Page 9

I finally look away, not out of defeat—but because I’ve made peace with the war I’ve just agreed to enter.

“If this is what it takes to protect what’s left of this family…” I pause, my voice hardening, “then so be it. I’ll give them a wedding. But don’t ask me to give him my heart.”

“You have ten minutes, and then we need to begin. Come, Marta—you need to take your seat.”

My father holds out his hand to my mother, which she takes, though with a slight hesitation. Her caramel eyes are clouded with resignation and regret, but she says nothing.

The perfect wife of a Mafia boss.

My father’s word is law, and she never challenges it—no matter how deeply it conflicts with what she wants.

Is this what my future is doomed to be?

They leave the bridal room, and I’m left alone to sit in the wreckage of what today has become.

I fucking knew it. It had all gone too smoothly.

I knew something would go wrong, but never—not even in my worst nightmares—did I imagine it would end with me marrying the Warlord.

I leave my room exactly ten minutes later. I find my father waiting by the closed cathedral doors, a cigarette perched between his lips—unlit.

“Mamá will kill you if you light that,” I say, stepping up beside him. “You told her you quit.”

He chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. He rips the cigarette from his mouth and tucks it into his pocket.

“It’s only for the scent. I never light it. Your mother made it very clear she doesn’t want me smoking—and her word is law.”

If that were true, you wouldn’t be giving me away to a man almost your age.

I think it, but I don’t say it. What’s the point now? It’s over. I’m seconds away from walking down that aisle, and nothing I say will change it.

“You look beautiful, Maria.”

The doors open, and dread lodges deep in my stomach.

The violin strums the gentle classical piece I picked out just days ago. A piece that once sounded like hope… now sounds like surrender.

I knew it. Things were going too well. I should’ve braced for the collapse.

“Rendimi orgoglioso, Maria.” Make me proud, Maria.

My father’s voice is steady and cold.

There’s no turning back.

The guests see us step into the aisle, and all rise to their feet.

I’m going to be sick. My stomach churns violently, and if it weren’t for Papá’s firm grip on my arm, I would’ve run—bolted down the aisle and never looked back. My heart aches with every step toward the life I didn’t choose.

This. This is exactly what I wanted to avoid.

I don’t want to marry a man twice my age.

I keep my gaze fixed just a few feet ahead as we walk. The sweet, angelic music that fills the cathedral feels all wrong now. It will forever be etched in my memory as the soundtrack to my walk toward the slaughter.

Because that’s what this feels like.

I am the lamb, and waiting for me at the altar… is the wolf.

I steal a glance at Papá. His expression is set, stern, eyes locked forward.

But I—I can’t bring myself to look at Matteo. Mr. Davacalli. My fiancé.

We come to a stop at the altar. I keep my eyes on the floor, trying to steady my breath as the blood rushes through my veins like a storm.

The priest begins to speak, but his voice is distant—muffled beneath the roar in my ears.

“I do,” my father says, his voice cutting through the haze. “I give my daughter to this man.”

Fuck. Here it is.

Papá gently removes my hand from his arm—but I resist. Just for a second. I don’t want to let go. I don’t want to do this. This cannot be my fate.

But he doesn’t give me a choice.

With practiced calm, so as not to draw attention, he pries my hand off his arm and places it in a much larger, waiting palm.

I can’t bring myself to look up. Not yet. Not at the man I’m about to marry.

But I feel the heat of his touch, the command in the way he holds me.

“Ti do la mia cosa più preziosa.” I give you my most precious thing. My father murmurs, just loud enough for those at the altar to hear.

“Take care of her.”

I force my eyes up.

The heaviness in my chest is unbearable—like wet cement pouring in, layer by layer, pressing against my ribs, refusing to set, building until I’m on the brink of suffocation.

“Ti amo, amore,” he says softly as he kisses my cheek. I love you, my love.

When he pulls away, I catch it—the sadness in his eyes. But he buries it quickly behind a hollow smile.

Then he steps back, releasing my hand fully into Matteo’s grasp.

The moment our skin touches, a flutter stirs in my chest—soft, disorienting—followed by the sickening churn deep in my stomach. My gaze traces the path from our joined hands, up the length of his arm cloaked in smooth black fabric, until it finally collides with his eyes.

My breath catches. “Mr. Davacalli.”

My voice comes out no more than a whisper. But against the thick silence of the cathedral, I may as well have screamed to the heavens and beyond.

Fuck.

“Maria.” His voice is thick, laden with emotion. His eyes pierce through mine, stripping me bare—leaving me with nothing to shield myself.

“You’re breathtaking, Maria.”

His compliment catches me off guard, so much so that the priest has to clear his throat to get my attention, urging me to step forward with my fiancé. Matteo helps me up, his hand still wrapped securely around mine.

“Please face each other,” the priest says, his white cloak draped elegantly around him, a serene smile on his face.

“Join your hands, please.”

I hand off my bouquet to one of the women seated in the front row—someone I’ve only seen once or twice before. Then, I place my hand into Matteo’s. The warmth that travels up and down my arm is not only distracting but unnerving.

I don’t know why my body decides to short-circuit whenever he’s near me—let alone touching me.

“We are gathered here today…” the priest begins the ceremony, but it all just blurs into the background. My mind circles back to one unshakable truth—I’m about to marry a man I don’t want to marry.

I woke up hopeful this morning, believing I was stepping into a future filled with light. But instead, here I am—being cast to the lion.

Had this been the plan all along? Were they all in on it?

I resist the urge to glance back at my parents.

The ceremony moves on, my thoughts stealing most of my attention. Before I know it, we’re exchanging rings, and the priest finally moves to the part I’ve been dreading.

“Do you, Matteo Angelo Davacalli, take Maria Antoinette Faravelli to be your lawfully wedded wife—to honor, cherish, and protect her, for as long as you both shall live?”

The words echoed off the stained glass windows.

“I do.”

Matteo holds my gaze without a hint of shame. His hands squeeze mine ever so slightly at his declaration. He then reaches down to the ring bearer and takes my ring from the velvet pillow. With careful precision, he slides it onto my finger—a perfect fit.

It’s stunning. A sleek platinum wedding band. It’s the kind of ring I would’ve chosen for myself—had I been given a choice.

“Do you, Maria Antoinette Faravelli, take Matteo Angelo Davacalli to be your lawfully wedded husband? To honor, cherish, and love him as long as you both shall live?”

Love.

Such a heavy word—especially when paired with the Warlord.

How does one love the darkness?

Is that even possible?

“I do,” I say, forcing the words past the lump in my throat.

I’m handed Matteo’s platinum band, and I slide it onto his finger. The expensive metal shines against the sun rays that stream in through the window of the church.

A sigh echoes softly, likely from my father in the front pew.

He was probably holding his breath, worried I’d make a scene.

But I’ve committed to this.

And now, I have to see it through.

“You may now kiss your bride.”

The words fall like a gavel in my mind, locking my spine into place.

No.

We remain facing each other, our eyes locked in a silent war.

Neither of us moves.

I freeze, uncertain how to navigate this moment.

I had braced myself for the younger Davacalli—the boy I once made mud pies with in the backyard.

But the man standing before me now is no boy.

He’s the deliverer of death. Warlord.

The Warlord.

How do I kiss darkness and walk away unscathed? How do you kiss death—and survive it?

I must hesitate too long, because Matteo lifts his large hands to cradle my face. He leans in, and the air between us crackles with electricity.

Sparks kiss the surface of my skin and bounce back into the atmosphere.

His thumb strokes my cheek gently. The pad of his thumb heats the skin he touches, branding me.

The cathedral, filled with people, fades away.

My eyes flutter shut. I wait, caught between fear and anticipation for what’s to come.

This man has assaulted my senses from the moment I saw him across my brother’s grave.

And now…

Inches vanish.

Our breaths tangle together in a cloud of tension?—

And then…

He presses his lips to mine.

Fireworks. No—detonations. Explosions of heat and electricity ripple through me, setting my nerves ablaze and short-circuiting every carefully constructed defense I’ve built.

My body, traitorous and unthinking, leans into him—into the storm—melting into the impossible warmth of the man who shouldn’t feel like home.

The kiss lasts mere seconds—five, maybe—but it fractures something deep within me.

When he pulls away, his eyes are no longer cool and distant; they’re the raging sea.

For a heartbeat, I see it all—passion, hunger, danger.

A man on the edge of ruin, and I am the tether he both fears and craves.

It calls to me, beckons me closer like prey to its predator.

And then he blinks—shutters it all—and the veil falls back into place.

The crowd erupts into cheers, and just like that—the trance is broken.

“May I introduce to you Mr. and Mrs. Davacalli. May their union be blessed, and may they be protected by the Almighty,” the priest announces to the congregation.

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.