Dario Lombardi.
The son of the fourth family is sitting stiffly in his pew, his hands clenched into fists on his knees. He looks pale, his jaw ticking frantically. It’s a strange reaction for a man who has nothing to lose today. I narrow my eyes slightly, filing away his erratic behavior for later. Right now, the music swells, the heavy mahogany doors at the back of the cathedral groan open, and the entire congregation rises to their feet.
Orlando Genovese steps through the archway, a woman clinging to his arm.
The dress is a massive, ostentatious explosion of white silk, diamonds, and imported Chantilly lace. It’s exactly the kind of obnoxious display of wealth Orlando would insist upon. The bride’s face is completely obscured by a thick, heavy traditional lace veil that falls all the way to her waist.
But the second she takes her first step down the aisle, a cold, sharp prickle of unease slides down my spine.
Something is wrong.
Lucia Genovese is a timid creature. She walks like she's apologizing for taking up space. But the woman marching down the aisle beside Orlando isn't gliding. She isn't trembling. Herspine is a rigid, unyielding rod of steel. Her chin is angled up so sharply I can see the aggressive tilt of it even through the thick lace. She is walking to the altar the way a soldier marches toward a firing squad, with defiant hostility.
My brow furrows. Beside me, I hear Matteo shift his weight, sensing the sudden, dangerous spike in my tension.
Orlando reaches the end of the aisle. As he stops before the altar, he doesn't look like a father giving away his beloved youngest daughter. He looks like a man who just pulled off the heist of the century. His dark eyes lock onto mine, and there is a sickly, triumphant, venomous gleam dancing in them.
"Take care of her, Cassio," Orlando murmurs, his voice is filled with a mockery that only I can hear over the organ music.
He takes her hand and places it forcefully into mine.
Her fingers are freezing. There is no delicate, nervous flutter. Her grip is rigid, the muscles in her hand tense and practically vibrating with an anger so palpable it feels like an electrical current.
I don't look at the priest. I don't look at Salvatore. I reach up with my free hand, grab the edge of the heavy lace veil, and violently flip it back over her head.
The breath leaves my lungs in a sudden, silent rush.
Dark, furious, fathomless eyes glare back at me. High cheekbones set in a sharp, unforgiving jawline. Lips painted a deep, blood-red, pressed into a flat line of uncompromising loathing.
Noemi.
The shrew. The unwanted, bitter spinster. The woman who looked me in the eye a year ago, spilled wine on my shoes, and told me I was a thug playing dress-up.
For three agonizing seconds, the entire cathedral ceases to exist. The organ music fades into a dull, distant buzz. The blood roaring in my ears sounds like a hurricane. A tidal wave of pure, unadulterated, homicidal rage crashes through my veins, so intense my vision actually darkened at the edges.
Orlando switched them.
The arrogant, archaic piece of shit actually played me. He kept his precious, untouched Lucia safe in her gilded cage, and he gift-wrapped his useless, sharp-tongued headache of an eldest daughter and shoved her down my throat.
I snap my gaze toward the front pew. Don Salvatore’s face is completely blank.
He knew.The Capo dei Capi knew Orlando pulled the bait-and-switch, and he allowed it. Salvatore didn't give a single, solitary fuck which of the Genovese wore the white dress, as long as thebloodlines were tied to secure the port. I have been humiliated. I have been outmaneuvered in front of the entire syndicate.
My fingers tighten around Noemi’s hand, my thumb digging brutally into the delicate bones of her knuckles. She doesn't flinch. She doesn't whimper. She just stares at me, her dark eyes reflecting my own violent hatred perfectly.
"You have made a fatal mistake, Genovese," I whisper, my voice so low, and so saturated with venom.
"I didn't choose this, you arrogant prick," she breathes back, her tone just as lethal, not backing down an inch. "If I had a choice, I'd be standing over your grave right now, not beside you at an altar."
I let out a dark, breathless chuckle that holds absolutely no humor. "We can arrange that."
The priest clears his throat, completely oblivious to the fact that he is standing between two people who are mentally visualizing how to butcher each other. He begins the Mass in Latin. The ancient, sacred words wash over us, but they are hollow and utterly meaningless in my ears.
I force myself to look away from her face, staring blankly ahead. As my gaze sweeps over the Genovese side of the aisle again, my eyes land back on Dario Lombardi.
He is leaning forward in the pew now, staring at Noemi. The look on his face isn't just tension anymore; it’s a sick, obsessive desperation.
Suddenly, another layer of Orlando’s betrayal slams into me, making my stomach churn with a violent, acidic disgust.