Left at the Altar I Chose the Underground Fighter

At my own wedding, I grabbed New York's most notorious fighter and ran to City Hall. We got married.

"You take the bed."

That night, his old leather jacket landed on the beat-up sofa. It was stained with dried blood and motor oil.

Caspian pushed a bowl of instant convenience-store soup in front of me. He didn't even look back.

I was still dragging my custom-made wedding gown. It was now caked in mud. My lips were pale.

I grabbed the one flimsy pillow from the bed. I threw it at his broad back.

"Get in the bed and sleep. Caspian, we're married."

He was built like a brick wall. He froze.

But he didn't turn around.

His voice was dead calm. Rough like gravel.

"You're angry, Alessia. You want revenge on Julian."

"I don't—"

"I'll wait," he cut me off. His voice was hard, but it held a strange obsession. "I'll wait until you're not."

The wind howled through a broken window. It was freezing.

I curled up on the stiff mattress. My hand clenched around that platinum Cartier cross.

The one I’d ripped from Julian’s neck just hours ago.

The cold diamond broke the skin on my palm.

I buried my face in the covers. I cried myself to sleep.

Through the crack under the door, the light in Caspian’s makeshift room stayed on all night.

A war machine. A psycho fighting to the death for pocket change.

But in this leaky warehouse, he gave me his silent protection.

The next morning, the broken window was sealed tight.

The rusty fridge was filled with my favorite white peach juice.

I had mentioned it just once. That a coffee shop in Manhattan smelled amazing.

The next day, a bag of their best coffee beans sat on the scratched-up table.

Dinner was discount steak we bought from the corner store.

I turned to grab the pepper. Just for a second.

When I looked back, a perfectly cut piece of filet mignon was on my plate.

It was the best part of his steak.

Caspian kept his head down. He chewed on the gristly edges left on his own plate. He didn't even glance at me.

My eyes burned.

A beast who only knew fists and blood was carefully stitching my shattered pride back together.

It was too much. I could never repay him.

I couldn't accept it.

The third afternoon, the roar of an engine shattered the quiet.

Three black, armored SUVs screeched to a halt outside.

The door opened. Julian. In that same expensive suit, with that same untouchable Don attitude. His leather shoes stepped right into a muddy puddle.

"Alessia, open the door. Stop this nonsense."

He spoke to the locked iron door. His voice was so sure of itself. It made me sick.

"Seraphina is just politics. A business deal for the Gallo smuggling routes. You know our world. Business comes first."

He lit a Cuban cigar.

"Come with me. I bought you the penthouse on Central Park West. You're still my only woman."

I pressed my back against the rusty door. I was afraid to even breathe too loud.

What did he think I was? Some toy he could hide away?

I closed my eyes. All I could see was Caspian giving me the best piece of his steak.

I couldn't open this door.

I couldn't do that to Caspian.

Julian waited outside for a long time.

He finally lost his patience when the sky went dark. He swore and sped off.

An hour later, Caspian came home.

He had a cheap bandage over his eyebrow. The skin on his knuckles was raw and bloody. He reeked of the fight pit. That suffocating smell of sweat and blood.

He stopped at the door. He stared at the messy Maybach tire tracks in the mud.

He didn't ask a thing.

He just washed the blood off his hands and poured me a glass of milk.

A few days later, an old man in a perfect suit knocked on the door. He looked like a butler from some old European family.

He handed Caspian a letter. It was sealed with the wax crest of an ancient Sicilian family.

Caspian read it. His jaw tightened.

That night, he sat on the steps outside the warehouse. He smoked all night long.

The next morning, for the first time, he opened my door.

He walked to my bed and tucked the blanket around me.

In the dim light, he looked me straight in the eyes.

"Family business. I have to go back for a bit." His voice was low.

My heart sank.

Was the Valenti family coming after him?

Was he in deep trouble because of me?

"Be safe," I managed to say.

He stood up and gave me one last, long look. "Wait for me."

He left. On the table, he’d left an unmarked, untraceable black card.

As he walked out, the old homeless woman next door grabbed my arm. "My God! That black motorcade that just picked up your man… those license plates were diplomatic. Untouchable. Straight out of Sicily!"

I stared at the empty alley. A sick feeling grew in my stomach.

I thought he was just laying low.

But trouble was never done with me.

Three days after Caspian left.

The lock on the door was kicked in.

Julian walked in, shaking rain from his handmade shoes. He had eight bodyguards with him.

He looked around the ruined warehouse. A smirk on his face.

"Your fighter husband ran for his life, Alessia?"

He locked the door behind him. He backed me into a corner.

"Now, there's no one else here. Let's talk about your father's ten-thousand-dollar-a-day hospital bill."