I lift my gaze to meet his and do not look away. “I vow loyalty,” I say clearly. “Protection. Love until my dying breath.”
The words settle between us, true in a way that makes my chest ache, because I think I can keep them. I think my life will not stretch far enough for those promises to be tested once he learns the truth about who I really am.
The priest's voice cuts through again. "Do you, Dante Salvatore, take Rosalina Erin O'Connor to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, to protect and honor her for all the days of your life?"
My gaze flicks to Seamus at the sound of it—the O'Connor name stitched to mine. He must have given it to the priest when we walked the aisle, selling the room on the lie, making me the Irish princess they came for. And the room buys it. Every last one of them. Except one.
I will Luca to stay quiet.Don't ruin this. Don't say a word.He knows the truth—knows exactly who I am behind the name they just gave me—and he's a soldier of this family, through and through. Of course he'll stay silent. He doesn't need a reason. But silence from a man like Luca is never free, and I already know I'll spend the rest of this marriage waiting to find out what I owe him.
"I do," Dante says, his voice huskier than before.
The priest turns to me. “Do you, Rosalina Erin O’Connor, take Dante Salvatore to be your lawfully wedded husband, to stand beside him, to protect him, and to bind your life to his?”
I lift my gaze back to Dante, meeting his eyes, and the pull is immediate and unsettling. There is something in his stare that feels like open water, dark and endless, drawing me forward whether I intend to move or not. He watches me with certainty, with possession, as if this moment is only confirming what he already believes to be true.
“I do,” I say, my voice steady, even as it feels like I am being pulled farther out to sea, aware that once I am in, there will be no easy way back.
The priest nods. “Then, you may kiss the bride.”
Dante’s hand comes up, knuckles brushing my cheek before he lifts the lace away. His eyes darken the moment he sees my face fully, something possessive and intent flickering there before he leans in.
He leans in and kisses me slowly at first, as if he is giving the moment the reverence it deserves, his mouth warm and certain against mine. One hand settles at my waist with quiet authority, drawing me closer until there is no space left between us, until the world narrows to the steady press of his lips and the controlled strength holding me in place.
The sensation blooms all at once, deep and consuming, sending a rush through me that steals my breath and leaves my head light. I grip his jacket without thinking, fingers tightening as the kiss lingers, unhurried and intimate, carrying a promise that feels both tender and possessive in equal measure.
When he pulls back, the applause washes over us, but I barely hear it. All I can think is that this is real, irrevocable, and I have just bound myself to this man who will have every reason to kill me once he finds out the truth.
5
DANTE
I am marriedto the girl I saw crying. Not some distant Irish princess shaped by rumor and politics, but the same woman whose composure fractured less than seventy-two hours ago, whose tears lodged themselves somewhere beneath my ribs and refused to leave. I have not been able to stop thinking about her since. I have not wanted to. The feeling that she belongs to me no longer sits in the realm of instinct or imagination. It is fact now, sealed and witnessed.
She stands at the center of the dance floor, light gathering around her as if it recognizes her claim to it, as if she was always meant to be placed beneath chandeliers and watched. The ivory of her dress glows against her skin, fitted so precisely it feels less like tailoring and more like reverence. Lace traces her body in intricate patterns, floral and deliberate, rising and falling over her curves as though the fabric learned her by touch. The neckline rests low and unapologetic, a quiet provocation that makes my jaw tighten every time another man forgets himself and looks too long.
Her hair is pinned up, curls gathered and restrained, though a few have escaped to soften her face. Pearls rest against the light brown coils like a crown, old-world and understated, a signal of status that does not need permission to exist. The veil trails behind her, sheer and weightless, catching the light each time she turns. She looks expensive. She looks untouched. She looks like she already belongs to me.
We have not had a moment alone since the aisle, and the regret claws sharper with every passing second. I watch the way her dress moves when she turns, how the skirt sways and settles, how the bodice holds her so precisely it borders on restraint. I imagine what it would feel like to loosen it, to follow the seams with my hands and learn exactly where she yields.
Her voice, when she speaks, is softer than I expected. The thought of how it would sound broken apart, screaming my name, whimpering, clawing, tightens something dark and impatient inside me. I want her out of that dress. I want her away from the room, away from the watching eyes, and alone with me, now.
“You're going to break your glass,Principe,” Luca chuckles into my ear, and I reluctantly place the glass onto the table.
“How much longer is this reception?” I ask, leaning back in my chair, watching her.
She dances with her father, Seamus O’Connor, his hand steady at her waist as he guides her through the steps. There is affection there, genuine and unguarded, the kind that does not need to perform for the room. She smiles at him, smaller and more private than the one she offers everyone else.
“Another two hours,” Luca sighs, sliding next to me at the bride and groom table. “You have the groom and bride dance, cut the cake, toast.”
Her eyes flicker in my direction, and her smile irons out on her face. I don’t know what I do to invoke such a look, but I want her to smile at me. I want the shine in her eyes that she only reserves for other members of the Irish Mafia.
“Who planned all of this?” I mutter, rubbing a hand over my face as Seamus dips his daughter and the room erupts in applause.
“Your wife,” Luca says, finishing his champagne. “She has good taste.”
I glance sideways at him, just in time to catch the way his gaze lingers too long on her as she straightens, laughter still on her lips. His mouth curves, slow and knowing, and his tongue flicks out to wet his lower lip before he looks away, as if he has been caught admiring a painting that does not belong to him.
“Luca,” I say quietly, my voice pleasant enough to pass for a joke. “Can you for a second act like you don’t want to fuck my wife?”
