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I’ve faced worse. Hell, I’ve survived worse.
But as I step toward the altar, one thought curls quietly in the back of my mind:
I’ve never faced anything like her.
I move into place at the altar, my steps steady, calculated — but my heart?
It’s another matter entirely.
Each beat feels too loud, too heavy inside my chest, no matter how tightly I pull my control around it. I clasp my hands in front of me, fingers locking together, keeping the posture formal, neutral, untouchable.
Guests shift quietly in the seats, low murmurs passing through the room like a thin current of air. The Bratva men, sharp-eyed and suited, flank one side; the Delgado cartel elders and their families fill the other, their glances sharp with curiosity, calculation, and no small dose of power politics.
And me?
I stand tall. Keeping my face composed and my eyes fixed forward.
I’ve faced assassins with knives at my throat, walked into boardrooms where one wrong word could cost me everything.
And yet, standing here, waiting for a woman I’m about to claim as my wife almost makes my hands tremble.
The music starts, and the room stills. A hush ripples through the air, sweeping across the rows of seated guests like a single, collective breath.
I lift my gaze.
And there — framed perfectly at the end of the aisle — stands Mara.
Soft ivory hugs her figure, elegant and understated, but it’s her face that hits me hardest.
Glowing.
Not with wide-eyed innocence, not with nervous uncertainty — but with quiet determination, and fierce grace. She is a woman who knows what she wants.
Her chin lifts just slightly as she takes the first step forward, her eyes locking onto mine without flinching. And in that instant, every carefully stacked wall inside me wavers.
10
Chapter 9
Xiomara
I sit perfectly still, hands folded in my lap, as the makeup artist leans in, dusting a final shimmer over my cheekbones.
The room is bathed in soft, golden light filtering through the tall windows. It catches on the delicate lace of my veil, on the smooth ivory of the silk gown hugging my waist, on the soft glint of the simple pearl earrings dangling just below my ears.
In the reflection of the gilded mirror, I see her — my mother.
Lola Delgado, poised and graceful as always, standing just behind me, her hands gently adjusting the edge of my veil with practiced ease.
There’s a tension in the air, a tightness between us — but beneath it, something warmer. A quiet tenderness.
“You look beautiful, mija,” she murmurs softly, her voice brushing against the back of my neck like a soothing hand. “You look like a queen.”
I swallow, trying to ease the pressure in my chest. She leans closer, eyes soft, a smile touching the corners of her mouth.
“You are not only your father’s princess now,” she adds gently. “You are about to become the queen of your own home.”
My throat tightens.