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Chapter Ten

Dante

T he wedding day arrives like a bad omen. Heavy, choking, settling over the estate like a storm about to break.

I sit in my office, still in my shirtsleeves, ignoring the black suit hanging on the back of the door.

The clock ticks down the minutes to the ceremony. Tick. Tick. Tick . Like a fucking countdown to my own execution.

Bruno arrived this morning, as ordered. He hovers. Always too close. Always looking at her like she’s something precious. Something that needs saving.

It crawls under my skin. Festers.

It started at the judge’s office. The way her eyes darted to him, not me, when the contract was signed. The way she flinched when I touched her but stood steady when he did.

That wasn’t nothing. That was loyalty. Affection. Maybe even love.

And the jealousy, the possession that tore through me like a blade, it caught me off guard. Made me angry enough to see the truth I hadn't wanted to see.

When I got the names from the rat we executed, and I ordered my men to dig into them, I never expected Mori to show up on the list.

Too remote. Too minor. Just a laundromat chain owner moving dirty money through cleaner hands.

But then I saw her. No hair color or contact lenses could hide her.

No disguise could change the way her eyes, the brightest fucking green I'd ever seen, burned straight through me.

Mesmerizing. Deadly. A snake hidden in silk.

And now, I understand everything.

She was caught fucking Bruno, her father's personal guard, no doubt. Mori, furious at the dishonor, sent her on a suicide mission into my home. To let me finish what he craved but could not do… Kill her.

Punishment disguised as espionage. A daughter turned into a weapon. A whore turned spy.

And the worst part? A part of me still wants her—enough that it makes me hate her even more.

I glance at the suit again. Time to play the part .

The details of our contract are private, only known to the few who stood in that room.

To everyone else, this is a real wedding. A celebration.

To my children… it is real. And that? That’s something I didn’t take into account when I carved out my revenge.

I was too blinded by humiliation. By fury. By the need to break her.

My nanny. My maid. My whore.

I shake my head, my jaw tight, as I finally rise. I still can’t believe she wanted that in the contract. That she asked for it.

It made no fucking sense. Unless she really thinks that’s all she’s worth.

And somehow, that thought pisses me off more than anything else.

I finish dressing and step out of my office, only to find her already waiting in the corridor. She stands there like a sacrificial offering. Head bowed. Hands clasped. A lamb in white silk, walking willingly to the slaughter.

The sight of her should satisfy me. It should make me feel powerful. But instead, the black anger inside me coils tighter, hotter, meaner.

Because when she lifts her eyes, it isn’t me she’s looking at.

No.

She looks past me. And then she smiles. It’s barely there. Soft. Subtle. But it makes my fucking heart stumble.

And like a fool, for one pathetic second, I think it’s for me, and I almost smile back until I turn my head and see who she’s really smiling at.

Bruno… Fucking Bruno.

The heat that rushes through me is instant and violent.

I hate her for it. For needing him. For choosing him even if I don’t want her. Especially because I don’t want her.

I’m seconds from lashing out when she crouches, her smile brightening not for Bruno this time but for my daughter, who comes barreling into her arms with all the trust and love in the world.

And despite everything I’ve done and everything she has done, I have to admit: It hasn’t dimmed her love for the children or theirs for her.

That’s the part I can’t fucking shake, no matter how hard I try.

“You’re so beautiful, my mermaid!” Lucia shouts, buzzing with excitement.

“Not as beautiful as you,” Francesca murmurs, adjusting the delicate crown on Lucia’s head.

Francesca smiles, soft and sad, brushing a stray curl from my little girl’s face. “Where’s your brother?”

Lucia points toward the dining hall, now laughably transformed into a wedding venue with white tablecloths and wilting centerpieces that can't disguise the staleness in the air.

“Okay,” Francesca says, rising. “Lead the way.”

The ceremony begins without fanfare.

I’m already standing at the makeshift altar when she walks in, her hand holding Lucia’s before letting go. She doesn't look at me once. Her steps are steady, but her gaze is distant, with hollow eyes and an unreadable expression. She's here, but not really. A ghost in white silk.

There are rings. There are vows.

And I stand in my own home, dressed like a groom, vowing things I don’t believe to a woman I don’t trust.

Not even the priest, bought and discreet, can inject life into this farce.

She recites the words with robotic precision, her voice calm, too calm.

“I vow to honor you, to serve you, to keep your house. To obey as your wife and remain bound until death.”

I huff out a laugh before I can stop it. Her fingers twitch.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Forzi?” the priest asks.

“No,” I snap. “Go on.”

We finish it. I slide the ring onto her finger, gold, heavy, meaningless. She does the same.

“By the power vested in me,” the priest declares, “I pronounce you husband and wife.”

She swallows hard, but there's no smile. No emotion. Just a flicker of something that might be relief when Lucia and Alessio rush up to her.

“You’ll love us forever now, won’t you?” Lucia asks, clutching Francesca’s skirt.

Francesca kneels, brushing her hand gently down Lucia’s cheek, then reaching for Alessio’s. “I would love you forever,” she says softly. “Wedding or not.”

And somehow… I believe her.

The vows she just gave to my children mean more than anything we exchanged at that altar.

“She’s Mrs. Forzi now too,” I say, the words escaping before I can stop them.

She doesn't even glance my way.

She leans down instead, still holding the twins’ hands, and says just loud enough for me to hear, “Only in name.”

The burn of it hits harder than I expected. It’s going to be a war. I can feel it already.

The dinner is as hollow as the ceremony. Too formal, too forced. A few family allies raise glasses with tight smiles, pretending this is some joyous union and not what it truly is: a transaction soaked in resentment.

Francesca sits beside me, composed and cold, answering polite questions from guests with carefully measured words. There’s no warmth. No spark. Just the same hollow poise she wore during the vows.

The children, thankfully, are the only source of life at the table. Alessio is halfway through recounting his latest dragon adventure to a very polite but clearly confused cousin when he yawns, long and loud, and slumps against the back of his chair.

Lucia, already nestled in Francesca’s lap, tucks her face into the curve of her neck with a sleepy sigh.

Francesca glances at me. “I’ll take them to bed.

I stiffen. I don’t want her to go. Not yet. Not with him still here, keeping his eyes on her, assessing god knows what.

“We’ll get Teresa to do it,” I say sharply. “We need to keep appearances.”

She tilts her head, her voice calm but steel-laced. “Please. Everyone here already knows it’s a sham. I’ve pretended enough for one evening.”

She rises gently, shifting Lucia against her hip, and reaches down to take Alessio’s hand .

“I’m not a wife, Dante,” she adds, her gaze holding mine, steady and unflinching. “I’m a nanny. Let me do my job.”

And just like that, she’s walking away, carrying my daughter and leading my son, claiming them like they’re hers and leaving me behind with guests who don’t matter and a truth I can’t escape.

She doesn’t want to be my wife. She never did. But she’s already more of a mother to my children than Maria ever was. And somehow, that infuriates me more than anything else.

I don’t see her come back despite the small size of the reception. I’m talking with some associate congratulating me for shaming Don Salvatore into giving me one of his.

I laugh, but it dies in my throat when I see her… talking to Bruno.

Laughing, even. He touches her hand, and she doesn’t pull away.

Something sharp lodges in my chest. I cross the room before I can stop myself, each step echoing like a warning.

She’s mine, I think as I cross the room to where she stands with Bruno.

The thought has been tearing through me from the moment I saw her standing at the altar, all soft curves and downcast eyes, dressed in white like she had any right to look innocent.

"Time to go be my whore… honey ." I spit the last word like poison, gripping her arm tight enough to leave a mark.

Bruno turns to me. “Let go of her.”

“She’s my wife,” I say, low and cold. “You want to fight me on my wedding night, Bruno?”

He doesn’t move, but his jaw clenches. She places a hand on his chest, shaking her head once.

“It’s fine,” she says quietly. “He’s right. I’m his now.”

I hate her for saying it. Hate her more for meaning it.

I drag her upstairs, the lie of white lace rustling around her legs.

She doesn’t fight. She doesn’t speak.

She just follows, quiet and compliant, her bare shoulders trembling slightly under the weight of the gown.

Like she knows what’s coming. Good. She should.

I pull her into her bedroom and kick the door shut, the sound final and absolute. No escape. No illusions.

"Time to be my whore," I growl, spinning her toward the bed.

Her dress bunches around her thighs as I shove her down, no ceremony, no tenderness.

She lied to me. She made me feel something.

And I don't fucking feel! Not for spies. Not for liars. Not for a woman who said I do to me while her heart belongs to someone else.

I rip the lace aside and tear her panties down her legs.

She gasps when I grip her hips, hard enough to bruise, but still no words, no resistance.

Good. She deserves worse.

I push inside her in one brutal thrust, and the moment I do, the breath leaves my lungs.