1
LIVVIE
I should be celebrating the happiest day of my life.
Instead, I’m walking straight into my own execution.
The aisle stretches ahead like a guillotine line, the smell of burning incense competing with my Chanel perfume. Every slow step I take is a silent agreement to a marriage I never asked for. To a life I didn’t choose.
Colored light spills in through the stained glass windows, painting my puffy white dress in streaks of crimson and gold. The irony of blood and fire isn’t missed on this hateful day.
My arm is looped through my father’s, his grip firm and inflexible—more for control than reassurance. His stride is measured, escorting me through the guests toward the altar.
Cormac O’Callaghan doesn’t believe in dramatics or insubordination. He revels in power and wealth, and today, I’m his choice of currency.
I ignore the faces staring at me from the pews and try to shut out the string quartet who get to play freely when I don’t. They have no ideawhat I’ve sacrificed.
Every guest packed inside this cathedral is here to witness my descent into hell.
I can’t be saved.
On this monumental day, they’re all here to acknowledge the merger of two empires. Irish and Italian mafia royalty sealing a blood pact with a designer gown, golden wedding bands, and ridiculous vows.
They consider me a Viacava prize. The eldest princess being passed from one kingdom to another.
In truth, Kingston and I are both chess pieces. And this wedding is bullshit.
When we reach the altar, my father places a light kiss on my cheek and steps back. He returns to the front pew, sliding into his seat without a word.
And that’s when I sense the piercing sea-green eyes of my father’s head of security.
Roman Keane.
He’s not loud in his movements. Not obvious. There’s just a subtle click of his placement as he moves into position behind my father, a silent shadow dressed in all black.
His posture is textbook professional with his straight spine, hands clasped, eyes scanning, but something about him is… tight. Contained in a way that screams danger.
Glancing over my shoulder, I catch his intense stare, taking in the cut of his stubbled jaw, the set of his square shoulders, and the tension radiating off him in waves.
He’s not here for me, though. Not anymore.
And yet… his eyes drill into my dress and how my auburn hair is pinned under a jeweled tiara.
Kingston Viacava clears his throat beside me like he’s already bored.
Even in high heels, the godlike groom still towers over me. My gaze wanders over his black suit and inky dark hair slicked back from his tanned brow. He symbolizes sin with a quick trigger finger. A gangster who could murder a man with one look and coerce the priest into blessing him afterward.
His expression is blank, like it always is when he bothers to look at me. Kingston is cold, controlled, and completely calm given the situation we’re both locked into. Not even the faintest flicker fractures his handsome facade when our eyes finally find each other.
I stand tall, shoulders drawn back, chin high in defiance. Today this mafia princess will become a queen. But I’ll never behisqueen and I’ll never bow to him as my king.
One wrong touch, one wrong word, and I’ll explode.
The priest begins speaking. Something about unity, faith, devotion. I hear none of it under the roar of blood in my ears. My jaw is clenched so tight it aches.
I’m not afraid, though.
Rather, I’mfurious.
