Candles flickered in disciplined rows, their flames steady.
Only twenty guests filled the pews.
No crowd. No celebration. Just power.
High-ranking capos sat stiffly, faces impassive, eyes calculating.
A handful of trusted allies stood like sentinels along the walls. This wasn’t a wedding—it was a declaration, witnessed by men who understood exactly what was being claimed.
In the front row, Giovanni sat straight-backed, hands folded.
Beside him—
My heart lurched.
Vanya.
My son looked impossibly small in his tiny navy suit, curls carefully combed, shoes polished to a mirror shine.
His legs barely reached the edge of the pew.
His eyes were wide, shining with a fragile mix of excitement and unease, like he knew this moment mattered but didn’t yet understand why.
When he spotted me, his face lit up.
He lifted his hand and waved, restrained but enthusiastic, like he wasn’t sure if waving was allowed in churches.
I waved back, discreetly.
My chest tightened painfully. If this was the price to keep him safe, I would pay it a thousand times over.
The organ began.
Soft. Solemn. Beautiful.
The bridal march rolled through the nave, heavy with tradition, hollow of joy.
I walked alone.
No father at my side. No arm to rest my hand upon. No one to give me away because there was no illusion to maintain. This wasn’t love. This wasn’t fate.
This was a transaction.
Halfway down the aisle, I couldn’t stop myself.
I veered left, ignoring the sharp intake of breath from one of the bridesmaids, and knelt swiftly beside Vanya’s pew. The organ faltered for a fraction of a second before continuing.
I pressed a kiss to his forehead.
“Mom,” he whispered urgently, gripping my sleeve, his voice too serious for his small mouth. “You’re marrying him so you don’t have to be... his mistress, right?”
Mistress.
My throat tightened.
How did a five-year-old even know concepts like that?
I smiled anyway, reassuring, even as something inside me cracked.
