003

Serafina De Luca:

For three long seconds, Vincenzo Marazona did nothing but stare at me.

The applause around us slowly died.

One by one, the clapping hands lowered.

A strange discomfort spread through the cathedral like smoke.

Because something in the groom’s face had shifted.

The cold indifference was gone.

In its place stood something far more terrifying.

Pure rage.

His eyes sharpened on me as if he could burn straight through the silk of my gown and pull answers from my bones.

Then his gaze flicked toward my father.

Then Rosalina.

Then back to me.

His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked.

When he spoke, his voice came out low.

Deadly.

“Who the hell is this?”

The priest blinked.

“Huh?”

That was all the poor man managed before Vincenzo turned his head with such frightening slowness that even I forgot how to breathe.

“I asked,” Vincenzo said, every word cut from ice, “who the hell is standing in front of me?”

Silence.

Absolute silence.

No organ music.

No whispers.

No movement.

The black-clad men lining the cathedral walls shifted almost imperceptibly, as though awaiting a command.

My bouquet slipped from my numb fingers and landed on the marble floor with a soft thud.

Rosalina rose too quickly from her seat.

“Mr. Marazona—”

“Shut up.”

Two simple words.

Rosalina sat back down.

Actually sat.

As if the force of his voice had physically pushed her.

I stared at him.

This close, he looked even less human.

His face was carved in fury, eyes black and merciless, every inch of him radiating a violence so controlled it felt worse than shouting.

My father gave a weak laugh and stepped forward.

“There seems to be a little misundersta—”

Vincenzo moved.

I didn’t even see him reach inside his jacket.

One second his hand was empty.

The next—

A gun.

Silver.

Cold.

Pressed directly against my father’s forehead.

A collective gasp exploded through the cathedral.

Mirabella screamed.

The priest made a strangled noise and nearly tripped over his own robes trying to back away behind the altar.

Rosalina clutched her pearls.

The guests scattered from the front pews as if death itself had stepped into the aisle.

I stopped breathing.

My father’s face drained white.

“M-Mr. Marazona—”

“You lying bastard.”

Vincenzo’s voice was terrifyingly calm.

Not loud.

Not hysterical.

Just calm enough to promise murder.

“I specifically requested Mirabella De Luca.”

He shoved the gun harder against Father’s temple.

Father whimpered.

Actually whimpered.

“And you send me…” Vincenzo’s eyes cut toward me with visible disgust and confusion. “…this?”

My knees shook.

My lips parted.

No sound came.

I wanted to explain.

Wanted to say I hadn’t done this.

Wanted to say I hadn’t even known.

But terror had wrapped both hands around my throat.

Rosalina stood again, hands raised.

“Please, Mr. Marazona, let us explain—”

“Explain?” Vincenzo barked a dark laugh that held no humor. “Explain how you thought replacing my bride with a different woman was a smart business decision?”

Mirabella began crying loudly.

“This is insane! Mother, do something!”

“Shut her up,” Vincenzo snapped.

Immediately, one of the black-suited men moved, standing beside Mirabella with enough menace that she clamped both hands over her mouth.

I stared.

What kind of family was this?

What kind of man was this?

Father’s entire body trembled beneath the gun.

“We thought…” he stammered. “We thought any daughter would suffice—”

The punch came out of nowhere.

Vincenzo lowered the gun just long enough to slam his fist into Father’s jaw.

A sick crack echoed through the cathedral.

Father crashed to the floor with a groan.

I screamed.

The sound ripped out of me before I could stop it.

Vincenzo looked down at him like he was filth.

“Any daughter?” he repeated softly.

Then he grabbed Father by the collar and hauled him back upright with terrifying ease.

“I do not conduct deals with substitutions.”

My vision blurred.

The cathedral tilted.

This was too much.

Too loud.

Too violent.

Father bleeding.

Rosalina crying.

Mirabella shaking.

Black suits.

Gun.

Vincenzo Marazona.

My stomach lurched violently.

A hand flew to my mouth.

No.

No no—

I turned sideways just in time.

I threw up all over the marble floor beside the altar.

The acidic burn hit my throat and tears flooded my eyes.

Humiliation struck instantly.

Oh God.

Oh God.

I had just vomited at my own wedding.

The entire church seemed to freeze.

Even Vincenzo paused.

I wiped my mouth with trembling fingers, breathing in ragged little gasps.

“I…” I swallowed hard, tasting bile. “Father…”

My voice sounded far away.

Tiny.

Broken.

“I think…” My knees buckled. “I think I’m sick…”

The last thing I saw was Vincenzo turning toward me.

For one strange second, the murderous rage on his face shifted into startled disbelief.

Then darkness swallowed me whole.

---

…Did I seriously faint at my wedding?

Please tell me I did not just vomit, embarrass myself, and collapse in front of a homicidal billionaire in one single morning.

Because if I did—

I might as well stay unconscious forever.

“Ma’am… Ma’am, can you hear me?”

The voice floated toward me through a thick fog.

I groaned.

My eyelids felt like stone as I forced them apart inch by inch, blinking against the soft golden light pouring through tall curtains.

The ceiling above me was unfamiliar.

Cream-colored.

Detailed with gold carvings.

Definitely not the damp cracked ceiling of my bedroom at the De Luca mansion.

For one confused second, I simply stared.

Then the pounding in my head returned.

Memories crashed in.

I made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a whimper.

A man in a white coat leaned into view.

Salt-and-pepper hair.

Round glasses.

A stethoscope.

A doctor.

“Easy,” he said. “No sudden movements.”

I pushed myself up anyway.

Pain stabbed through my skull.

“Father…”

The doctor paused.

“Oh, he’s not here.”

I blinked.

My throat felt dry.

“W-what?”

He checked the pulse at my wrist calmly as though I had not just asked about the man who sold me.

“Your blood pressure is unstable, you are severely malnourished, and from the tenderness in your abdomen I strongly suspect you have an untreated ulcer.”

I stared at him.

Of all the things he could have said, that was not one of the things I expected.

“I…” I swallowed. “I’m sorry, what?”

He sighed and scribbled something on a chart.

“You need proper food, rest, and significantly less emotional distress, although I suspect the last one is impossible in this household.”

Household?

My heart dropped.

I looked around fully now.

The room was enormous.

Far too luxurious to be a hospital.

Silk drapes.

Antique lamps.

A carved king-sized bed.

Fresh flowers arranged on a marble table.

Everything smelled faintly of cedarwood and expensive polish.

No machines.

No nurses.

No hospital walls.

I whipped back to him.

“Oh God.” Panic flooded me all over again. “I’m not in the hospital?”

The doctor chuckled.

“No.”

My fingers tightened around the blanket.

“The wedding—” My voice cracked. “What about the wedding? Did… did he kill my father?”

That made him laugh outright.

Not kindly.

More like a man who had seen too much chaos to be shocked by another.

“Of course not,” he said. “Though your father is certainly paying the price for his dishonesty.”

I went still.

Paying the price?

I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what that meant.

The doctor snapped his chart shut.

“Well. Now that you’re awake, I’ll have a nurse or maid attend to you.”

“Wait.”

He turned.

I swallowed nervously.

“W-where am I?”

He gave me a long look.

As if surprised I hadn’t figured it out already.

“The Marazona Estate.”

I blinked.

Then blinked again.

Surely I had misheard.

“The… what?”

“The Marazona Estate,” he repeated with maddening calm. “More specifically, the Visitors’ Villa.”

My mouth fell open.

“Huh?”

“You are to stay here until your condition improves.”

I stared.

My brain refused to catch up.

The Marazona Estate?

As in Vincenzo Marazona’s house?

No.

No no no.

This was somehow much worse than a hospital.

The doctor continued, “You are also not permitted to leave.”

I made a choking sound.

“Not… permitted?”

He smiled sympathetically.

The kind of smile people give trapped animals.

“Oh. You poor thing. No one told you?”

Told me what?

He tucked the chart under his arm.

“Please do not wander. Someone will be sent to assist you.”

And then he left.

Just like that.

Leaving me upright in a giant unfamiliar bed wearing a wedding dress that suddenly felt ten times tighter.

I stared at the closed door.

The Marazona Estate.

Not permitted to leave.

Visitors’ Villa.

My breathing quickened.

No.

This was temporary.

It had to be temporary.

Maybe Vincenzo Marazona was sending me back once he was done murdering my father financially.

Maybe this was all just a holding arrangement.

Maybe—

The door opened.

I jumped.

A young maid stepped in carrying a tray.

Unlike the maids at home, she wore a neat black uniform with white gloves and an expression so neutral it bordered on robotic.

She dipped her head.

“Madame.”

I blinked.

“Huh?”

She looked up politely.

“Do you require anything, Madame?”

I stared harder.

Madame?

Was she talking to me?

I glanced behind myself as if another woman might be sitting in the room.

There was no one.

“Oh,” I said intelligently. “Me?”

“Yes, Madame.”

I swallowed.

This was deeply unsettling.

“Uh… yes?” My hands twisted together nervously. “Actually yes. C-can you help me out of this dress? It’s… really tight.”

“Of course.”

She set the tray down and moved efficiently, fingers working through the endless hooks and buttons at my back.

As the corset loosened, I sucked in a relieved breath.

I hadn’t realized how much it was crushing me.

The maid carefully peeled the wedding gown away.

White silk slid to the floor in a heap.

I stared at it.

That stupid beautiful dress.

A few hours ago it had represented the end of my life.

Now it looked like evidence from a crime scene.

The maid returned with a loose cream house gown made of soft cotton.

“Please wear this, Madame.”

I slipped into it with her help.

The fabric was simple compared to the wedding dress, but heavenly against my aching skin.

When she guided me back to sit on the edge of the bed, I immediately began biting my nails.

A terrible habit.

One Rosalina beat me for constantly.

I couldn’t stop.

My mind was racing too fast.

“So…” I said after a moment, voice trembling. “Uhm… what do I do now?”

The maid folded her hands in front of her apron.

“The Matriarch will decide.”

I lowered my hand slowly from my mouth.

“The what?”

“The Matriarch.”

She said it like everyone on earth should know what that meant.

I did not.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “What exactly is a matriarch?”

The maid looked at me with something dangerously close to pity.

“Madame Donna Marazona.”

The name landed with ominous weight.

“She will decide your fate.”

I nearly swallowed my own tongue.

“My… fate?”

“Yes, Madame.”

I laughed nervously.

A high, broken little sound.

“Oh Christ.”

The maid did not react.

I rubbed sweaty palms over the thin gown.

“Who… who is Donna Marazona?”

There was a tiny pause.

Then:

“Your soon-to-be, perhaps, mother-in-law.”

My heart stopped.

Mother-in-law.

I stared at her.

She continued in the same respectful monotone that somehow made everything scarier.

“The head of the Marazona family. The Matriarch of this estate. Mr. Vincenzo Marazona’s mother.”

A violent shiver went through me.

Of course.

Of course a man like Vincenzo Marazona would come from an even scarier woman.

Naturally.

Because why should my life contain one manageable problem when it could contain several homicidal Italians at once?

I licked suddenly dry lips.

“And… and what happens if she doesn’t like me?”

The maid looked me directly in the eye for the first time.

I instantly regretted asking.

“I would advise,” she said carefully, “that Madame Donna likes very little.”

Oh.

Oh, wonderful.

Absolutely wonderful.

I was trapped in a mafia estate, illegally married to a murderous stranger, my father was apparently “paying the price,” and now some terrifying family empress was about to decide whether I lived or died.

This was fine.

This was completely fine.

I was definitely not one inconvenience away from passing out a second time.