I let my head tilt slightly, resting against the seat as my gaze shifted to the tinted window beside me.
The reflection staring back wasn’t clean.
I didn’t have feelings for my bride—and it wasn’t personal.
A man like me, shaped by damage, doesn’t know how to love.
The idea of it has always felt foreign, unnatural.
She, however, was always there.
A girl who became obsessed with me early on—following me through college, then all the way to university—always calling herself my girlfriend.
At first, I dismissed it.
We were the only ones with ties to Italy in both my high school and university in London, and I assumed it was nothing more than familiarity.
But when I returned to Italy and she was still there, still pursuing me, it became clear—her feelings were real, whatever that meant to others.
And then, once, she saved my life.
After that, I let her into my space.
I owed her something—so I told her to ask for anything, as payment for her loyalty and what she had done.
She asked me to marry her.
Marriage was never part of my plans.
I had erased the idea long ago.
My only purpose was justice—for those who destroyed me, and for my sister.
But I honored my word.
That is how she became my bride today.
As for what this marriage will look like after the exchange of rings—once we stand at that altar—I don’t know.
The car was already moving fast, as if racing against time—we had less than five minutes until the twelve noon we had promised to arrive.
The convoy followed behind us, maintaining formation and matching our speed, providing cover.
My hands rested on my thighs.
Still. Unmoving.
I flexed my fingers once.
Slowly. Testing.
They didn’t shake.
They never did. Not anymore.
The city came into view gradually—stone replacing trees, noise replacing silence, life replacing the controlled emptiness of the mountains.
Soon, we arrived at the cathedral and descended into the private garage beneath it.
