Chapter 3

"Absolutely."

My voice cut clean through the silence.

Every head turned—first to me, then to Dante as he stepped forward. His limp was there, but it didn't matter. The weight he carried had the whole room holding its breath.

"You sure?" he asked, stopping in front of me. His eyes locked on mine. "Will you marry me?"

Then, quieter, but dead serious—"Once this starts, there's no going back."

"I don't do back." I reached out. "Dante Falcone, I accept."

He took my hand, turned to the crowd, and said, "Papa. Father Antonio. Start the ceremony."

"Dante! Are you insane?" Isabella rushed up, pale and panicked. "You can't do this! This was Marco's—"

"Marco's gone." Dante's voice cut like a blade. "He gave up his claim. Now it's my call."

Alessandro stood, slow and deliberate. His footsteps echoed like thunder across the dead-quiet room.

Every soul held still, waiting on the word of Chicago's underworld Godfather.

"Father Antonio," Alessandro said, voice low and final, "begin the ceremony."

Isabella stared at her husband, devastated. Alessandro didn't even glance her way.

Father Antonio stepped back onstage, hands trembling.

His voice crackled through the mic. "Witnesses, tonight we bear witness to the engagement of Mr. Dante Falcone and Miss Giulia De Luca."

Dante's hand gripped mine—warm, steady. Not like Marco's empty heat. This felt real.

"Dante Falcone, do you accept Giulia De Luca as your fiancée, promising to honor and protect her as your future wife?"

"I do." No pause. No doubt.

"Giulia De Luca, do you accept Dante Falcone as your fiancé, promising to honor and support him as your future husband?"

I met Dante's eyes. Thought of how he stepped in when no one else did.

"I do."

I pulled Marco's ring from my purse and slid it onto Dante's finger. The metal was cold against my skin.

"Didn't see this coming," Dante said softly. "I'll get you a real ring."

I shrugged. "This works." A ring was just a formality.

I gave him a steady smile.

The ballroom erupted in applause—but underneath the claps, I heard it all: shock, confusion, and quiet scheming.

As the ceremony wrapped, Dante's men showed up at the doors—black suits, sharp movements. Ready for anything.

"The car's ready," one of them said, nodding to Dante.

He turned to me. "Let's go."

He pulled out my chair and walked me toward the exit. I caught the slight hitch in his left leg, the pause in every step down the stairs.

"Dante!" Isabella's voice rang out behind us. "We need to talk!"

He didn't turn. Just kept moving—faster.

Outside, a fleet of black, bulletproof cars waited—straight out of a presidential motorcade.

Dante opened the door and helped me in like a perfect gentleman.

When he slid in beside me, I noticed it again—his left leg still moved stiffly, not quite right.

"John Hancock Center," he told the driver.

The car pulled away, Chicago's night lights blurring past the windows.

We sat with a polite distance between us.

"I'm sorry about tonight," he said suddenly. "No woman should've gone through that."

"You don't have to be sorry," I said, turning to him. "You saved me."

"I saved myself," he said quietly. "Marco's screw-up gave me an opening."

I watched him in the dim light.

His features looked even sharper now—cut from shadow and resolve.

Three years ago, that hit nearly erased him from the game. Everyone thought he was finished.

But tonight? The man sitting next to me was calm, controlled—and way more dangerous than he looked.

The car pulled up to a high-rise. Top floor was all his.

Inside—

"It's safe here," he said, handing me a glass of red wine. "You can crash in the guest room. I'll take care of everything else."

I took the glass, feeling the quiet respect in his words.

"Thanks." I met his eyes. "You pulled me out of a wreck tonight."

He held my gaze but stayed silent.

He didn't need to explain.

I already knew why he did it.