The rumors. Everyone in our world whispers, and I hear everything. They say the Genovese spinster couldn't land a match not only because her attitude was too foul, but also because of the darker whisper, the one men share over scotch and cigars when they think no one is listening, that she’s been letting the Lombardi boy warm her bed. They say she’s ruined. Spoiled goods.
Orlando didn't just deny me his best daughter. He pawned off Dario Lombardi’s sloppy seconds on the Don of the Vellutini family. He is using me as a fucking garbage disposal for his family's shame, tying my name to a woman who has already spread her legs for the weakest family in the city.
I look back at Noemi. The pristine white silk of her dress suddenly looks like a sick joke. A mockery of purity. The sheer disrespect of it makes my trigger finger itch with a desperate need for violence.
"He's watching you," I murmur, leaning in just a fraction, keeping my face angled toward the altar so the audience only sees a groom whispering intimately to his bride.
Noemi’s jaw clenches, but she refuses to turn her head to look at the pews. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Dario," I say softly, tasting the bile in the back of my throat. "Does it break your heart, Noemi? Knowing he didn't have the balls to claim you? Instead, your father passed you off to me like a used car."
Her eyes flash, a spark of genuine shock and pain quickly smothered by absolute fury. "You are a disgusting animal."
"And you are a leftover," I counter ruthlessly. I shift my grip on her hand, my thumb pressing down hard enough to leave a deep bruise on her pale skin. "Don't think for a second that this dress fools anyone. I know exactly what you are."
"You know nothing about me," she hisses, her nails biting sharply into the meat of my palm.
"I know enough," I reply coldly.
The priest shifts, transitioning to the vows. He prompts me first. I stare into her eyes, those dark, defiant pools of hatred, and I recite the ancient words. I promise to love, to cherish, to honor. Every single syllable is a lie, spoken with a dead cadence that sounds more like a death sentence than a vow.
When it's her turn, she hesitates. For a fraction of a second, I see the sheer terror lurking beneath her iron armor. She is standing at the precipice, staring down into the abyss of a life chained to a man she despises. I almost dare her to say no. I almost want herto scream, to break the ceremony, so I have an excuse to draw my weapon and put a bullet between her father’s eyes right here in the house of God.
But she doesn't.
She lifts her chin, her throat working as she swallows her pride and her fear. She repeats the vows; her voice is completely devoid of emotion.
"The rings," the priest prompts gently.
Matteo steps forward, his face carefully blank, placing the small platinum band on the velvet pillow. I pick it up. It’s a flawless, three-carat emerald-cut diamond. It cost a small fortune, an expensive shackle.
I take her left hand. Her fingers are trembling now, just a little. The first sign of weakness. I relish it. I slide the heavy ring onto her finger, pushing it past her knuckle with a harsh, unyielding force.
"Now I own you," I whisper, though it’s not a declaration of love. It’s a declaration of ownership.
She picks up my ring, it is a thick band of brushed platinum, and shoves it onto my finger with far more force than necessary, nearly scraping my knuckle.
"I pronounce you husband and wife," the priest announces, raising his hand in blessing, sealing my fate. "You may kiss the bride."
The cathedral holds its breath. Hundreds of eyes are locked on us, waiting for the final seal of the treaty.
I look at the woman standing in front of me.My wife. The word tastes like poison. I am a man who prides himself on total control, on seeing three steps ahead of my enemies. Today, I was blinded, outmaneuvered, and publicly humiliated by an old man who thinks I’m nothing more than a dumb brute.
Orlando thinks he has won. He thinks he has secured his borders and protected his precious Lucia by sacrificing his damaged, unwanted daughter.
He forgot one critical detail.
I am a monster. And he just locked his daughter in my cage.
I step into Noemi’s space, crowding her, forcing her to tilt her head back to look at me. I slide my hand around the back of her neck, my fingers tangling in the intricate, pinned updo of her dark hair. My grip is not gentle. It’s a possessive, commanding, physical reminder of exactly who holds the power now.
Her breath catches, her lips parting slightly in surprise at the rough contact.
I lean down, my mouth hovering a fraction of an inch from hers. I can smell the faint, citrusy scent of her perfume mixed with the metallic tang of fear.
"Listen to me very carefully,moglie," I whisper, my lips brushing against hers with every venomous syllable. "Your father thinks he's clever. But all he did was hand me a pawn."
Her eyes widen, the defiance finally fracturing to reveal the sheer panic beneath. She tries to pull back, but my grip on the back of her neck tightens painfully, holding her captive.