There was no flicker of care.
He did not flinch at my pain, did not even register the injury he had inflicted.
All that mattered to him was that the ring found its place on my hand—no matter the cost.
And that thought made my heart ache.
The priest cleared his throat softly.
His hands lifted slightly, palms open in that familiar gesture of solemn authority.
“By the power vested in me by God and the authority of the Church, and in the presence of these witnesses, I now pronounce you, Elena Vasquez and Vincenzo Orsini, husband and wife. What God has joined together, let no one separate. You are now bound in the sacred covenant of Holy Matrimony, to love, honor, and cherish one another from this day forward, until death do you part.”
Until death do you part?
A ripple of murmurs swept through the grand hall.
The priest turned his calm gaze toward Vincenzo, his tone formal.
“You may now kiss the bride.”
My heart slammed against my ribs.
I swallowed hard, fighting the dry, uneasy twist in my throat.
This—this was really happening.
The words seemed foreign in my mind, almost impossible to believe.
The boy I had once shared innocent promises with in a dark, damp cave all those years ago—the boy who had trembled and laughed and feared the world with me—was now a man standing before me.
A man feared across Italy, a man who wielded power like a weapon, a mafia boss who could make empires tremble with a single decision.
And somehow, impossibly, he was now my husband.
Vincenzo moved deliberately, the kind of calculated, graceful precision that marked everything he did.
Two measured steps forward, closing most of the distance between us.
My stomach twisted—not just from nerves, but from the raw, undeniable dominance in the way he carried himself.
Then his large hand wrapped around my wrist.
He didn’t yank me toward him, didn’t force me into submission.
Instead, he leaned in, his imposing frame towering over my five-foot-five inches, his broad shoulders casting a shadow that dimmed the light of the chandelier above.
For a breathless, fragile second, his lips hovered just above mine.
I caught a faint scent—sweet, fruity, almost like ripe peaches—and my stomach knotted immediately, a visceral twist of unease and disorientation.
My pulse raced.
Before I could identify it, before I could pull away or brace myself, his mouth descended.
The kiss wasn’t ceremonial, or fleeting—it was commanding.
His lips pressed to mine gently at first, almost deceptively tender, then deepened, exploring and claiming as though the hundreds of dangerous eyes around us, the rival factions, even the discarded bride glaring daggers from the side, were nothing more than empty air.
