My fingers curl into the front of his jacket. He makes a low sound in his throat, one hand settling at my waist, the other still cradling my face, and for one fragile, dangerous moment the nerves go quiet.
The world goes quiet.
When he pulls back, he rests his forehead briefly against mine. “Better?”
I let out a shaky breath. “A little.”
His lips brush mine once more, almost a promise. “Good. Because you look beautiful enough to start a war.”
The words send another shiver through me.
Then he steps back just as the door opens again and Teresasweeps into the room with her usual force of presence, muttering something scandalized in Italian when she sees how close we’re standing.
Dante only smiles.
I touch my mouth, still feeling the ghost of his kiss there, while Teresa settles the veil over my hair and declares me ready.
But as she leads me downstairs, that awful feeling returns.
It’s stronger now like fate has finally reached for the handle of a locked door.
The church is overflowing by the time I arrive.
Candlelight flickers against stone walls. Flowers spill from white arrangements at the ends of each pew, their sweetness heavy in the air. The music swells low and elegant, and every face turns as I appear at the back in my gown and veil.
For a second, everything blurs.
The guests. The priest. The aisle stretching endlessly ahead of me.
And at the end of it, Dante.
He stands at the altar in a black suit, broad-shouldered and devastatingly composed, watching me as if I’m the only thing in the room worth seeing. There’s something in his expression that makes my pulse stumble.
Teresa squeezes my hand before stepping aside.
I start walking. One step. Then another. The dress moves beautifully around me, hiding the slight curve of my stomach exactly as it was meant to. My bouquet trembles in my grip, though I tell myself no one can see it. All I can hear is the rush of blood in my ears and the sound of my own breathing beneath the music.
Halfway down the aisle, Dante’s gaze catches mine and holds it.
I’m almost to him when the church doors slam open. The sound cracks through the ceremony like a gunshot. Gasps eruptbehind me. The music dies in a strangled stop. My heart seizes so violently it feels like it actually misses a beat.
Then I turn.
Men pour into the back of the church in dark suits, weapons already drawn. And in the center of them, dressed in black like death itself, is Lorenzo. For one impossible second, I can’t breathe.
He’s here.
Oh my god, he’s here.
The church explodes into chaos. Women scream. Guests duck low in the pews. Dante’s men reach for their weapons almost instantly, chairs scraping against stone as bodies move, collide, shout.
But I can’t hear any of it properly.
I can only hear the roar of blood in my ears as Lorenzo steps forward, gun in hand, his eyes locked on me with a look so furious, so wild, it chills me straight through.
His gaze drops to the dress. To the altar waiting behind me. And whatever remains of his restraint dies.
“Oh no,cara, this won’t do,” he says, voice like a blade dragged over bone.
