3 – A silent pact

Vittoria’s stomach churned, each of Vincenzo’s words reverberating within her like an inescapable verdict.

Her legs buckled, her body wavered, and for a moment, she nearly collapsed. Nearly, because, in a cruel twist of irony, it was the arms of the man threatening her that steadied her.

As if fate itself wanted to make it abundantly clear, one final time, who truly held the reins.

“You were made to be in my arms. Say yes, bella,” Vincenzo murmured, settling her at the altar with the assurance of a victor who knew the battle was won. Every gesture staked his claim, sealing a fate from which there was no escape.

Vittoria sought her father’s gaze, a silent cry for rescue, a last plea against the cage closing around her.

But deep down, even before he uttered a word, she knew. There was only one possible answer to Vincenzo’s proposal, and it wasn’t freedom.

“No way in hell will I allow this,” Alfonso roared, yanking Vittoria to his side with a force that clung to the illusion he could still shield her from the inevitable. “You’ll touch her only over my dead body. And I swear to God, I’ll drag you down with me.”

“So be it, then,” Vincenzo replied, his tone unshaken as he reached for his holster and drew his gun with precision.

“Say hello to Rocco in hell!” Alfonso bellowed, his eyes ablaze, hatred spilling over as he aimed his weapon at the man who dared defy him.

“Papà, no!” Vittoria cried, lunging forward and placing herself between Alfonso and Vincenzo, her trembling body a human shield. “He has Giuliano…” she whispered, her words erupting into the air like a silent gunshot.

Alfonso’s eyes widened. His finger faltered on the trigger, and for a moment, the world around them seemed to freeze.

“I have to do this,” Vittoria declared, her voice thick, nearly choking as she fought back tears and her collapse.

“You damn bastard…” Alfonso growled, shoving Vittoria behind him with an instinctive motion. His eyes bore into Vincenzo like daggers. “You can turn this place into hell, a sea of blood, if you want, but one thing I guarantee: you won’t leave here alive.”

“Then get it over with,” Vincenzo taunted, a cynical smile carving his lips like a scar. “But know this—there’ll still be enough Lucchese left to finish what I started.”

Maintaining his provocative stance, he holstered his gun with the same calm as one folding a winning hand. To him, all this tension seemed little more than sport.

A smile curled his lips. Even after years away, it took mere minutes for him to see nothing had changed.

The Dons, now rivals, betrayers of the Lucchese blood, still skulked like rats in the shadows of their fear.

Vincenzo knew: no matter what he did, none would dare strike him here, not in front of everyone.

Not when a single reckless move would only hand him more power, the perfect justification to light the fuse of an unprecedented war and reduce all they’d built to ashes.

“Vittoria, back to the altar,” he ordered, his voice low, sharp, almost bored, as if he’d expected more resistance, more drama.

Vittoria exhaled, her eyes sweeping the garden, searching for any reason to pull back.

For a fleeting moment, her gaze met Enzo’s—the man she’d been with for six months, the one she’d marry out of duty, not choice.

But in that instant, his passivity struck her like a dull blow. Deep down, she might have clung to a flicker of hope for something—a gesture, a spark, a rescue.

Instead, she found only the same hollow silence as always, and fear etched across his face.

And there, all doubt vanished: Enzo would never be a real man. Not in the face of what the world demanded. Not in her eyes.

“It’s alright, Papà,” Vittoria murmured, stepping slowly toward him, stopping before him with eyes brimming and a soul in shards. “I can do this. I need your blessing.” Her head dipped in a gesture of surrender that cut deeper than any tear.

“No way in hell. I’d rather see this place burn than hand you over to him,” Alfonso declared, lifting his daughter’s face with a gentle touch, as if he could shield her with it. “You’re not doing this. Not while I’m still standing. Not while I’m your father.”

“Need a chair, Don Alfonso?” Vincenzo taunted, a mocking smile playing on his lips, clearly relishing his provocation. “This is happening, whether you approve or not. Because all you’ve got are words, and if I may be frank, I’d prefer bullets.” He tugged Vittoria back to the altar with the ease of someone setting a piece back in its rightful place. “Let’s wrap this up,” he added, turning to the priest. “Proceed.”

“It’s alright, Papà…” Vittoria whispered, her voice barely audible as she positioned herself at the altar with slow, deliberate steps. “You can start,” she said with a faint nod to the priest.

“We are gathered here under the eyes of God,” the priest began, his voice wavering in the stifling atmosphere, “to unite in holy matrimony Vittoria De Angelis…”

“We know this part, Padre,” Vincenzo cut in, his tone firm and impatient, as if directing a business deal rather than a ceremony. “Skip the theatrics. Get to the ‘do you or don’t you.’”

“Vittoria De Angelis, daughter of Don Alfonso, do you take this man as your lawful husband? Do you vow to honor, protect, and be faithful to him, in the name of God and the pacts forged here before men?”

Vittoria’s eyes swept the garden one last time, searching for a shred of certainty. But all she found was emptiness.

There were no choices. Only a silent pact with the man before her, who no longer seemed human but the very embodiment of the devil.

“I do,” she answered, her voice thick with all she couldn’t express.

Her chest tightened, her hands trembled, but she stood tall, her gaze unwavering.

Because, in his presence, even as she crumbled inside, she refused to break. No matter what happened, Vincenzo would never see her weakness.

“Don Vincenzo Lucchese, son of Don Rocco, do you take this woman as your lawful wife? Do you vow to honor, protect, and be faithful to her, before God and the pacts forged here before men?”

“I do,” Vincenzo replied without a moment’s hesitation. A triumphant smile curved his lips—cold, satisfied, as if he were sealing not a marriage but a definitive conquest.

“By the power vested in me by God and the Holy Church, I pronounce you husband and wife,” the priest declared, his voice thick, nearly choked by the tension hanging in the air. “You may kiss the bride,” he concluded, a faint tremor betraying his awareness that he had just blessed not a union, but a damnation.

As if obeying an irrefutable command, Vincenzo stepped forward.

He encircled Vittoria’s waist with unyielding firmness, and in that instant, her body reacted, straining to pull back, to retreat, to escape.

But he allowed no such thing.

His lips claimed hers with the force of a man who didn’t ask—he took. The gesture was deliberate, calculated, and absolute.

There was no tenderness. Only raw control. It was a kiss of dominion, a possession proclaimed before all.

For him, the final signature on a foretold victory.

For her, the kiss of death—bitter, inevitable—as if, in that moment, everything that was hers had been torn away, never to return.

“Welcome to hell, Signora Lucchese,” Vincenzo whispered in her ear, his smile slow and dangerous, as if the altar were merely the prelude to something far darker.