The wedding took place on a Saturday evening.
Right on the coast in Blackhill.
Enzo had wanted it in New York at first. He figured that with the family stable again, a big ceremony there would announce my status loud and clear, give me and Emily top-tier protection. It made sense, but I shot it down.
I wanted this tiny beach spot for the ceremony. Because this place held the best moments of my life.
That afternoon, the weather was unreal—perfect. Deep, clear blue sky, not a cloud in sight. The sea barely rippled, calm and stunning.
I wore a simple white gown, no lace, no embroidery, no beads—just plain white. But when I checked the mirror, I looked better than in any fancy dress before.
Maybe because I'd finally stopped fighting my own face.
For over twenty years, since the afternoon my stepfather first stared, I'd hated it. But now Richard was dead. I'd found the love I craved, broken free from those chains.
I clutched a bouquet of white daisies I'd bundled myself at the shop. White ribbon, the kind I used for Enzo's daily flowers. Stemscross-cut at the bottom for better water—Grandma Ruth's trick. I fussed over it more than any customer's order, tweaking every angle until it was just right.
Grandma Ruth sat in a folding chair by the water, in a deep blue dress—first time I'd seen her without her work apron. Her white hair fluttered in the breeze, face blank as ever, but her eyes glistened a bit.
Noah stood beside her, in an ill-fitting white shirt, collar crooked. He fixed it twice, but it flopped back. Mrs. Douglas was there too, with her old hound sprawled on the sand, yawning. The bakery owner and the grocery girl showed up in their best, faces lit with that small-town mix of excitement and shyness for a neighbor's big day.
Less than ten people. But each one had appeared when I was at my loneliest, most desperate. They didn't pry into my past or judge my story—just quietly took in a stranger with a kid, gave her a job, a croissant, a lemonade, a daisy.
Luca was there too, hanging back in a new dark suit, clutching flowers awkwardly. He looked out of place, face stuck between serious and lost.
Enzo waited by the water.
His wounds weren't fully healed. Standing long hurt, he'd admitted. But from the far end of the beach to his side, he stood ramrod straight, unmoving.
Shoulders squared, like in his New York tailored suits. But the old intimidation was gone. He didn't look like a mafia Don surveying turf—more like a regular guy waiting for his bride.
Maybe not so regular. Even hurt, Enzo Falcone still made my heart race.
I walked up slowly, and he smiled back. He reached out; I placed my left hand in his.
The town pastor stood by us—a plump old guy with a crinkly smile, usually doing mass in church. Today, he was seaside for our tiny crowd. He opened his prayer book, cleared his throat, and started the vows.
I barely heard him. My eyes locked on Enzo's face. Sunset gildedhis profile in gold. His dark eyes softened in the glow, lips curved faintly.
Then the question came.
"Enzo Falcone, do you take Chloe Bennett to be your wife, in good times and bad, in sickness and health, till death do you part?"
"I do."
No hesitation. He flashed me a soft smile.
"Chloe Bennett, do you take Enzo Falcone to be your husband, in good times and bad, in sickness and health, till death do you part?"
I met his dark eyes. My tiny reflection stared back, framed by golden sea and white sky.
"I do," I said.
Years of fear, walls, and distrust shattered like dust, swept away by the wind.
I didn't need them anymore. They'd kept me safe once, but now they could go.
Following the pastor's lead, Enzo leaned in, lips meeting mine.
