"Thank you, Papa," I manage, my voice surprisingly steady despite the emotion threatening to overwhelm me.
"Are you happy? Truly happy?" he asks, and I can hear the weight of everything unsaid in those simple words. All his guilt about the arranged marriage, about trying to marry me off to protect me, about almost losing me because of decisions he made without asking what I wanted.
"I am," I tell him honestly, squeezing his hands back. "More than I ever thought possible."
He nods, satisfied with my answer in a way that makes his shoulders relax slightly. "Then that's all that matters. Not the alliance, not the business, not any of the things I thought were important. Just your happiness." He offers his arm. "Ready?"
"Ready," I confirm, slipping my hand into the crook of his elbow and feeling the solid strength of him beside me.
The music starts—the traditional wedding march that echoes through the sanctuary and makes my heart leap into my throat. I can’t believe it's really happening. In a few minutes, I'll be married. To Santino. By choice. Because I love him.
The heavy wooden doors swing open with the help of two ushers in matching suits, revealing the sanctuary filled witheveryone we know, everyone who matters, everyone who's part of this world we live in.
And there, at the altar, standing in front of the priest with his hands clasped in front of him and his face illuminated by the late afternoon sun streaming through the stained-glass windows—there's Santino.
He looks impossibly handsome in his tuxedo, the black fabric cut perfectly to his frame, his dark hair styled just enough to look intentional but not overdone, his expression one of complete awe as his eyes lock onto mine the moment the doors open.
When his eyes meet mine across the length of the sanctuary, his entire face lights up with a smile so genuine and unguarded that it steals what's left of my breath.
That smile—that look of pure joy and disbelief and love—is just for me, and it makes every minute of our complicated journey worth it.
This is right.
This is exactly where I'm supposed to be.
Papa and I start walking down the aisle, my steps careful to match his pace, the train of my dress whispering against the carpet behind us. We pass rows of family and friends, of business associates and allies and people who've known me since I was a child learning to navigate the complicated world we were born into.
But I barely see them, barely register the smiles and the tears and the whispered comments about how beautiful I look.
All I see is Santino waiting for me at the end of this aisle, his eyes never leaving mine, his expression saying everything words could never capture about how he feels in this moment.
When we finally reach the altar, Papa stops and turns to face me, his hands steady on my shoulders even as I can see the emotion threatening to break through his carefully controlled expression.
"Be happy," he whispers. "That's all I've ever wanted for you. Your happiness."
Then he turns to Santino, his expression shifting back to the serious, assessing look of a Don evaluating the man who's about to marry his daughter.
"Take care of her," Papa says quietly but firmly, his voice carrying the weight of both a father's plea and a Don's command. "Always."
"Always," Santino promises, and there's something in his voice that makes it clear he understands this isn't just a wedding vow but a sacred oath he's taking before both our families.
Papa nods once, satisfied with whatever he sees in Santino's face, then takes my hand with careful reverence and places it in Santino's waiting palm, the gesture both a blessing and a release, a father letting go of his daughter so she can build her own life.
Santino’s hand is warm and strong, wrapping around mine with a certainty that makes me feel both safe and exhilarated, like I'm exactly where I belong but also standing on the edge of a thrilling unknown future.
Papa steps back to join Mama in the first row, and suddenly it's just Santino and me standing before Father Parisi, facing each other with our hands joined.
"Hi," I whisper, unable to contain the smile that's been threatening to break free since I started walking down the aisle.
"Hi," he whispers back, squeezing my hand gently. "You look beautiful.”
Father Parisi begins the ceremony, speaking words he's spoken hundreds of times before but that feel brand new when they're about us, about our union, about the life we're choosing to build together.
He speaks about love—the real kind that chooses every day instead of just once, that grows stronger through challenges instead of breaking under pressure, that builds rather than diminishes. He speaks about partnership and equality, about two families becoming one while respecting what makes each unique. He speaks about the sacred responsibility of marriage, of choosing to be vulnerable with another person, of trusting someone with your whole heart.
But I'm not really listening to the words as much as I'm drowning in the reality of this moment—standing here with Santino, our hands joined, our eyes locked, our futures becoming one.
I'm looking at him and seeing not just the man I'm marrying but everything he represents—the partnership I never thought I could have, the equality I was told didn't exist in our world, the love I was afraid to want because wanting it felt like admitting I needed someone instead of being complete on my own.
