I would have loved to see the Chiaroscuro estate in its former glory, but it’s ash and ruin now, after that same Yakuza family who married their daughter to Leonardo nearly burned it to the ground. They killed Don Augusta, too, just a few weeks after the wedding, when they stormed through the Chiaroscuros’ front gates, turning what was once an empire into rubble.
So instead of a wedding in their legendary hallowed halls, here we are—at the Novikov Bratva’s headquarters. It’s not exactly lacking in beauty, but the Novikov estate is all sharp edges and dark stone, fortified gates and thick glass windows that don’t just look decorative—they look bulletproof. There’s less romance in its bones, more practicality. Still, someone has managed to soften it for the occasion. Ribbons of ivory fabric drape the staircases, and fragrant bouquets of pastel flowers bloom in every vase. It’s as if someone tried to weave tenderness into steel.
And somehow, it works.
I sit at the vanity in the guest suite they gave me, staring at my reflection as my mother fusses with my veil. My stomach twists in anxious knots, so tight I can hardly breathe, as I study the heart-shaped neckline of my beaded ivory bodice. The strapless corset cinches tight around my waist, pressing my breasts up into an impressive amount of cleavage. A decadent pearl-encrusted necklace draws attention down to my chest, not so subtly hinting at the fact that today is the day my parents will no longer concern themselves with my chastity.
“You’re pale,” my mother says in that clipped, no-nonsense tone that’s both a warning and a scolding. “You shouldn’t look like a ghost walking down the aisle. Breathe, Evi.”
“I am breathing,” I whisper, though the breath scrapes at my throat like shards of glass.
With a soft huff, my mother takes my chin, turning my face so she can pinch my cheeks, and I wince as she unapologetically draws my color to the surface.
“There,” she says, releasing me.
The door behind us swings open, and Anika sweeps in, somehow lightening the tension in the room instantly. She’s radiant in a soft blue gown that matches her eyes and the jeweled comb that holds her platinum blond hair in place. She smiles, and it isn’t forced. It’s warm, genuine, and understanding.
“You look incredible,” she says, coming straight to my side like we’ve been sisters forever instead of strangers thrust into each other’s lives by a bloody alliance. “Sandro won’t know what hit him.”
I almost laugh. Almost.
Anika has been a godsend. Somehow, in the chaos of organizing this wedding in record time, she’s kept everything together. Invitations, catering, decorations—all the things I thought would be impossible with so little notice. She’s handled everything with calm efficiency and a little bit of flair. But it’s not just her organizational skills. It’s her.
She has a way of speaking that makes me believe her, a way of looking at me like she sees more than just the pawn I’ve been offered up as. Then again, she would know better than I about the price of being sold off as a mafia bride. She might be happily married and madly in love with Miko. But from what little I’ve learned about her past, her current husband saved her from a far uglier marriage. And I’m slightly terrified that I might be headed for the same fate.
“You’re nervous,” Anika says softly, catching my eye in the mirror.
I nod, because lying feels pointless.
“Don’t be.” She leans in, whispering conspiratorially. “The Chiaroscuros might seem terrifying—trust me, I thought the same thing at first—but deep down, they’re all softies. Even Sandro.”
“Really?” I breathe, half-skeptical, half-desperate to believe her.
“Don’t let the scowl fool you.” Her grin widens, and she squeezes my hand. “He might prefer action to words, but I doubt you could find anyone more loyal.”
My throat aches. I want to believe her. I want to believe that beneath Sandro’s tattoos and brooding silence, there’s something softer waiting for me. Something that won’t destroy me the moment he realizes the truth.
Anika gives my shoulder a squeeze then slips back out of the room to help oversee the guests. As soon as the door closes, the air shifts once more, the warmth disappearing along with her. My mother remains behind, fussing with my gown until finally she straightens, her eyes sharp, her voice lowering into a tone that slices.
“Remember,” she says. “Not a word about your condition.”
The reminder stings, even though I knew it was coming. “I know.”
It’s not like I could forget, when my parents have hammered it into my head that all our lives hinge on the Chiaroscuros never discovering our plan for—let’s face it—entrapment. No doubt Sandro would refuse to marry me if he knew I can’t have children, so if anyone ever found out we already knew about it, no doubt the consequences would be catastrophic, likely even deadly.
Which is why no one can ever know.And why would they, unless I let it slip? After all, I’m a virgin—so why would I even suspect I can’t have children? Right?
“If he asks, you smile. If he wonders, you deflect. Understand?” my mother presses.
I bite my lip, nodding. But her words drag me back to that humiliating chapter of my life I’ve tried so hard to bury. I was just thirteen then, so I didn’t know any better. My body had only begun to change, but my cycle was erratic, unpredictable. Sometimes, it disappeared for months. My nanny noticed and reported it to my parents, whispering that something was wrong.
That’s when their suspicions started. My father didn’t ask gently. He accused.
“Who is he?” he had barked, his face red, his hand slamming down on the table hard enough to rattle the silverware. “Tell us who you spread your legs for!”
I hadn’t even kissed a boy, and I was too young to realize just what he was accusing me of. But it didn’t take me long to findout. The shame of that moment still burns beneath my skin just thinking about it. The disbelief in my father’s eyes, the cold fury in my mother’s.
They marched me to a doctor, forced me through tests I didn’t understand, all to discover who had knocked me up, despite my insistence that I was still a virgin. That’s when the truth came out. I have polycystic ovary syndrome, PCOS. A word I didn’t know then, but one that now defines me.
