Chapter 2

Tiziano's POV

Tiziano Vescari had been planning this wedding for three months, and he had not smiled once during any of it.

He stood at the altar in his black suit with his hands folded in front of him and his eyes on the door at the end of the long marble hall. The candles were too warm. The flowers smelled too sweet. The priest was sweating, and it was not because of the heat. Everyone in this room knew what kind of man Tiziano was. Everyone in this room knew what happened to people who crossed him. The priest had been paid twice his usual f*e to say the words quickly and not ask questions.

The doors opened, and the music started, and Serafina walked in.

She was small. He had known she would be small, because he had seen photographs and he had read reports, but seeing her in person was different. She looked like a child playing dress-up in her mother’s clothes. The white dress was too heavy for her. The roses in her hands were too big. Her face was pale and round, and her brown eyes were wide, and she walked with her head down like a lamb being led to the block.

He felt nothing. He had not felt anything in a long time. Not since his father died. Not since he took over the family and learned that feeling things was a weakness that got men killed. He had trained himself to be empty. It made the killing easier.

She reached him and stopped, and the priest began to speak, and Tiziano looked at her face and thought about how simple this would be. She would say yes. She would hold his hand. She would walk to the wedding room with him, and then, before the sun came up, she would be dead. He would put her body somewhere the Moretti family would find it, and the war would finally have a reason to burn, and everyone would believe that the Moretti family had killed the Don’s bride as an insult.

It was a good plan. Clean. Simple. No loose ends.

The priest asked her the question, and she said, “Yes,” and her voice was soft and polite and exactly what he expected.

And then he heard something.

It was not a sound from the room. The room was silent except for the priest. It was not a whisper from the guests or a sound from outside. It was a voice inside his own head, loud and clear and close, like someone was standing right behind his ear and speaking directly into it.

The voice said: Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no, no.

Tiziano blinked. He looked at the priest. The priest had not reacted. He looked at the guests. They were watching with polite, empty faces. No one else had heard it.

The voice spoke again.

This is wrong. This is all wrong. Who are these people? Where is my phone? Why am I wearing this ugly dress? It weighs a hundred pounds. I cannot feel my toes. And who is this man holding my hand? He looks like he wants to kill me. Wait. Wait, wait, wait. That is Tiziano Vescari. That is the man from the book. I am in the book. I am Serafina. I am going to die tonight.

Tiziano’s hand tightened around hers without his permission. His heart, which had been beating slow and steady, now beat harder. He stared at her face, at her polite little smile, at her calm brown eyes, and he understood something that made no sense at all.

Her mouth was not moving. Her face was not changing. But the voice was coming from her. He could feel it. He could feel the shape of her thoughts pressing against the inside of his skull like a hand against a window.

Okay, calm down, Alessandria. Calm down. Maybe this is a dream. Maybe you ate too many noodles and you are dreaming. But if this is a dream, why does this dress feel so heavy? Why does this man’s hand feel so real? Why can I smell roses and wax and someone’s bad breath? Okay. You are in a book. You are in a mafia book. You are married to a murderer. This is fine. This is totally fine.

Alessandria. Her name was Alessandria. Not Serafina. Alessandria. She was not the woman he had researched and planned to kill. She was someone else. Someone from somewhere else. Someone who knew she was inside a book.

Tiziano felt something move in his chest. It was not a good feeling. It was not a bad feeling either. It was something he had not felt in years, and it took him a moment to recognize it.

Interest.

The priest was still talking, but Tiziano was not listening. He was listening to her. He could not stop. The voice in his head was like nothing he had ever heard.

He looks like a god of death. A very beautiful god of death. If he was not going to kill me, I would let him kiss me. I would probably let him do more than kiss me. Look at his hands. Those are hands that could do things. Dirty things. I want to know what those hands would feel like on my—

Tiziano almost choked. He almost laughed. He had not laughed in years, and now he had to fight to keep his face cold and still while a woman he had never met thought about his hands in a way that made his whole body feel tight.

Okay, focus. Stop thinking about his face. Stop thinking about his lips. Stop thinking about what his lips would feel like on your neck.

He could feel her eyes on his neck. He could feel the heat in her thoughts. She wanted him. She was scared of him. She was planning to kill him if she could. And she wanted him anyway.

This woman was not weak. This woman was not quiet. This woman was a storm inside a calm sky, and she was standing at the altar with her hand in his, and she had no idea that every word she thought was landing in his head like a stone in still water.

The priest asked him the question, and Tiziano said, “I do,” and his voice came out steady and cold like it always did.

But inside, everything was different.

He had planned to kill her. He had planned to put her body where the Moretti family would find it and let the war burn. But now he could not do that. He could not kill the woman whose mind was so alive. He could not silence the only voice that had made him feel something in years.

He would keep her alive. He would keep her close. He would listen to every thought she tried to hide. And he would find out who she really was, and where she came from, and how a woman from another world had ended up in the body of his dead bride.

The priest said something about a blessing. The guests stood. Tiziano turned to her and took both her hands, and she looked up at him with those wide brown eyes, and her thoughts came to him clear and loud.

Please do not kill me. I just want to go home. I just want to eat noodles and read my book and not be murdered by a man with beautiful hands.

He leaned down and kissed her cheek, because it was expected, and her skin was warm under his lips, and her thoughts were so loud that he almost pulled back in surprise.

Oh god, his mouth is on my skin. His mouth is on my skin and I am going to die. Not because he is going to kill me. Because my heart is going to stop. Stop it, heart. Stop it right now. Do not fall for the murderer. Do not fall for the man who is going to put you in a shallow grave.

Tiziano straightened up and looked at her, and for the first time in years, he had to fight to keep his face blank.

He was not going to kill her. He was going to keep her. He was going to protect her. And he was going to listen to every dirty, scared, funny thought that crossed her mind.

She was his wife now. And she had no idea what she had just walked into.