The priest begins the ceremony, his voice shaking. The words wash over me—the traditional Catholic wedding vows that I've heard at plenty of weddings over the years. Words about love and honor and cherishing. Words that should mean something but feel hollow in this moment.
"Do you, Elio Cattaneo, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, forbetter or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?"
Yes, something inside me screams.Yes—God, yes—I do.
I’d love her through anything. Cherish her until the day I die. Kill for her or die for her. The two words I’m expected to say don’t feel like enough, especially when I mean them more than this wedding requires me to.
"I do," I say aloud, my voice steady.
The priest turns to Annie. "Do you, Annie O'Malley, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?"
Annie's hand is trembling in mine, her voice catching as she speaks. "I do."
I want to ask her what she’s thinking. If the words mean anything to her. If she’s dreamed of this moment, wished for it, or if it’s only a means to an end.
"By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife." The priest's voice is barely above a whisper. "You may kiss the bride."
I should peck her on the mouth, do the bare minimum to seal this farce of a marriage. But in this moment, with those words hanging in the air, all I can see is her. Her brilliant blue eyes, her beautiful face, the mouth that I want to claim over and over until mine are the only kisses she’ll ever remember.
I reach for Annie, the woman I’ve loved since I was old enough to imagine what the word meant, in her bloodstained wedding dress. I pull her into my arms, and there, in the ruined church, in front of a decrepit priest, I crush my mouth to hers and kiss her the way I’ve imagined a thousand times.
And she sinks into me, her mouth opening under mine as she returns the kiss. The world vanishes for a moment, and there’snothing but her and I. Nothing but her slender body in my arms and her sweet lips pressed against mine and the taste of her on my tongue. Every nerve in me is alight, everything thrilling to her touch, and I want to throw everyone out, take her right there on the ruined altar and make her my bride in reality.
The priest shuffles behind us, dragging me back to the present. Diego clears his throat, holding out some papers—what was likely meant to be the paperwork for Desmond and Annie’s marriage. The priest signs it with a shaking hand, then Annie and I add our signatures. Diego signs as witness.
It's done. She's my wife.
And it means nothing.
My gut churns with longing and anger and a dozen emotions that I can’t untangle. My jaw clenches as I turn back to the priest, who is standing there uncertainly. Maybe expecting another payment for this wedding. Rage crashes through me, and I draw in a slow breath, addressing him as evenly as I can.
"You took money from Desmond Connelly to marry an unwilling woman. You knew what you were doing was wrong, and you did it anyway."
The priest backs away, his face going white. "Please, I—I needed the money. My parish is struggling, and he offered so much—" He looks at Annie, as if she’ll help him escape this, a pleading look on his face.
“That’s not an excuse,” I snarl. “You helped a man entrap an innocent woman. You all but sold her to him. You don’t deserve to be a man of the cloth, and you certainly don’t deserve to breathe another sip of air, now that you’ve done what I needed you to do.”
"I'm sorry," the priest whimpers. "I'm so sorry. I'll give the money back. I'll?—"
I pull my gun from the holster at my back. The priest's eyes go wide with terror.
"Elio," Annie says softly, but she doesn't tell me to stop.
"You're a man of God," I say quietly. "You should have known better."
The shot echoes through the empty church. The priest crumples to the floor, and I feel nothing. No remorse, no guilt. Just a cold satisfaction that one more person who tried to hurt Annie is dead.
Diego looks at the body, then at me, his face impassive. "I'll handle the cleanup."
"Good." I turn to Annie, who's staring at the priest's body with an unreadable expression. "Let's go. I'm taking you back to the safe house."
She nods mutely, letting me guide her out of the church and to the waiting car. We're silent during the drive, the weight of what we've just done—what I've just done—hanging heavy between us.
When we reach the safe house, I unlock the door and usher her inside. She walks inside slowly, uncertainly, finally sinking onto the couch in the living room, still in that same fucking bloodstained dress. I want to strip it off of her, to destroy any remnant of Desmond that still touches her body.
"Are you okay?" I ask, sitting in the chair across from her. Keeping distance between us. She’s my wife now, but I feel less than ever that I should touch her. Less capable of keeping my self-control from snapping and giving her everything she’s asked for, taking everything I want.
This is a marriage of convenience, I remind myself. A marriage for a purpose, not for forever. And consummating it is the one thing we absolutely cannot do.
