I reached for my veil and pulled it gently over my face. The world softened instantly, blurred at the edges. Protected.
A knock came at the door.
I stepped out into the corridor, and my father was there, waiting. Dressed immaculately. Steady. His eyes softened when they found me, just for a second, before the Don returned.
“Ready?”
I slipped my arm through his. “As I’ll ever be.”
We walked together the short distance toward the main room, our footsteps echoing faintly against stone. The doors loomed ahead, tall and ancient, heavy with tradition and consequence.
On the other side of them, Matteo was waiting.
The doors opened. Light flooded in first – soft and golden – then sound. Classical Italian music swelled through the cathedral, strings and piano echoing off ancient stone, wrapping around me like something alive. Every conversation stopped. Chairs shifted. An entire room rose to its feet.
I stepped forward beside my father.
The cathedral was full – rows upon rows of guests, faces turned toward me, expressions ranging from reverentto calculating. Power sat heavy in the air, layered beneath incense and history. This wasn’t just a wedding. It was a statement. Everyone knew it.
My arm tightened around my father’s as we began walking down the aisle.
The marble beneath my shoes felt cool, solid, grounding. My dress whispered with every step, silk brushing stone. I kept my head high, my spine straight – trained for this since birth – but my eyes had already found him.
Matteo.
He stood at the altar in a perfectly tailored dark suit, broad shoulders squared, posture calm but alert. Hands clasped in front of him, jaw sharp, hair neatly styled. He looked devastatingly handsome – dangerous in that effortless way that made the room feel smaller, like everything else had dimmed around him.
He was already looking at me.
The world narrowed to the space between us.
I wondered if he could see my eyes through the veil, if the soft layer of white hid anything at all. Something in his gaze told me it didn’t. That he saw me clearly.That he always had.
My breath caught – not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for me.
Step by step, we closed the distance.
When we reached the front of the cathedral, my father stopped. He turned toward me, lifted his hands, and gently pulled my veil back. His eyes searched my face, pride and something heavier flickering there. He leaned in and kissed my cheek.
“Be strong,mia Vittoria,” he murmured.
I nodded, suddenly feeling emotional once he called me by my middle name.
I turned to Matteo and placed my hand in his extended one, letting him help me up the small steps to the altar. His fingers closed around mine – warm, steady, grounding – and for just a second, the noise, the people, the weight of it all faded.
We stole a side glance at each other.
A look too long to be accidental. Too charged to mean nothing.
I faced forward again, heart steadying as I silently prayed – not for love, not for happiness – but for precision.
For control.
For everything to go according to plan.
For the sacred deception that this wedding was.
The ceremony began with the low, steady voice of the priest echoing through the cathedral. His words were ancient – spoken in Italian, practiced and reverent – about covenant and unity, about God and witness and permanence. I stood beside Matteo at the altar, hands folded, listening just enough to respond when required. The rest of me was acutely aware of everything else: the warmth of his arm close to mine, the faint scent of his cologne cutting through incense, the way the candlelight caught in the gold of the altar.
