THE WEDDING THAT BURNED

LILIANA'S POV

“Breathe,” I whisper to myself, but the veil clings to my lips like a curse.

The church smells of roses and wealth. Every guest stares at me like I’m some prize being paraded, not a bride walking toward her future. My heels click against marble, steady, even though my knees threaten to buckle.

Ethan waits at the altar. Perfect suit, perfect smile, but his eyes… cold, calculating. I know that look. It’s the one he uses when he’s hiding something.

“Liliana,” he mouths as I reach him. His hand takes mine, firm, almost bruising.

“You’re late,” he mutters under his breath.

“I had to fix my veil,” I whisper back.

His eyes flick down my body, disapproval sharp. “You should’ve asked your sister. She always gets it right.”

There it is again. The knife in my gut. Always her. Always Charlotte.

The priest clears his throat, but Ethan doesn’t let go of my hand. He squeezes harder, as if to remind me that I’m his. My smile trembles.

I hear my mother’s voice in the front row: “She was the mistake, the unplanned one.” Her eyes shine with pride, but not for me, never for me. Always for Charlotte, the perfect one.

I force my gaze back to Ethan, desperate. This is it, Liliana. This marriage is all you have. Don’t ruin it.

The priest begins. “We are gathered here today....”

Bang!!

The doors slam open.

Gasps ripple across the church as men in black storm inside, rifles raised. Screams echo, heels scrape marble, guests scatter like pigeons.

“Down! Everyone down!” one of them roars.

My heart stops.

Gunfire explodes. The stained glass windows shatter, raining colored shards over white flowers. The priest ducks. Bridesmaids scream. My brother pulls my mother to the ground.

And Ethan, Ethan shoves me toward the altar and dives behind it, leaving me standing there in the open.

“Ethan!” I cry out, but he doesn’t look back. He hides. He fucking hides.

“Grab her,” a deep voice commands.

I turn.

He walks in like he owns the place. Broad shoulders under a tailored black suit, dark eyes that slice through the chaos. His presence is heavier than the gunfire.

Dante Morreti.

I know that name. Whispers. Mafia. Blood. Power. The devil of New York.

His gaze pins me in place. My chest tightens, breath shallow.

“She’s the bride?” he asks, almost amused.

“Yes, Boss,” one of his men answers.

“Pretty little thing,” Dante murmurs, eyes raking me head to toe. “Shame she belongs to a coward.”

“Who the hell are you?” Ethan shouts from behind the altar, his voice shaking.

Dante smirks, not even looking at him. “The man who’s about to ruin your life.”

Gunshots ring again. Guests scream louder. My bouquet slips from my fingers.

Two men grab me by the arms. I kick, scream, thrash. “Let me go!”

Dante steps closer, towering over me. His hand grips my chin, tilting my face up. His thumb brushes my trembling lip. “Fear looks good on you, doll.”

I spit in his face.

Gasps around us.

His men tense, waiting for his reaction.

Dante only chuckles. Low. Dark. Dangerous. “Fiery. I like that.”

“Boss, should we....?”

“No,” Dante cuts him off. He wipes the spit with his thumb and licks it clean. His eyes never leave mine. “She’s coming with me.”

“Please!” I scream, twisting toward Ethan. “Do something!”

Ethan peeks over the altar, pale and shaking. His lips part, but no words come. His hands tremble too much to even lift a weapon.

Pathetic.

Dante laughs, loud enough for everyone to hear. “That’s your man? Hiding while his bride begs? Christ, doll, you deserve better.”

“I don’t want you!” I snarl.

“You don’t have a choice.”

His men drag me down the aisle. My heels skid against marble. My veil rips. My screams bounce off the holy walls.

“Liliana!” Charlotte shouts, but someone holds her back.

I thrash harder. “Ethan!”

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t try.

Coward.

Dante leans close as I’m hauled past him, his breath warm against my ear. “Say goodbye to your prince, doll. The devil’s claimed you now.”

I scream until my throat burns, until the church disappears, until the night air swallows me whole.

The car reeks of leather and gunpowder. My wrists burn against the zip ties. Two men flank me, rifles across their laps.

“Let me out!” I shout, kicking the door.

“Knock her out,” one mutters.

“No,” Dante’s voice cuts from the front. “Let her fight. I like the sound of her screaming.”

I freeze.

He turns, dark eyes glinting in the dim light. “Besides, we’ll be home soon.”

“Home?” My voice cracks. “This isn’t my home. I’m not yours.”

He smiles like a wolf. “Oh, doll, you’ll learn.”

I lunge forward, teeth bared, aiming to bite his arm when he turns fully. But a hand grips my hair, yanking me back against the seat.

“Fiesty,” Dante murmurs, watching me struggle. “Keep that fire. I’ll enjoy breaking it.”

The car speeds into the night, city lights fading behind us.

When I wake, it’s to silk sheets and iron bars.

I jolt upright. The room is dark, vast, the chandelier above glowing faint. My wrists are free now, but the door is locked, heavy, guarded.

And he’s there.

Dante Morreti, leaning against the doorway, cigarette between his lips, eyes fixed on me.

“You look better in my bed than in that church,” he says lazily.

My pulse slams. “Where the fuck am I?”

“My house.” He exhales smoke, slow, deliberate. “Your cage.”

“I’m not your prisoner!”

He smirks. “Sweetheart, you’re not just my prisoner. You’re my property.”

I grab the nearest thing, a lamp and hurl it at him. It crashes against the wall.

Dante only laughs. “Good girl. Fight me. I’ll break you piece by piece.”

My chest heaves, fury choking me. “I hate you.”

He steps into the room, smoke swirling around him, his shadow swallowing me whole.

“Then hate me in my bed, doll,” he murmurs. “Because you’re not leaving it anytime soon.”