Chapter 4: Wedding Day

Three weeks later.

The cathedral smells like roses and lies.

I stand in the bride’s chamber, staring at my reflection in a mirror that’s probably older than the vendetta between our families. The dress is beautiful, I’ll give them that. Ivory silk, hand-beaded lace, a train that goes on forever. Marcella Valenti chose it herself, sent it over with a note that read, “A Valenti bride must look the part.”

Not my bride. Not Elena. A Valenti bride, like I’m already erased.

“You look beautiful, cara.” Aunt Giulia fusses with my veil, her hands shaking. She’s been crying on and off all morning. At least someone has the decency to mourn this.

I haven’t cried. I haven't allowed myself that luxury. Tears are for people who have the option of grief. I’m past options now.

“The cars are ready,” she says softly. “Alessandro is waiting.”

Alessandro. My brother, who’s spent the last three weeks looking like he’s aging in dog years. He found nothing useful in his investigation, just more proof that the Valentis own half of Sicily and the other half is too scared to talk. I didn’t do much better. Father’s secrets died with him, buried under layers of paranoia and blood.

So here we are.

“Give me a minute,” I say.

Aunt Giulia hesitates, then nods and slips out. The moment the door closes, I let myself breathe. Just breathe. In and out, like it’s something I have to remember how to do.

My phone buzzes. A message from an unknown number.

“Still time to run.”

I don’t know who sent it. Dominic, maybe, or one of Alessandro’s contacts. It doesn’t matter. The answer is the same.

I delete the message and turn off the phone.

The cathedral is packed when I arrive. Every family in Sicily is here, dressed in their finest, watching to see if the Romano girl will actually go through with it. Watching to see if I’ll break.

I won’t give them the satisfaction.

Alessandro meets me at the entrance, wearing a black suit that makes him look older than twenty-three. His bruises have faded, but I can still see shadows of them. Proof of what the Valentis think of us.

“Last chance,” he whispers, offering his arm. “Say the word and we run. Right now. I have a car waiting.”

“No.”

“Elena…”

“No.” I take his arm, squeeze hard enough that he’ll feel it. “I’m doing this. We’re doing this. And we’re going to survive it.”

He doesn’t argue. Just nods and leads me forward.

The doors open.

The music starts, something classical and somber. A funeral march, basically. How fitting.

Every head turns. Every eye finds me. I keep my chin up, my expression neutral. They want a show, they’ll get one. Just not the show they’re expecting.

The aisle stretches forever. Candlelight flickers across marble and gold, making shadows dance on the walls. The families sit divided, Valentis on the right, everyone else on the left. Like even in church, we can’t pretend we’re united.

And at the end of the aisle, waiting at the altar like a beautiful nightmare, is Luca.

He’s wearing black. Of course he is. The suit is perfectly tailored, making his shoulders look broader, his presence more commanding. His hair is slicked back, exposing that sharp, cruel face. But it’s his eyes that stop me. Those cold, calculating eyes that have haunted my dreams for three weeks.

He watches me approach with the same expression he had at the funeral. Like I’m something he’s about to acquire. Like I’m already his.

I hate him.

I hate him so much I can taste it, bitter and metallic on my tongue.

Alessandro walks me down that endless aisle, past faces I know and faces I don’t. Past Marcella Valenti, sitting in the front row with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. Past Tommy Bianchi, Luca’s lieutenant, whose gaze on me feels like oil on skin. Past Father Enzo, who won’t meet my eyes.

When we reach the altar, Alessandro’s supposed to give me away. That’s the tradition. But he hesitates, hand tightening on mine.

“Sandro,” I whisper. “Let go.”

“I can’t.”

“You have to.”

For a second, I think he might actually refuse. Might cause a scene right here in front of everyone. But then Luca speaks.

“Alessandro.” His voice is low, controlled. “You’re holding up the ceremony.”

It’s not a request.

Alessandro releases my hand like it burns. He looks at Luca, and something passes between them. A promise, maybe. Or a threat. Then he steps back, leaving me alone at the altar with the man who wants to destroy me.

Luca takes my hand. His fingers are warm, his grip firm. Not rough, not gentle. Just… possessive.

“You came,” he says quietly, for my ears only.

“Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“I thought you might be smarter than this.”

“Disappointed?”

His lips quirk. Not quite a smile. “Intrigued.”

Father Enzo begins the ceremony. Latin words I don’t bother listening to. Blessings for a union that’s already cursed. I focus on staying still, on keeping my expression blank. On not letting anyone see how much I want to run.

Luca doesn’t look away from me. Not once. It’s unnerving, the way he stares. Like he’s memorizing every detail, cataloging every micro-expression. Preparing for something.

“The rings,” Father Enzo says.

Dominic steps forward, holding a velvet box. Inside are two platinum bands, simple and cold. Luca takes the smaller one, and I have to force myself not to flinch when he reaches for my hand.

He slides the ring on slowly. Deliberately. Like he’s claiming territory.

“With this ring,” he says, voice carrying through the cathedral, “I thee wed.”

My turn. My hand shakes slightly as I take his ring, and I know he notices. Now he’s filing it away as weakness. I slide the band onto his finger, feeling the warmth of his skin.

“With this ring,” my voice comes out steadier than I feel, “I thee wed.”

Liar, I think. We’re both liars.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife.” Father Enzo’s voice sounds tired. Defeated. “You may kiss the bride.”

This is it. The moment everyone’s been waiting for. The seal on the deal.

Luca’s hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheek. The gesture looks tender. Loving. But up close, I can see the coldness in his eyes. The calculation.

He leans in slowly, giving me time to understand what’s happening. What does this mean?

When his lips touch mine, it’s not gentle. It’s a brand. A mark of ownership. His other hand finds my waist, pulls me closer, and the kiss deepens into something that makes the crowd murmur. Something that looks like passion but tastes like poison.

When he finally pulls back, there’s something dark and satisfied in his expression.

He leans close, lips brushing my ear as applause echoes through the cathedral.

“Welcome to hell, wife,” he whispers. “I hope you’re ready.”

Then he’s pulling me back down the aisle, past all those watching faces, out into the Sicilian sun that feels too bright after the dimness of the church.

Rice falls like bullets. People cheer. Cameras flash.

And I realize with stunning clarity that this isn’t the wedding.

This is just the beginning of the war.