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They all rise, clapping and cheering.

I tear my gaze away from my husband, the ring on my finger suddenly feeling as heavy as a two-ton truck.

Matteo clutches my hand in his and turns to face the crowd with me, presenting us for the first time as husband and wife.

My lips still tingle from the kiss, and I can’t help but think back to it. My eyes catch my mother, who has tears streaming down her face at the front. My father, standing beside her, remains stoic—his expression unchanged—but I catch the glint of unshed tears in his eyes. Still, I know he won’t let a single one fall. The predators are watching.

Matteo leans down, his mouth brushing against my ear, tickling my senses. “Welcome to the family, Maria.”

He pulls away—no smile, no warmth, no joy. Just the gaze of a man carved from stone, one who carries only a void within his soul, filled with every drop of blood spilled by his hand.

And just like that…

I am officially Maria Davacalli.

The bride of death.

8

MATTEO

Istare at the ring that lies heavy on my finger. It’s a snug fit—my son has much thinner fingers than mine. I’ll need to get it resized. The reception is loud and filled with laughter, drunkenness, and regret. The last one comes from me, but it lingers in the air like cheap perfume.

I am married.

The words still don’t feel real, even on my lips. I vowed that after Beatrice, I would never marry again—but my son has forced my hand.

I hear a sniff beside me at the high table where we sit. I turn my head to the side and find my wife staring at her lap, looking miserable. She isn’t happy about this union, either. I get it. But I’m trying to make the best of it. We have a show to put on—for her parents, my colleagues, and the rest of the world. She carries a heavy name now.

“You could at least try to look like you’re not having the most miserable time of your life.” I lean toward her and utter the words into her ear. Her body shudders—the kind of reaction that would make one think she fears me. “You just got married, Maria. Smile a little.”

She sucks the air between her teeth sharply. “I didn’t know people smile when they’re going through torture.”

She turns her head, our breaths mingling in a plume of heat. I’m taken back to the church where I kissed her. It was brief, a short kiss—but it did things to my internal system that I didn’t expect.

“Where is your son, Mr. Davacalli?”

I clear my throat, trying to remove the lump that has formed in it.

“I’m sorry things didn’t turn out as you had hoped, Maria. But this… marriage between you and me is for the best.”

She bites down on her lip, trying to keep the words from escaping. She wants to speak—she’s seconds from an explosion—but the poise and composure she’s been groomed for since birth holds her tongue.

“This is by no means a real marriage.” From the jut of her chin alone, I know she’s trying to be defiant. It’s amusing, watching her try to go toe to toe with me. “I may hold the title of wife, but I will not perform the duties that come with it.”

I hold the corner of my mouth down to keep from smirking. I stare into her eyes—the fire in them intrigues me. Most people can’t even meet my gaze. This past week, she hasn’t dared to look me in the eyes for more than a fleeting moment—yet here she is, challenging me with my ring on her finger.

“Are you talking about fucking me, Maria?” I watch with great amusement as her cheeks heat with embarrassment. “Don’t be shy now.”

She grabs her wine and sips it, tearing her gaze from mine. She looks out at the happy crowd celebrating our union on the dance floor.

“That’s not what I meant. Look, Mr. Davacalli, I?—”

“Matteo,” I correct her. “You’ll need to start calling me Matteo to keep people from getting suspicious.”

She blinks. “No. We just need to get through this night and head to our rooms.”

I notice she says rooms. I’m not objecting to having separate spaces, but from what Marcello said, he wants an heir within the year. I don’t want to start trying soon either, but we need to keep up appearances.