Marco thinks this marriage will settle me down.
As if a ring could stop Alessandro Rosetti from being exactly who he is. I'll play the husband in public, but my nature doesn't change just because I said 'I do.' Though I have to admit, the irony of fucking other women while married to a woman I'm not touching appeals to my sense of humor.
My bride trembles like a trapped bird, and I find myself unexpectedly fascinated by the flutter of her pulse beneath porcelain skin.
She stands before me in the chapel, drowning in white silk and my mother's lace veil. The morning light through stained glass paints her in shades of gold and crimson, but it's the way she grips her bouquet—knuckles white, stems crushing under pressure—that holds my attention. Three exits from the chapel. Two guards at each. She's traced every one with her eyes. Smart little bird.
"Dearly beloved," Father Molina begins, his voice echoing off marble walls that have witnessed three generations of Rosetti unions. Most of them happier than this will be.
Frances Hewson looks nothing like her photograph. The girl in that candid shot seemed mousy, forgettable. This woman vibrating with barely contained panic is something else entirely. Her dark hair is styled in an elegant twist that exposes the graceful line of her neck, where I can see her pulse hammering against translucent skin.
I've collected beautiful things my whole life. Women, cars, art—I've had them all. The supermodel who left her billionaire husband for one night with me. The senator's daughter who still sends letters begging for another chance. But none of them vibrated with secrets quite like this terrified bride approaching my altar.
The Morettis sent representatives. The Irish are here too, filling the back pews like wolves at a sheep auction. Everyone watching this alliance, measuring our new weakness or strength. Let them look. They'll see exactly what I want them to see.
I study her profile while the priest drones through the ceremonial opening. High cheekbones, delicate jaw, lips that tremble despite her visible effort to still them. Pretty enough, though that hardly matters. What matters is the alliance, the patents, the power her name brings to our family.
But those hands…
When she shifts the bouquet, I notice them properly. Soft, yes, but not pampered. There's a faint callus on her right thumb, the ghost of old blisters across her palm. Strange for a girl who spent years in Swiss finishing schools.
Marco stands as my witness, his presence a silent reminder of what this union means. Behind us, my family fills the first three rows. Dante's dark eyes track everything despite his silence, Sofia's blonde perfection masks whatever calculations run through her mind, Nico at attention like the soldier he'll always be.
The chapel smells of incense and candle wax, old wood and older promises. Her silk dress rustles with each tremor that runs through her, a whispered symphony of fear. I've seen enough terror to be immune. But hers tastes different somehow, sharper.
"The rings, please," Father Molina intones.
She extends her left hand, and there it is again, that tremble that runs through her whole body. I catch her wrist, ostensibly to steady her, but really to feel the rabbit-quick beat of her pulse against my fingers.
"With this ring," I begin, sliding the shiny new emerald onto her finger slowly, deliberately, "I claim you as my wife."
The traditional vows say 'take thee,' but Rosettis have always preferred accuracy.
"Do you, Frances Hewson, take Alessandro Rosetti as your lawfully wedded husband?"
She opens her mouth, and for one suspended moment, I see raw panic flash across her face. Her lips form the beginning of a different sound before she catches herself with visible effort.
"I… Frances…" She stops, swallows hard, tries again. "I, Frances Hewson…"
The hesitation stretches too long. Every person in this chapel notices it, though most will attribute it to virginal nerves. But I've negotiated too many deals, interrogated too many liars, not to recognize something off when it's trembling in front of me in designer white.
"Take your time, princess," I murmur, low enough that only she can hear, letting my thumb stroke across her wrist. Comfort to any observer, but we both know it's a warning. "We have all day."
Her eyes snap to mine, wide with an emotion I can't quite place. Terror, certainly, but something else too. Whatever the Hewsons haven't told me about their daughter, it's written in the way she flinches at her own name.
"I, Frances Hewson," she finally manages, voice threadier than silk, "take Alessandro Rosetti as my lawfully wedded husband."
The words come out mechanical, rehearsed. She's not what I expected. Years away at boarding school have changed her morethan her photo suggested. A business transaction. But the way she carries secrets already makes me want to crack her open like a safe.
At least she's prettier than I expected. The photo made her look like a librarian. This version… well, I've ended engagements for less appealing prospects. Maybe I won't need to visit my usual haunts as often as I'd planned.
"You may kiss the bride," the priest announces, and her whole body goes rigid.
Interesting. Most brides fake enthusiasm at this part, playing the romance for the audience. This one looks like she's preparing for an execution. Time to give her something real to fear.
I cup her face with both hands, tilting it up toward mine. Her skin is fever-warm against my palms, and I can feel the fine tremor that runs through her. My cologne makes her nostrils flare slightly.
"Mine," I whisper against her lips, quiet enough that only she can hear it. "And if you run, I'll find you. The Rosettis always collect what belongs to them."
