Byron's arm tightens around mine as we begin our slow procession down the aisle. I feel every step like I'm walking to my own execution rather than my wedding. Each face we pass is a mask—smiling, approving, completely unaware of the truth beneath this elaborate charade.
And then, at the end of the aisle,I see him.
Damiano Feretti stands tall and imposing. Even fromhere, I can see the way the fabric stretches across his broad shoulders. His dark hair is styled impeccably, and his stance radiates power and control.
Our eyes lock through my veil, and the rest of the church seems to fade away. His lips curve into a knowing smirk that sends a chill down my spine—confident, possessive, almost predatory. As if he's won something precious.
That smirk ignites a familiar rage inside me. This man destroyed my life. And now he stands before an altar, ready to claim me as his prize.
As Byron and I reach the altar, Damiano steps forward, his eyes never leaving mine. My stomach tightens with loathing as he extends his hand toward me.
"I'll take it from here," he says to Byron, his voice deep and commanding.
The moment our skin touches, his fingers close around mine like a trap.
He pulls me closer, bending his head until his lips brush against my ear. His breath is warm against my skin, sending an unwelcome shiver down my spine.
"Hello,lupacchiotta," he whispers, the Italian word rolling off his tongue like silk.Little wolf.The intimacy of the nickname makes my skin crawl.
I turn my head slightly, our faces inches apart. "What did you call me?" I whisper back, keeping my smile fixed in place for our audience.
His eyes darken, the corner of his mouth lifting in that infuriating smirk. "You'll learn, soon enough."
The priest clears his throat, and we both turn to face him. My hand remains trapped in Damiano's much larger one, his thumb brushing absently across my knuckles in a gesture that appears loving to everyone watching but feels possessive to me.
The ceremony begins, a blur of Latin prayers and scripture readings. I recite my vows mechanically, the words hollow and meaningless. Damiano speaks his with conviction, as though he actually means them. For better or worse. In sickness and health. Until death do us part.
Death will part us sooner than he thinks.
When it's time to exchange rings, I feel the cool platinum band slide onto my finger. It's heavy, like a shackle. I place his ring on his finger with steady hands, despite the rage burning inside me.
"By the power vested in me," the priest intones, "I now pronounce you husband and wife." He smiles benevolently at Damiano. "You may kiss your bride."
My heart pounds as Damiano turns to me, slowly lifting my veil. His eyes drop to my lips, and I brace myself for the contact I've been dreading. The thought of his mouth on mine makes bile rise in my throat, but I maintain my loving expression.
He leans in, his eyes locked with mine in a silent challenge. I can feel the collective anticipation of hundreds of guests waiting for this moment—our first kiss as husband and wife.
But at the last second, he shifts, pressing his lips against my cheek instead. His lips linger there, warm against my skin, as applause erupts around us.
"This isn't over," he whispers against my cheek before pulling away, his public smile firmly in place.
I take my new wife's hand, feeling her fingers stiffen in my grasp. Her eyes flash with something—hatred, fear, I'm not sure which—before she masks it with a practiced smile.Good. At least she knows how to play her part.
"Come, Zoe," I say. "Time to meet the family."
The reception hall buzzes with activity—waitstaff carrying champagne, photographers capturing candid moments, guests mingling in their designer finery. I guide Zoe through the crowd with a hand at the small of her back, feeling the heat of her body through the delicate fabric of her wedding gown.
I spot my siblings and Alessio near the bar. Lucrezia notices us first, her face lighting up like a child on Christmas morning. She practically bounces on her heels, already halfway to us before we reach them.
"She's beautiful!" Lucrezia exclaims, embracing Zoe without hesitation. "I'm Lucrezia—your new sister! I've been dying to meet you properly."
I watch Zoe carefully, searching for cracks in her facade, but she returns Lucrezia's hug with convincing warmth.
"It's wonderful to meet you," Zoe says, her voice gentle. "Damiano mentioned how talented you are with your art."
Lucrezia beams at me, clearly pleased. "He did? Well, I'll have to show you my studio sometime. Maybe I could paint you—your bone structure is divine."
Enzo steps forward next, his smile not quite reachinghis eyes. My brother has never been good at hiding his feelings—and his skepticism about this marriage radiates from him like heat.
