CHAPTER THREE

CARMELA'S POV 

“He said yes.”

The arguments I had carefully prepared in case it was needed died instantly on my tongue. The backup plans I'd rehearsed, the counterpoints I'd practiced—useless.

"He what?"

"Gabriele agreed. Immediately, actually." Papa's eyes were too knowing. "He didn't even ask for time to think about it."

Something cold slithered down my spine. This was too easy. Men like Gabriele Conti didn't make snap decisions, especially about marriage to his dead wife's sister.

“He…did he ask why?”

“He knows why.” Father pinned me with a pointed look. “The question is whether you know exactly what you're doing.”

“I know what—”

“Do you?” He stood, walking to his whiskey table.

“Gabriele didn't argue. Even though he knew what you planned to gain from this marriage. What do you think that means?”

And then it dawned on me. He knows. He knows I plan to kill him. If he knows, then why did he agree?

Guilt? Self-destruction? Some kind of trap?

It doesn't matter. I'm committed now. The wedding is set. I'll have access, proximity, and opportunity.

Let him think he knows what I'm planning. Men always underestimate women, even the smart ones.

Especially the smart ones.

“When is the wedding?”

“In four weeks. He wants it done quickly.”

Four weeks to finalize my plans. Four weeks till I walk into the lion's den wearing a wedding dress.

“That's fine with me.”

****

The four weeks passed in a blur of wedding preparations—dress fittings, menu tastings, seating arrangements. I smiled through it all, the perfect bride-to-be, while mentally cataloging Gabriele's routines, his security, his weaknesses.

I'd seen him three times during the engagement. Twice at formal dinners with our families, once at the cathedral for rehearsal. Each time, he watched me with those dark, knowing eyes. Each time, I wondered if today would be the day he called it off, exposed my plan, and ended this charade.

He never did.

And now, finally, it was today. The day I would become Gabriele's wolfsbane.

The wedding dress was pure white. 

I stood motionless as the designer—some famous name Papa had hired—tugged the corset tighter. Each pull of the laces felt like a noose closing around my ribs. The dress was beautiful in the way weapons are beautiful: sharp, precise, deadly.

Around me, the room was in chaos. My hairdresser argued with the makeup artist about timing. Someone rushed in with the wrong shoes, then rushed out again. The designer muttered in Italian, pinning the veil into my hair with enough force to draw blood.

I barely noticed any of it.

In the mirror, I looked like a bride. Radiant. Hopeful. Ready to pledge her life to the man she loves.

The reflection was a perfect lie.

Finally, they stepped back, admiring their work.

"Bellissima," the designer breathed.

Beautiful. Yes. Like a loaded gun.

When the makeup stylist was done, Papa appeared at the doorway. He had an odd look on his face. Everyone left the room, leaving only us.

“What's wrong, Papa?”

“It's just…this wasn't how I wanted to see you get married, cara. I wanted you to have a happy marriage. Not this revenge plan you have going on.”

“Dad, it's fine. And besides, I'm not marrying him for revenge.”

He scoffed as he placed my hand in the crook of his arm. “I know you, Car. I can read you like an open book. I also know I can't do anything once you've made up your mind.”

“Papa—”

"Just promise me something." His hand tightened on my arm. "If this gets too dangerous—if you find yourself in over your head—you'll come to me. You'll let me help you."

"I can handle Gabriele."

"That's not what worries me." He stopped walking and turned to face me fully. "It's not Gabriele I'm worried about. It's what you might become to destroy him."

The words hit like a slap. 

"What do you mean?"

"Revenge changes people, cara. I've seen it. Good people do terrible things in the name of justice, and then one day they look in the mirror and don't recognize themselves." His thumb brushed my cheek. "Don't lose yourself to this. Elena wouldn't want that.”

"Elena's dead because of him."

"Is she?" The question hung in the air. "Are you certain of that?"

Before I could respond, he was already moving again, leading me toward the doors.

"Papa, what do you know—"

"I know you're about to marry a dangerous man. I know you think you're in control. And I know that in our world, things are rarely what they seem." He pressed a kiss to my forehead. "Be careful, mia cara. That's all I ask.”

A wave of sadness rushed through me. I also wanted to be happy, but till I kill whoever killed Elena, I won't be happy. 

I always thought my sister would be present at my wedding, but I could feel her absence more today. Her absence filled the room, cramping me into a corner with no way of escape. 

Tears filled my eyes before I hurriedly wiped them away and forced a smile. I placed my palm on Papa’s hand. “I'm happy. Doing this makes me happy.”

Papa let out a small, sad smile before leading me to the wedding hall.

The church is the same. The flowers are the same. Even the fucking priest is the same.

I'm walking down the aisle where Elena walked two years ago, toward the man who was hers first.

He watches me approach. Dark suit, unreadable expression, every inch the dangerous man I know he is.

Does he see me? Or does he see her ghost?

When I reach him, he takes my hand. His grip is firm, possessive.

"You're sure about this?" he murmurs, too low for anyone else to hear.

"Are you?" I counter.

Something flickers in his eyes. "No. But we're doing it anyway."

At least we're both walking into this disaster with our eyes open.

Time passes in a blur as the priest preaches, till the time comes for us to exchange vows.

“Miss Carmela Ferrara, do you take Gabriele Conti as your lawfully wedded husband, to love him–”

To hate you to death.

“To stand by him–”

I will stand by you so you never stand alone with your guilt.

“To be faithful–”

I will be faithful, not to you, but to my sister.

“To walk with him as you both shall live–”

I will walk with you all the way to the end and lead you to your death.

“Til death do you part–”

Death would be too merciful for you.

“I do.” I replied with a sweet smile.

Til vengeance do us part.