I take her left hand, sliding the ring onto her finger.
Vittoria stares at her hand. Then she looks up at me and smiles.
But something's wrong.
The smile reaches her mouth but doesn't quite touch her eyes. There's a tightness around them. She's performing—playing the role of happy fiancée—but underneath...
What's wrong, solnyshko?
I want to ask. Want to pull her aside, demand she tell me what's bothering her. But we're surrounded by family, by guests, by expectations. This moment isn't ours. It belongs to the alliance, to the performance of unity between Bratva and Cosa Nostra.
So I file the observation away. We'll talk later. After the announcement. After the obligatory mingling and toasts and political theater.
I'll get her alone and find out what put that false note in her smile.
"It's beautiful," Vittoria says, her voice steady despite whatever's churning beneath the surface.
"Like you," I reply, meaning it.
Her smile shifts—becomes more genuine for a heartbeat. Then the mask slides back into place.
I take Vittoria's hand and lead her toward the small stage Igor set up near the DJ booth. She follows without hesitation, though I feel the slight tremor in her fingers.
Something's definitely wrong.
We climb the three steps. The stage puts us above the crowd, visible to everyone in the club. I position Vittoria slightly in front of me, my hand settling at the small of her back.
A waiter appears with two champagne flutes on a silver tray. I take both, handing one to Vittoria.
I raise my free hand. The DJ cuts the music immediately. Conversations die. Heads turn toward the stage.
Silence fills Nexus.
Every eye in the club focuses on us. Sartori family. Baganov siblings. Allied families. Business associates. People who came to pay respects after my father's death and stayed for the spectacle of what comes next.
I don't give a prepared speech. Don't waste time with flowery language or political maneuvering.
"Thank you all for being here tonight," I say, my voice carrying across the space. "We're gathered to announce that Vittoria Sartori and I are getting married."
Simple. Direct. Exactly what it needs to be.
I lift my glass. Vittoria raises hers, the diamond on her finger catching light, sending sparkles across the stage.
"To new alliances," I say. "To family. To the future."
Our glasses touch with aclink.
I drink, watching Vittoria over the rim. She brings the champagne to her lips, takes a sip, her throat working as she swallows.
Applause erupts. Loud. Enthusiastic. The kind of response that says everyone here understands the significance of this union.
The sound builds—hands striking together, voices rising in congratulations, the noise of celebration filling every corner of Nexus.
Then it stops.
Not gradually. Not a natural fade.
Itstops.
