I reach forward and grab him in a hug, inhaling his familiar and comforting scent. Dad’s arms immediately wrap around me and I feel five years old again, safe and secure in his arms.
“You’re the best father I could have asked for,” I tell him fiercely. “Biology doesn’t matter. You chose to love me, to raise me, to be my dad when no one else would. That choice meanseverything.”
We’re both crying now, holding each other in the bridal suite while months of pain and healing and love pour out between us. This is closure, I realize.
Not just for the lies and the truth, but for the relationship we had and the new one we’re building.
“Oh god, I must look like a raccoon,” I laugh when we finally pull apart, both of us wiping at our eyes.
Dad hands me a handkerchief and I dab under my eyes, relieved when nothing shows up on the stark white linen. Santiago is a genius.
“You look stunning,” Dad says sincerely, his cheeks a little splotchy but they highlight his blue eyes.
“Ready to give me away?” I ask him, handing him back his crumpled handkerchief.
“Never,” he says immediately, tucking it away into his front pocket. “But I’m ready to trust you to someone who deserves you.”
He offers me his arm with old-world formality, and I take it, feeling the solid strength of him beside me.
We walk out of the bridal suite together, through the corridors of the cathedral toward the massive doors that lead to the sanctuary.
I can hear the murmur of voices beyond those doors—hundreds of people waiting to witness this moment.
Representatives from every major family on the Eastern seaboard, business associates, friends, allies.
People who’ve come not just to watch a wedding, but to see the formal alliance between the DeLuca and Ricci organizations.
“You know,” Dad says quietly as we pause before the doors, “this isn’t just about love. What you and Alessandro are creating together—it’s going to change everything about how power works in our world.”
“I know,” I reply, and I do. This wedding isn’t just personal; it’s political.
The seating arrangements alone send messages about alliances and respect.
The guest list represents a careful balance of power that took weeks to negotiate.
Even my dress was chosen to project strength as much as beauty.
But underneath all the politics and power plays, it’s also just a girl marrying the man she loves.
The doors open, and the first thing I see is the cathedral itself.
It’s breathtaking—soaring ceilings, stained glass windows that paint everything in jeweled light, and arrangements of white flowers shipped in from Italy.
Every detail has been planned to perfection, creating an atmosphere that’s both sacred and undeniably luxurious.
Nothing less for the eldest daughter of Matteo DeLuca.
Then the music begins—not some traditional wedding march, but something more modern, more us.
The notes fill the cathedral, and every head turns toward the doors.
But I only have eyes for Alessandro.
He’s standing at the altar in a morning suit that looks made to him, showcasing his muscular frame.
His dark hair is styled just messy enough to make my fingers itch to run through it, and I certainly do plan on it later.
But it’s his expression that makes me faint—wonder and love and something that looks like awe as he watches me walk toward him.
