Chapter 2: Fainted At The Altar

Ciara’s POV

I stepped out of my room, and there she was, Inara, leaning against the wall like she owned the hallway, bridesmaid dress hugging her curves in a way that screamed “fuck your dress code.”

The second she saw me, her eyes lit up like she’d just spotted fresh prey.

“Holy fuck, Ciara. You look like a vengeful goddess ready to chop heads instead of toss petals...Jasper’s gonna see you coming and know he’s the one getting fucked today...metaphorically, at least.”

I laughed and it burst out real, easing the twist in my stomach for the first time all day.

“You’re full of shit,” I said, but I was smiling wide.

“Full of shit? Nah.” She hooked her arm in mine, pulling me down the long corridor. “You’re straight out of a twisted fairy tale, the princess who poisons her prince with a smile. All these assholes waiting in the church think they’re bagging a trophy. But you? You’ll have them on their knees begging.”

I smiled, grateful that she's here with me despite all odds. I didn’t have any friends. Not anymore. Not after Luca...that dumb, sweet boy who confessed in school with a stolen flower and shaky kisses in hidden corners and we barely touched before they caught us.

Since then, school stopped immediately and they brought me home tutors and the gates locked tighter. My mom scared off every girl who tried to visit, calling them risks, distractions. Everyone ghosted except Inara. She was family by old blood ties, wild enough to climb walls, bribe guards, and stick around no matter the threats. She was my only chaos in the cage.

We walked slowly, guards nodding silent. Inara’s voice dropped low, gossip flowing dirty and sharp.

“Check out Aunt Rosa waddling around. Lips pumped like sausages ready to burst.. you know her husband’s been railing the housekeeper for years. She knows, says nothing because he owns the ports. Super romantic, huh? Bet she fakes moans louder than her cries at night.”

I snorted, biting my lip to hold the laugh as doors swung open ahead.

“And,” she muttered in Italian, “la famiglia Ricci.(The Ricci family. ) The wife slept with her husband’s cousin, the daughter sells pills at university, and the son cries when he loses at cards.”

I almost laughed. “Inara.”

“What? Facts are facts.”

Her wild sarcasm hit perfect, funny, vicious, and turning the heavy air light. For those minutes, the nausea faded. The fear in my belly quieted. Inara made the whole fucked-up day feel like a bad comedy instead of a trap.

We hit the cathedral gardens. Guests swarmed, expensive suits, diamonds flashing, cigar smoke thick.

This wasn’t a romantic wedding, it was politics in pretty wrapping. Mafia families grouped tight, smiles hiding deals, eyes scanning for blood or weakness. Alliances locked today, or broken.

People approached. Family first though.

Uncle Vito lumbered up, “Ciara, you look strong. Proud of you. Jasper’s a good match, runs the eastern ports like a wolf. No one crosses him twice.”

I nodded, smiled politely. “Thank you, Uncle.”

Aunt Sofia hugged quick, perfume strong. “Be smart, girl. This life eats the weak.”

Then the women. A pack of them... wives, daughters from rival-ish allies. Eyes raked me head to toe, judging everything.

Valentina Russo led, diamonds heavy around her neck, face pulled tight from surgeons. Smile fake sweet.

“Ciara, darling. Lovely dress. You look so... innocent. Young. Like a little doll. Hope you’re prepared for Jasper. He’s not the gentle type. Men like him take what they need. Wives learn to stay quiet. Smile through it all.”

The pack snickered soft behind her and I wanted to keep quiet but this woman had been hitting me for long,

“Thanks for the tip, Valentina,” I said, voice sugar-sweet with venom underneath.

“I’ve mastered smiling while plotting revenge. Comes easy to dolls like me. And hey...at least I look young. You look... worn out. That filler holding up okay, or is your face about to slide off from all the faking?”

Snickers died, faces froze and Valentina’s eyes narrowed like I’d knifed her.

One crony hissed, “Watch your tongue, girl. Mafia wives don’t snap back. You should know your role, you've been taught to be silent, obedient. Learn it quickly, or someone will beat it into you.”

Inara stepped up fast, grin feral, voice dripping filth.

“Oh, shut the fuck up. If a mafia wife’s ‘role’ is gagging on silence while her man bangs half the city and buries the other half, then sign me up for single life...I’ll fuck who I want, when I want, and actually come screaming."

Everyone was shocked at her outbursts but I knew she wasn't done with them

" You bitches are just jealous. Ciara’s young, hot as hell, locking down a real boss like Jasper who crushes skulls for breakfast. What do your husbands crush? Their sad little dicks trying to last five minutes? Go inject more poison in your faces...maybe it’ll fix the bitterness from never getting properly railed.”

The women flushed ugly red, mouths gaping like fish drowning in air. A few men nearby coughed into fists, hiding smirks.

Valentina stormed off first, muttering “trash” under her breath.

Inara winked at me. “Told you...be lethal.”

I was still grinning, fierce and alive, when the music rose and it was time.

The nausea slunk back, quiet but there. But with Inara beside me, I felt dangerous for a moment and almost ready to face him.

My father appeared at my side looking ready and swallowed as everyone moved into the church to wait for the bride.

My father, Don Dagon, tall, iron-gray, the kind of man who entered rooms and made conversations die. I barely saw him. Meetings in his study were rare, always brief, always about duty. Today he looked at me once, eyes unreadable, and offered his arm.

“Fai onore alla famiglia,” he said low in Italian, voice like gravel. “Metti la famiglia al primo posto.”(Make the family proud. Put family first.)

I nodded, throat tight. “Sì, Papà,” I whispered, the words small and obedient.

His arm was solid under my hand, but it felt cold and distant and as the door opened and everything came into view, I didn't feel special, I was like a cargo being delivered, not a daughter being given away.

We stepped into the church and hundreds of eyes turned. The aisle stretched forever, white runner, flowers arching overhead, whispers rippling and beautiful music playing.

I felt exposed, weighed, and judged. Not married but delivered. Packaged and handed over to seal deals written in blood long before I could walk.

Jasper waited at the altar. He looked good. Tall, dark suit cut perfectly, face handsome in that controlled, lethal way.

He gave me the kind of smile that promised pleasure and pain in equal measure. His eyes locked on mine and they looked possessive and hungry. A real boss. The man who crushed rivals without blinking.

I reached him, and my father placed my hand into Jasper’s.

It was firm and final... more like a transfer.

He didn’t linger. He stepped back without looking at me again.

The officiant’s voice filled the space, steady and practiced, words flowing past me. Vows followed, familiar lines drilled into me long before I understood what they meant. I repeated them obediently, my voice soft but clear.

“I take you, Jasper… to have and to hold… in sickness and in health… till death do us part.”

Each word settled heavier than the last.

My hands trembled as the rings were exchanged. Cold metal slid onto my finger, smooth and unforgiving.

Jasper’s fingers brushed mine, deliberate, and possessive. His grip tightened just slightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me that this was real. His smile deepened, confident, and satisfied, like he already owned every breath I took.

The officiant smiled warmly.

“You may now kiss the bride.”

I stepped forward.

My heart began to pound too hard and fast. The edges of my vision blurred, light smearing unnaturally. A sharp wave of nausea rolled through me, sudden and disorienting. I swallowed, forced myself to breathe slowly, told my body to behave.

Not now.

Not today.

I leaned closer and our lips were only inches apart when the world tilted.

Black spots burst across my sight. My knees gave way without warning, strength draining from my body like it had been cut loose. I felt myself falling, veil fluttering uselessly as I collapsed right there in front of everyone.

The floor hit hard and gasps erupted, chairs scraped and voices shouted my name. Jasper cursed sharply somewhere above me as hands reached out, but it was too late.

Darkness rushed in and swallowed everything.

And in that final slipping moment, my last thought was small and frightened and painfully timid.

Please don’t let them be disappointed in me.

Please don’t let the family hate me for this.

How will they ever forgive me?