“I don’t know,” Danny admits. The honesty is almost worse than a lie would be. “But I know he cares about you. Really cares, in ways I haven’t seen from him since before Marco died. That has to count for something. And he gave specific orders this morning about Antonio about his care and wellbeing.”
“But not about releasing him,” I say quietly, understanding what he’s not saying.
Danny’s silence is answer enough.
Does it? Can whatever is growing between Luca and me be strong enough to convince him to let my father go? To forgive him? Can caring for me translate into mercy for Dad?
I don’t have answers. I only have hope that feels increasingly fragile with every passing moment.
Music swells from the cathedral’s main space. The wedding march, signaling it’s time. Danny offers his arm, and I take it, my elaborate dress swishing around me as we move toward the massive double doors. My breathing becomes uneven as anxiety overtakes me.
“Ready?” he asks, glancing at me with concern.
“No.” But I nod anyway, because it’s what’s expected of me.
The doors open, and suddenly I’m facing a sea of people—hundreds of faces turned toward me, all watching with expressions ranging from curiosity to assessment to something that might be pity. The aisle stretches before me like a gauntlet, impossibly long, lined with more flowers than I’ve ever seen.
And at the end, standing at the altar in a tuxedo that makes him look like something out of a dream, is Luca.
Everything else fades away.
He’s so goddamn handsome in formal wear. The sharp lines of the suit emphasize his broad shoulders and lean build, his dark hair perfectly styled, his expression intense as his eyes lock onto mine. But it’s not his physical appearance that makes my breath catch.
It’s the way he’s looking at me.
Like I’m the only person in this cathedral. Like nothing else matters except this moment, this walk, me moving toward him. There’s hunger in his gaze, yes, but also something else. It looks almost like awe mixed with pain.
Danny guides me down the aisle, and I’m vaguely aware of people standing, of the priest’s voice intoning something about marriage and commitment, of the elaborate ritual unfolding around us. All I can focus on is Luca’s face as I get closer.
His hands are clasped in front of him, but I can see tension radiating through his shoulders. And his eyes. God, his eyes never leave my face, tracking every step like he’s memorizing this moment.
We reach the altar, and Danny transfers my hand from his arm to Luca’s. The touch sends electricity through me, familiar and terrifying in equal measure. Luca’s fingers close around mine with almost bruising intensity, and I feel a tremor run through him.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, so quietly only I can hear. “Gigi, you’re?—”
His voice breaks slightly on my name, and I watch something that might be anguish flash across his features before he locks it down.
The ceremony begins, and it’s all a blur. The priest speaks about love and commitment and building a life together. Words that should be meaningful but feel hollow given our circumstances. We’re supposed to respond at certain points and recite vows that neither of us wrote.
When it’s Luca’s turn to speak, his voice is steady but rough. “I, Luca, take you, Giuliana”—he pauses on my full name, and his grip on my hands tightens almost painfully—“to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.”
The word “death” seems to catch in his throat, and I watch him struggle with it before forcing it out. His hands are shaking now, trembling against mine in a way that makes it clear he’s just as nervous as I am. For some reason, that makes me feel better.
Then it’s my turn, and my voice is barely above a whisper as I repeat the words, each one feeling foreign on my tongue, surreal. “I, Giuliana, take you, Luca, to be my husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.”
The priest says something about rings, and Luca produces a band that looks inordinately expensive. It’s white gold with a semi-circle of diamonds around the band. It slides onto my finger perfectly.
When I place his ring on his hand—a simple platinum band —his fingers close around mine again, holding on as if I would disappear if he let go.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the priest says. “You may kiss the bride.”
Luca cups my face in both hands with such tenderness it makes tears prick behind my eyes. His thumbs brush across my cheekbones, and he’s looking at me with an expression so raw, so vulnerable, that I can barely breathe.
“Gigi,” he whispers.
Then he’s kissing me, and everything else disappears.
It’s gentle and desperate at the same time—his lips moving against mine with careful intensity, like he’s trying to convey something words can’t express. One hand slides into my carefully styled hair, probably ruining hours of work, but I don’t care. I just kiss him back with equal desperation, tasting salt that might be my tears or his, feeling his heart hammering against my chest.
