The priest begins the ceremony, but I barely hear the words. I’m too focused on Adora’s face, the slight tremor in her hands, and the way her eyes shine with unshed tears. Her fingers are cold in mine, and I caress them gently.
We’ve survived torture, threats, impossible odds. We can survive this too.
Somehow.
“Vincenzo Vici, do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife? To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”
“I do.” The words come out steady, weighted with everything I can’t say in front of these people.I love you, Adora. I’ll protect you. I’ll burn the world down for you. Nothing and no one will hurt you ever again, because they’ll have to go through me.
Her smile trembles at the edges.
“Adora Montoni, do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband? To have and to hold, from this day forward,for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?”
She doesn’t hesitate. “I do.”
I slide the ring onto her finger, warm gold with diamonds, elegant and simple. It catches the colored light from the stained glass, and for a moment, I’m mesmerized by how right it looks on her hand.
“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife.” The priest smiles benevolently. “You may kiss the bride.”
I pull her close, one hand sliding up her bare back, and kiss her with all the tenderness in my black heart. She’s not just my wife in name, but in every way that matters. Her lips are soft and warm, and she makes a small sound against my mouth that no one else can hear.
Mine.
The church erupts in polite applause.
We’re married.
Now we just have to survive the reception.
The venue Adorachose with Clara’s help is stunning. Exactly the warm, romantic aesthetic Adora wanted. Tables are set with cream linens and there are scented garden roses and candles everywhere. Golden light spills across polished floors. It’s beautiful.
And it’s full of vipers.
The Montoni capos and their wives take up several tables, the men in dark suits with hard eyes, the women wearing satin and dripping with jewels.
Don Carlucci Barone and his wife sit at a prominent table with their children. Damiano is dark-haired and watchful. Lucy is stunning in emerald green. Ariana is bored and beautiful in pale pink.
Sofia is here too, not far from the bridal table, with her son Matteo by her side, silent and observant. This day must be as strained and bittersweet for them as it is for me, haunted by the memory of our dead loved ones.
Clara moves through the crowd with quiet efficiency, checking that everything runs smoothly. The young wedding planner is good at her job.
Agnello holds court at the bridal table, playing the magnanimous father of the bride, accepting congratulations and well-wishes like he actually gives a damn about his daughter’s happiness. I want to put a bullet in his skull.
Dinner is endless courses of food I barely taste. Adora sits beside me, her hand occasionally finding mine under the table, her smile never slipping, even though I can feel the tension radiating from her.
“Are you okay?” I murmur when the servers clear our plates.
“Perfect.” Her voice is steady, but her fingers tighten on mine. “Everything’s perfect.”
It’s not. We both know it’s not.
After dinner, the guests begin to move about, socializing before dessert. The string quartet plays. Champagne flows freely. Agnello, already flushed with alcohol, makes his way toward me.
“Vincenzo.” He claps a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Shall we have a word, man to man?”
I would rather bathe with piranhas, but I paste on a smile. “Of course.”
He leads me to a small sitting room off the main hall. It’s private, intimate, with two leather chairs and a sidebar stockedwith expensive whisky. He cracks a fresh bottle, pours two generous glasses, and hands me one.
