2 – One piece a day

The gasps and murmurs of shock rippling through the crowd only fueled the man’s resolve, each resolute step he took stoking his determination like a spark to kindling.

He advanced with measured grace, carrying the commanding presence of one who had returned not merely to provoke but to claim what was rightfully his.

“Seems my invitation got lost along the way,” he remarked with a trace of biting irony, halting directly before the bride and groom, his gaze piercing each of them without needing to raise his voice.

“Vincenzo…” Enzo began, his voice faltering.

“Don Vincenzo Lucchese. You’ve forgotten how to address your betters,” Vincenzo cut him off, his tone icy and laced with utter disdain.

“Don?” Cesare echoed, incredulous at the audacity of Vincenzo’s interruption.

“That’s what happens when you leave a job half-done,” Vincenzo replied, his eyes locking onto Cesare with unyielding intensity.

He surveyed the altar, his gaze slicing through the crowd like an invisible blade. When his eyes met Vittoria’s, he tilted his head slightly, assessing her with the cold detachment of one appraising a prized possession.

“Have you lost your mind, boy? What do you think you’re doing?” Don Alfonso barked, stepping forward with the bearing of a man who tolerated no affront.

“I’m taking what has always been mine by right,” Vincenzo declared, his eyes fixed on Vittoria.

She held her breath, caught between the instinct to recoil and the urge to confront him.

Before anyone could react, Vincenzo reached behind his back and drew a gun. Shocked cries erupted through the garden as the few soldiers present drew their weapons in response.

“Keep your men in check. Today’s a special day, and I doubt you want it to mark the start of a war,” Vincenzo taunted, his voice steady and scornful as he cocked the gun and aimed it directly at Enzo, whose composure wavered for a fleeting moment.

“Lower that weapon, Vincenzo,” Cesare commanded, his hand already on his holster, poised to draw at the slightest hint of danger.

“Don Moretti, how about letting the younger men settle this like men?” Vincenzo suggested, his tone sharp and deliberately provocative, his gaze locking onto Enzo with an unmistakable challenge.

With a deliberate, provocative gesture, Vincenzo let the gun slip through his fingers, holding it out toward Enzo as if inviting him to a game with a foregone conclusion.

“Your call, Enzo,” he declared, dangling the weapon before the groom’s face. “We can keep the peace between our families, or you can start the bloodshed now. It makes no difference to me. I want to see who bleeds first.”

“What the hell are you playing at?” Enzo roared, fury overtaking him as he snatched the gun from Vincenzo’s hand and fired a shot into the sky.

Guests shrank back in panic, chairs toppled, and a terrified silence descended over the garden.

A sardonic laugh spilled from Vincenzo’s lips. He seemed genuinely amused by the chaos, especially by the shock frozen on Vittoria’s face as she stood motionless, unable to react.

“Careful,” Vincenzo warned, a faint smile curling his lips. “That’s real. It’d be a shame if you hurt yourself with it.”

“Enough of this nonsense!” Enzo lunged forward, pressing the barrel of the gun against Vincenzo’s chest. “What gives you the right to barge into my wedding and turn it into a circus?”

“Not like that, Enzo,” Vincenzo chided, seizing the barrel and guiding it to his forehead. “This way, my odds of walking out alive drop considerably, but the wreckage that follows. You won’t survive it.” He flashed a chilling smile. “Now, be useful for once in your life and make a choice.” His voice dripped with contempt, as if addressing a boy playing at being a man.

The sharp sound of measured footsteps cut through the air before Enzo could respond.

From the lengthening shadows of the garden, Vincenzo’s soldiers emerged—steadfast, unrelenting, gripping their Tommy guns with eyes locked on their targets.

The metal of their weapons gleamed under the golden glow of chandeliers and torches. Guests scrambled to their feet in desperation, chairs clattered to the ground, and the altar became a powder keg on the verge of ignition.

“Everyone, stay calm,” Vincenzo commanded, his voice unshaken, slicing through the chaos with a menacing serenity. “So, Enzo, I’m ready for your decision.” He continued, as if the gun pressed to his forehead meant nothing. “Pull the trigger, start this war, and watch your famiglia crumble before you can blink. Or step aside and let me take my rightful place at the altar.”

“What?” Vittoria’s voice trembled, finally breaking free from the trance that had gripped her.

The shock etched across her face made it clear she barely grasped what was unfolding.

“Father?” Enzo murmured, his resolve faltering, his eyes darting between the gun and the altar, teetering on the edge of collapse.

“Pathetic,” Vincenzo sneered, wrenching the gun from Enzo’s hands with disdain. “I bet you’d have loved to see him in that car with my father, wouldn’t you, Don Cesare?”

“You’re making a grave mistake, boy,” Cesare warned, exchanging a heavy glance with Alfonso.

Both men radiated barely contained fury. Yet they knew that firing a shot here would give Vincenzo exactly what he wanted: the perfect excuse to ignite a war.

“I’m sealing an alliance,” Vincenzo declared, motioning for Enzo to step aside.

Without the slightest ceremony, almost shoving him, he claimed Enzo’s place at the altar as if it had always been his.

“But of course, I’m a gentleman,” he added, a crooked smile twisting his lips. “So, I leave the choice to you, bella.” His eyes locked onto Vittoria’s, unflinching. “Marry me.”

He cocked the gun with a precise snap before sliding it back into its holster, as if concluding a negotiation that had never faced fundamental opposition.

“No,” Vittoria shot back instantly, without a moment’s hesitation, as if his absurd proposal were nothing more than a cheap taunt.

“Never would I—”

“Not your turn yet, father-in-law,” Vincenzo cut in, not sparing Alfonso a glance, his eyes boring into Vittoria’s. “Let’s try this again, bella,” he murmured, stepping closer, his presence looming larger than any weapon. “Marry me, if you want back what you love most.”

Vittoria shifted on the altar, her desperate eyes scanning the garden for someone, anyone.

Her heart raced as she failed to find what she sought. Her breath caught, trapped in her throat, choked by rising panic.

“Giuliano,” she whispered, the name slipping from her lips like a breath, laden with dread.

Her gaze drifted back to Vincenzo, now filled with a silent terror. She finally grasped what was at stake.

“You have a choice,” Vincenzo stated, his voice calm yet sharp as a blade. “I’m no monster. Marry me, and everything stays peaceful.”

He leaned slowly, his tone almost intimate, his breath brushing her ear.

“But if you choose to honor your vow to Enzo, I’ll accept it with grace. And as a wedding gift, I’ll send your brother back—one piece a day, until silence claims what’s left of him.”