Chapter 8 Til Death Or Something Worse

• [CAMI]
• The dress fits like a fucking dream.
• Figures.
• It clings to me like silk was invented just to wrap around my body. Heart-shaped neckline that does all kinds of wicked things to my chest, the fabric hugging my hips like it knows how to sin. I stare at myself in the mirror and blink once. Twice.
• I look… insane.
• Insanely beautiful.
• I’m not humble about it. Never have been. I’ve never pretended to be the kind of girl who calls herself ugly just to hear someone argue otherwise. I know what I look like.
• I know men would sell their souls and maybe a kidney just to touch skin like mine. It’s pale—like, I burn in five minutes pale—and kind of glowy under the lights in that “is she an angel or a corpse?” way. My hair’s this silvery blonde that falls in waves like I actually drink water and sleep eight hours. My cheeks always look flushed, even when I’m not blushing, and my lips? Full, faint pink, permanently kiss-ready—at least that’s what people love to say, like I was born halfway through a makeout session.
• Funny how I look like a bride, but feel like I’m walking to my own funeral.
• Claire would die if she saw me. She’d cackle and say, “Cami, your tits are doing the Lord’s work,” and then probably drag me out the back door to shotgun a beer and run.
• But she’s not here. No one I know is.
• Except the woman who helped me into this dress. The same woman who slapped me once, hard. The same woman whose husband got a bullet to the skull for it. She didn’t meet my eyes as she zipped me up. Her hands trembled. Maybe she was scared of me. Maybe she was scared for me.
• Who the fuck knows anymore.
• I look like a goddamn dream bride. And this isn’t even my dream.
• The lace and silk. The pearls. The soft lighting and the veil that’s been draped carefully across my hair like I’m a sacrificial fucking lamb. I want to tear it all off. Scream. But I don’t.
• Because I want to live.
• God, I want to fucking live.
• I didn’t grind through college, spend sleepless nights working shifts for minimum wage, burn my soul trying to build a future, just to die in some twisted mafia soap opera.
• But maybe that’s not up to me anymore.
• A knock at the door.
• That same smug bastard from before. The one who smirks like my pain is a joke he tells at parties.
• “I’m here for the bride,” he says, like this is some fairytale and not a goddamn hostage situation.
• I follow him, my heels clicking. The train of the dress nearly trips me and the heels, while gorgeous, are a sick kind of joke. They weren’t made for escaping.
• We wind through the mansion. The halls are dim, and cold. Too quiet. Even if I tried, I would not remember because every turn, every corner looks the same.
• Then I see him.
• A man standing at the end of the hallway.
• Older. Late fifties, maybe early sixties. He stands too firmly, and I already know he’s well seasoned in this game. He turns.
• And my blood goes cold.
• I know. I fucking know.
• Those eyes. That chin. There’s a mirror in his face. A cruel, warped mirror that reflects something I’ve never been allowed to name.
• Beside me, the best man lets out a low whistle. “Well, would you look at that. A happy reunion.”
• He turns to the man. “Ready to walk your daughter down the aisle, Mr. Moretti?”
• My heart twists violently.
• Moretti.
• The man—my father—stares at me. And something in his eyes changes.
• Recognition.
• Shock.
• Guilt?
• Then I see it—his hand twitching toward the gun at his hip. Almost as a reaction.
• I flinch.
• In a flash, the suited men step in, weapons drawn but not raised, as if daring him to make the wrong move.
• The best man tilts his head, his grin widening. “Careful now. You know where you are. This wedding will happen either way, Mr. Moretti.”
• The man’s jaw tightens. Slowly, he lowers his hand… then extends his arm to me.
• It takes a second for my body to move. My legs feel like they belong to someone else. I reach for him numbly, fingers trembling as they wrap around his offered arm.
• I can’t stop the question. It comes out broken.
• “Are you… are you my father?”
• My voice cracks right down the middle.
• He doesn’t even look at me. Not really. His gaze stays straight ahead, his face emotionless.
• “I wish I wasn’t,” he says flatly.
• Just that.
• Nothing more.
• It cracks something in me so deep I don’t even know where the pain begins. Of all the ways I could’ve learned who he was—some story, some slip-up, even a whispered name—it had to be this. It had to be now. Dressed like this, walking toward the man who thinks he owns me, while the man who abandoned me escorts me there.
• What a fucking fairytale.
• The wind picks up as we step out onto the grass.
• The venue is almost beautiful, if it wasn’t laced with so much dread. A manicured stretch of lawn out behind the mansion, overlooking the cliffs and sea. Trees edge the space like silent sentinels. The sun has started to sink, casting everything in golden light like some sick cinematic climax.
• Men in suits fill the rows. Hard-eyed. Armed. Like they’re waiting for someone to say the wrong word so they can blow a hole in his chest.
• Only two women sit among them.
• And then there’s him.
• Zeke.
• My groom. My captor. My nightmare.
• He’s at the altar, wearing a dark suit that’s tailored to every inch of his broad frame, his eyes locked on me like I’m a fucking vision.
• He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t look away.
• It’s terrifying.
• Worse? It’s fucking intoxicating.
• I hate that.
• The walk feels endless. My legs barely work. My brain is static. The words blur. Vows, promises, names.
• Then someone says it: you may kiss the bride.
• I brace. Ready for the assault. For the invasion.
• I’ll break his fucking jaw—
• Zeke just leans in and presses his lips to my cheek.
• Softly.
• I don’t know what that means.
• I don’t get the chance to figure it out.
• Because then—
• Gunfire.
• Chaos erupts.
• Screams tear the air apart. Men pull weapons from holsters. Bullets slice through the golden light.
• Strong arms yank me back. I fall hard, silk and lace tangling around me. My hands fly to my head, my eyes squeeze shut.
• Don’t die don’t die don’t die—
• Someone grabs me by the waist—trying to drag me? Save me?
• They don’t make it. A shot rings out. His body jerks, then collapses onto me, blood hot and heavy against my stomach. The stain blooms over the lace.
• My wedding dress is ruined.
• It’s over within seconds.
• The smoke clears.
• And then I see him.
• My father.
• On his knees.
• Blood trickles from his split lip. There’s a gash on his forehead. His hands are bound behind his back. But there’s defiance in his eyes. Fury.
• Zeke stands in front of him, gun aimed squarely at his forehead.
• “I thought,” Zeke says slowly, “you’d at least ask for my forgiveness.”
• I freeze.
• No.
• No no no—he can’t die. Not like this.
• I just found out. I just met him. I haven’t even screamed at him yet. I haven’t asked why.
• He can’t die today.
• Not when he’s barely become real.
• “Stop!” I yell, the word ripping from my throat like a knife.
• Zeke glances back at me, amused. He smirks.
• “Should we spare him, Mrs. Russell?”
• The title makes my skin crawl.
• I want to say no. I want to say fuck him. But I can’t.
• I just shudder in a breath and stare at him.
• Zeke watches me. Then turns back, cocking his gun again.
• “No?” he prompts.
• I swallow the bile. Force the words out.
• “Don’t kill him… yet.”
• Zeke tilts his head.
• And smiles like I just became his favorite kind of dangerous.