I nod, biting my lip. "I understand."
"Good." He offers me his arm, and I take it, my hand trembling slightly as I place it in the crook of his elbow. "Let's go."
The drive to the chapel feels endless. My father's presence beside me is solid and unyielding, a reminder that this ishappening whether I want it to or not. That I have no choice. I gave up my choices when I lied to Luca.
The chapel doors open as we arrive. I walk inside with my father, and I see him.
Luca is standing at the altar, Romeo beside him as best man. He's wearing a black suit that fits him perfectly, his dark hair styled back, and his expression completely neutral. He looks devastatingly handsome… and utterly unreachable.
His eyes meet mine as I start down the aisle, and I search desperately for something, anything in his face, that might indicate he feels something other than cold obligation. But there's nothing.
I force myself to keep walking, to keep my head up and my expression serene, even though every step feels like I'm walking toward my own doom. I reach the altar, and Luca takes my hand. Despite everything, I feel heat flood up my arm as if his touch was electric, my entire body warming to his touch and everything that I know could come with it.
Everything that I’ll never have again.
The ceremony is mercifully brief. The priest leads us through the traditional vows. I hear myself speaking the words, promising to love and honor and cherish, and my chest aches with every word, because I do love him. I do want to honor and cherish him. But he doesn't want any of it from me.
When it's Luca's turn, his voice is steady and clear, each word perfectly enunciated. He sounds like he's reading from a script, delivering lines he's memorized but doesn't believe. "I, Luca Moretti, take you, Giulia Ciresa, to be my lawfully wedded wife."
The words should fill me with joy—should make me feel like I'm finally getting what I've wanted since I was sixteen years old. Instead, they just make me want to cry.
"You may kiss the bride."
Luca turns to me, and for just a moment—just a fraction of a second—I think I see something flicker in his eyes, something that might be the ghost of what we used to have. But then it's gone, replaced by that professional blankness, and he leans in to kiss me.
His lips touch mine for barely a second. It's perfunctory and brief, a performance for the witnesses gathered in the chapel. There's no warmth in it, no hint of the passion we shared when I was Valentina and he was the man who made me feel alive. It's the kiss of a stranger fulfilling an obligation.
When he pulls back, I feel the coldness of it fill me where heat was before. He's just confirmed everything he said in the hallway two days ago; made sure I understand exactly what this marriage is going to be.
The small gathering applauds politely, and I force myself to smile and play the role of the happy bride, giving no indication that my heart is breaking into a thousand pieces. Romeo looks deeply uncomfortable, his usual steady composure cracked by the tension radiating from Luca. Savannah is trying to smile supportively, but I can tell she’s struggling to maintain the charade, too. I’m sure Romeo has told her everything, which only makes me feel worse.
My father looks tense and irritated, like he’s being forced to endure a pantomime that he doesn’t want to be a part of any more than anyone else does. And Luca looks like he wants to be anywhere but here.
We walk back down the aisle together, his hand barely touching my arm, and I can feel the distance between us. There's a wall of ice separating us that no amount of proximity can melt.
The reception, such as it is, is even worse. It's held in one of the formal dining rooms back at my family home, with a small dinner for the immediate family and the witnesses. Luca and I sit beside each other, and he doesn't touch me once or look atme. He doesn't speak to me unless someone directly addresses both of us. We're married, but we might as well be strangers.
There’s no cake cutting or first dance, no toasts. It’s almost awkward in how clear it is that the guests know this is a quiet, shameful wedding, a ceremony for a daughter who has done something no mafia daughter ever should.
When it's finally over, when the last guest has left, and the staff has started cleaning up, Luca turns to me for the first time all evening.
"I'll meet you at the house," he says, his voice flat. "I have some things to take care of first."
"Luca—"
"I'll see you later, Giulia."
He walks away before I can say anything else, leaving me standing alone in the empty dining room, still wearing my wedding dress and feeling more isolated than I've ever felt in my life.
—
The housemy father gave us is beautiful.
It's a brownstone in Brooklyn, not far from my father's estate but far enough to provide the illusion of independence. It’s three stories, recently renovated, with modern appliances and elegant furnishings. It should feel like a dream come true—a house of my own, finally, with a handsome husband and a baby on the way.
Instead, it feels like a prison.
I arrive before Luca, in a car driven by one of my father's men, who helps carry in the few bags I packed. Most of my things are still at my father's house—I'll have them moved over the next few days. But for tonight, I have enough.
