Page 28 of Beautiful Torment (Empire of Kings #1)

When it’s my turn to slip the titanium band onto Angelo’s finger, something hot arcs in my chest. I don’t want to breathe life into that feeling, but when the priest pronounces us husband and wife, the embers remain.

A roar of applause rises from the crowd, followed swiftly by a chorus of cheers as they shout, “Bacio, bacio!”

Angelo doesn’t bend to meet me, but rather, he grabs me around the waist and picks me up off the ground. Our eyes clash, the atmosphere shifts, and lightning strikes as his lips brush mine.

The first contact is a sharp electric spark that cracks open my chest and bleeds out too many raw emotions. I inhale his exhalation, and warmth rushes into my lungs. He tastes like whiskey, and he smells so good I want to bury my face in his neck and breathe him in like a drug.

The solid wall of muscle in his body anchors me to him. But the dizzying chemicals flooding my brain make me feel like my whole world is spinning off its axis. Seeking purchase, I reach for him and find myself clutching his face between my palms. The heat beneath his skin shocks me.

He’s burning up.

The arm around my waist goes rigid, and he releases a rough, angry breath. I swallow it and melt into him, and he unleashes a volatile cocktail of fury and longing as he crushes his lips to mine.

It isn’t a kiss. It’s six years of pent-up rage that explodes into a fire and engulfs me.

I lose myself in the brutality of the moment, drowning in the punishing press of his lips.

I want to sweep my tongue into his mouth and drink him while I explore every square inch of his body.

But the moment my fingertips trace the line of his jaw down to the beating pulse in his throat, he scrapes his teeth along my lower lip and nips me.

It leaves a sting that feels like a spanking, and then, just like that, it’s all over.

He releases his hold on me, and I slide down his body until my feet hit the floor. Part of me wishes a crater would open beneath me and swallow me up. It would spare me from the chill I feel when he cuts me a disinterested glance like he’s already erased the memory from his thoughts.

When the priest tells us it’s time to greet the witnesses, I have no choice but to reorient myself.

It’s the last thing I want to do, but I snap back into performative mode, nodding as the men in cloaks come to pay their respects.

They each greet Angelo with, “ Dominus et Deus , Mr. Vitale,” before offering their well wishes and stepping aside so the next can do the same.

It’s standard procedure for a Society wedding, and they will also bear witness to the marking ceremony later this evening.

“Let us join together now for the reception,” the priest announces as the last of the witnesses departs. “The bride and groom will follow shortly.”

The crowd slowly disperses, with many of the women pausing to let their eyes linger on Angelo before they narrow on me.

It’s an uncomfortable reminder that my now-husband was once one of the most prized bachelors on their fathers’ lists of prospects.

He was always highly regarded, and if he hadn’t proposed to me first, I have no doubt almost every man in this room would have gladly offered him his choice of any of their daughters.

It also isn’t a stretch to imagine that many of these women once hoped to find themselves in my place.

As I glance at Angelo, I can’t help but wonder why he didn’t choose one of them instead. There are an inordinate number of beautiful women who would have volunteered to be his wife. In fact, I can think of one in particular who never stopped her pursuit of him.

It could have been Genevieve Wilkes standing here instead. She might not be Italian, but she’s perfect in every other way. There also would have been the added benefit of sticking it to Ares Stavros, since Genevieve’s family was supposed to strike a marriage deal with him.

As I revisit that part of our past, a heavy weight settles over me.

I forgot how exhausting it was to be caught up in Angelo’s orbit.

My younger self always felt like if I let my guard down for a moment, someone would try to take him from me.

My mother told me repeatedly, as she tried to hide her tears, that men tire of their wives.

She tried to normalize it, not to hurt me, but to prepare me for what would be my inevitable future.

With maturity, I’ve outgrown those beliefs, and I’ve come to realize nothing can truly be stolen from you.

It can only be given freely by the man who took the vow to remain faithful in the first place.

Temptation will always exist. But ultimately, I believe if a man can take an oath of loyalty to the Cosa Nostra and keep it, he should be able to keep his marriage vows too.

As I consider my future, it should bring me some semblance of peace that Angelo’s always been a man of his word. But I also know that his duty to fulfill the treaty will require him to break the vows he made today.

As if he can sense my turmoil, he turns to face me, eyes narrowing when he sees the expression on my face.

“Cheer up , ” he says blandly. “It’s only a whole lifetime.”

My sister catches the tail-end of that remark and shoots me an apologetic glance as she interrupts us.

“The photographer’s ready for you.”

Angelo’s palm settles on the base of my neck, holding me hostage as he leans in. “Don’t forget to smile, Abella. This is the happiest day of your life.”

His words are meant to sting, and they do. He thinks I’m an actress. A liar. A cheater. I should be so lucky to have only cold indifference from him. But as it turns out, I do still have a heart, and he still has the power to wound me.

For the next thirty minutes, I pretend otherwise as the photographer directs us around the gardens, positioning us together in displays of forced intimacy.

We hold hands. We kiss. He cradles my face in his palms during painfully long minutes of eye contact.

And all the while, he remains unbothered by any of it, while I feel like I’m half-drunk and too hot.

When the photographer finally calls in the bridal party for some shots, I’m relieved to have backup…for all of two seconds.

“Well, that was fucking dramatic,” Mariella says, clearly referencing her brother’s return as she shoots him a look. “Nice to see you, Angelo. Like, seriously, what the?—”

“We’ll discuss this later,” he cuts her off with a clipped tone, never taking his eyes from the camera.

“Oh my god,” Gabi whispers beside me as we pose. “Did that really just happen?”

“Abella, I don’t know how to tell you this, but all the reception decorations have been changed,” Valentina blurts.

“Please.” I press my fingers to my temples and groan. “Let’s just get through this.”

Angelo turns his icy gaze on me. “And here I thought you were so good at pretending.”

“That’s not—” He doesn’t care to hear my response because he tells the photographer it’s time to wrap this up.

She summons Angelo’s brothers and their nonna for a few shots before we do one huge group photo and call it good.

I haven’t missed the fact that both my father and Matteo are absent, but nobody else seems bothered by it.

After putting my foot in my mouth once already, I know now certainly isn’t the time to bring it up.

We all walk to the banquet hall together and pause just outside the door.

My bridesmaids help me remove my veil while the men talk amongst themselves.

Then, in keeping with tradition, Nonna holds open a big velvet box, revealing a diamond-studded tiara.

It’s the heirloom Silvio presented to his wife, Rosa, when he made her his Vitale queen.

The significance of this gift weighs heavily on me, and it’s mirrored by the emotion in Nonna’s eyes.

I’m all too aware how much she misses her son and daughter-in-law.

Even in the best of circumstances, Rosa Vitale would be a tough act to follow.

She was, in many ways, like a second mother to me when I was growing up.

I still feel her loss deeply, but I know it’s not nearly as profound as they’ve all felt it.

“I’ll do my best to make them proud,” I whisper.

“It’s not often life gives you second chances.” Nonna pats my cheek. “Take care of each other, tesoro .”

I nod because I can’t bring myself to tell her this isn’t really a second chance. It’s a tragedy in the making.

She turns to Angelo and kisses his cheek. “You will live a long and happy life together.”

A shadow passes over his features as he thanks her. Then, all too soon, the group enters the reception without us, leaving me alone with my husband.

“Angelo—”

“I trust you understand what needs to be done this evening.” He settles the tiara on my head, adjusting it until it’s perfect.

“Yes.” I offer him a brittle smile.

“Good.” His eyes drift down the length of my body in a lazy appraisal. “Put on a show, play the part, and we’ll get along just fine.”