's power and influence.

And she couldn't even pretend to be happy about it.

Fuck that.

My hands came up to cup her face, my fingers pressing into her cheeks harder than necessary. I saw her eyes widen slightly—surprise, maybe, or alarm—but I didn't care.

I crashed my lips against hers.

It wasn't gentle. Wasn't tender. It was rough, forceful, claiming—a kiss that said you're mine now, whether you like it or not.

Her lips were soft beneath mine, but her body was rigid, tense, completely unresponsive. She didn't kiss me back. Didn't melt into me. Just stood there like a statue while I kissed her in front of hundreds of people.

And somehow, that made me even angrier.

I pulled back, my hands still on her face, and met her eyes.

They were blazing with fury.

Good. At least that was something. At least that was real.

She leaned in close, her voice barely a whisper, her lips barely moving.

"Don't ever do that again."

The words hit me like a slap, and I felt my own anger spike in response. But before I could say anything, the priest was speaking again, announcing us to the congregation, and the moment was lost.

I took her hand—because that's what I was supposed to do—and turned us toward the aisle.

She was smiling now. That perfect, radiant, completely fake smile she'd worn at our first meeting. The one that didn't reach her eyes.

We walked down the aisle together, hand in hand, while everyone applauded and cameras flashed and people cried like this was some kind of love story.

It wasn't.

It was a business transaction. A strategic alliance. A marriage of convenience that neither of us wanted.

And I'd just kissed my new wife like I was trying to prove something.

Maybe I was.

Maybe I was trying to prove that I was in control. That I was the one with the power here. That she might be a Vitale princess, but she was my wife now, and that meant something.

Or maybe I was just pissed off that she so clearly didn't want to be here.

Either way, it didn't matter.

We were married now. Legally bound. Stuck with each other whether we liked it or not.

I glanced down at her as we walked, at the perfect smile on her face and the rigid set of her shoulders.

Mrs. Jameson Connelly.

My wife.

And I had absolutely no idea what I'd just gotten myself into.