Then it's Massimo's turn. He doesn't reach for a prepared vow. He doesn't look at the officiant. His gaze never leaves mine.
"For most of my life," he begins in a low and steady voice, "I believed love was a liability." A faint, self-aware smile touches his mouth, gone as quickly as it appears. "I was taught that love makes men weak. Predictable. Easy to break." His eyes never leave mine. "So I became something else."
The room is silent now. Every breath feels suspended.
"I became ruthless," he admits simply. "I learned how to take. How to survive. How to sin without remorse." A pause. "It worked."
My chest tightens.
"Then I met you." His voice softens—not weaker, never that—but stripped bare. "I didn't understand you then. I didn't understand why you unsettled me. Why you made the world feel… less certain." He swallows. "But I knew I didn't deserve you."
Tears blur my vision.
"I tried to convince myself I could walk away from you," he continues. "That I could bury what I felt and still be whole. I told myself I hated you. I told myself you betrayed me." His jaw tightens. "I was lying to survive."
A ripple moves through the room. Someone inhales sharply, Philippa, maybe.
"I never stopped loving you," he continues. "Even when I became a man you shouldn't have forgiven. Even when I didn't want to. Even when loving you felt like the most dangerous sinof all." His eyes shine now, unguarded. "I am a merciless sinner," he acknowledges quietly. "I have done things that cannot be undone. I carry blood and guilt and ghosts that will never leave me."
My heart feels too big for my chest.
"And still," he goes on, "you survived without me. You protected our son without me. You built a life in the ruins you were left behind in. And when I came back broken and late… You let me come home." He steps closer, as if distance itself is unbearable. "I don't ask for forgiveness I haven't earned," he says. "I don't ask you to forget who and what I am." He takes my hands in his, warm, steady, anchoring. "I vow this instead," he kisses my fingers. "I will spend the rest of my life proving that loving you is the one thing I will never fail at again."
Tears spill freely now.
"You are the one," his dark eyes shine with severity. "The only one. You were before I understood it, and you are now, and you will be until my last breath." His thumb brushes my knuckles, grounding me. "You are my truth," he finishes. "My family. My redemption. My home." His voice drops, fierce and reverent all at once. "And whatever darkness waits for me in this world will never touch you or our son without first going through me."
There isn't a dry eye left.
Massimo Manetti—Don, king, merciless sinner—looks at me like this vow is the only absolution he's ever believed in.
"I do," he finishes.
The moment he slides the ring onto my finger, I know something with absolute certainty: I didn't marry power. Or protection. Or a kingdom. I married the man who chose love and let it change him. And that choice?
It was the bravest thing either of us has ever done.
Later, after dinner, the atmosphere shifts. The long banquet tables are cleared, the candles are burning lower now, casting everything in a softer glow. The tension of the day dissolves into laughter, music, the easy hum of people who have survived too much together to stand on ceremony for long.
Massimo takes my hand without a word. He doesn't ask. He never does. The room quiets just enough as he leads me onto the dance floor, that quiet awareness that follows him everywhere settling over the crowd. Conversations pause, glasses lower, eyes track us. His thumb brushes over my knuckles, grounding, possessive.
"Don't think," he murmurs, pulling me closer. "Just follow me."
I huff out a quiet breath. "I hate when you say that."
A corner of his mouth lifts. "You never listen anyway."
The music swells, something slow, familiar, and he moves like he was born to it, sure, controlled, guiding me with an ease that makes it impossible to do anything but fall into step with him. Around us, the room begins to stir again. Someone whistles. Enzo, I think.
"About time," a voice calls out, amused.
Massimo ignores it, his focus entirely on me. Which only makes the commentary worse.
"Careful, Jenna," another voice chimes in, teasing. "He gets territorial when people watch."
"He already is," I mutter under my breath.
Massimo hears it. Of course he does. His hand tightens at my waist, pulling me closer, a silent confirmation. I don't fight it. For once, I let myself sink into it. By the time the first song ends, the dance floor fills. Couples drift in, laughter loosens the edges of the room, conversations overlap, glasses clink. The formality of earlier fades into something warmer, more chaotic, more real.This is his world. And mine, because it doesn't feel like I'm standing outside of it any longer.
