Bruno Sartori sits in a wheelchair.
Not stands. Sits.
The man I'm about to marry—the man whose name carries enough weight to terrify half of Chicago—is seated in a black wheelchair, positioned just to the left of where a groom would normally stand.
My feet keep moving. One step. Another. Papa's arm trembles slightly under my fingers, but I can't look at him. Can't look anywhere except at the man waiting for me.
He's handsome. That registers first, cutting through the shock. Dark hair. Sharp jaw. Broad shoulders filling out a black suit. Even seated, he radiates something terrifying. Something that makes the air feel thinner.
But he's in a wheelchair.
No one told me.
Not Lorenzo with his polite smiles. Not my father. Not Nico with his cold demands. Not the woman who came to help me prepare, who measured me for this dress and arranged my hair and never once mentioned that my future husband couldn't walk.
I don't know how to feel.
Relief tries to surface first. He's not the monster I imagined. Not some cruel, able-bodied predator who chose a desperate bride for sport. There's a reason the Sartoris needed this marriage. A reason they accepted my family's debt in exchange for me instead of simply taking everything and leaving us with nothing.
Bruno Sartori needed a wife. And apparently, finding one the normal way wasn't an option.
But anger follows close behind the relief. Not at him. The anger is for everyone else. For Papa, who must have known. For the Sartori brothers who sat in our living room and never said a word. For the woman who zipped up my dress this morning and smiled like everything was perfectly normal.
They let me walk into this blind.
They let me spend five days imagining every possible version of my future husband and not once did anyone think to mention the wheelchair. Not once did anyone give me the chance to process this information in private, to work through my feelings before I had to face him.
Now I'm walking down an aisle with a hundred thoughts crashing through my head and no time to sort through any of them.
My grip tightens on Papa's arm.
I'm halfway to the altar now. Close enough to see Bruno's face more clearly. His expression is carved from stone. Just dark eyes watching me approach with something that looks almost like resignation.
He expected this reaction. He's watching me process the wheelchair, watching me struggle to keep my composure, and he expected it. Maybe even dreaded it.
How many people have looked at him exactly like this?
I force my gaze to stay steady. Force my feet to keep their rhythm. The organ music swells around us, filling the silence I can't break.
The Sartori family fills the front pews on the right side of the church.
My family occupies the left side. Claudio sits rigid, his jaw tight. Gianna's hands clasped in her lap. Oliver is there too, in the pew behind them, and when our eyes meet, I see the same shock I'm feeling reflected back at me.
He didn't know either.
None of us knew.
I close my eyes.
Just for a second. Just long enough to breathe. To push down the anger and the confusion and the thousand questions screaming for answers.
I got this.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Bruno
The veil hides her face.