Chapter 4 Wedding Day

• ~ Few weeks Later ~
• The cathedral is filled with death in designer roses.
• Leave me standing at the altar, in a gown that cost more than most people's cars, and all I can think about is how the white silk resembles a shroud. The fabric clings to my skin, weighed down by foreboding and fear. My flowers—blood-red roses, because someone has a nasty sense of humor, apparently—tremble in my hand.
• Three hundred guests fill behind me. Three hundred vultures in their Sunday best, here to witness the Romano name six feet under.
• The organ starts. Wagner's wedding march, but a funeral dirge played in this stone and glass echo chamber. Each note thunders against my ribs.
• The voice demands in my head. *Don't turn around. Don't let them see you break.*
• And yet I do. I just can't help myself.
• Luca Valenti moves down the aisle as if he claims every inch of ground his feet touch. Black tuxedo tailored to perfection, dark hair slicked back from his face, and those eyes—January rainwater cold and just as pitiless. He's not looking at me the way a groom looks at his bride.
• He's looking at me the way a hunter sizes up prey.
• I take a deep breath. The roses stutter in my dampening hands.
• He walks towards the altar, and Father Benedetto clears his throat. The priest's hands shake as he opens the book. Even he knows this isn't holy matrimony—it's a contract sealed in blood.
• "Dearly beloved—"
• "Skip it."
• Luca's voice cuts through the ceremony like a knife. Father Benedetto's face goes pale.
• "But the traditions—"
• "I told you to skip it." Luca's eyes never leave mine. "We're not going to do love and cherish stuff. Get to the places where we're bound."
• My cheeks burn with embarrassment. The guests change behind us, murmurs rustling like dry leaves. I yearn to run. I yearn to scream. Instead, I throw my chin up and stare at him as intensely as possible.
• You will not break me in front of everybody.
• "Very well." Father Benedetto's voice cracks. "Do you, Luca Valenti, take Elena Romano—"
• "I do."
• No hesitation. No emotion. Like he's ordering coffee.
• The priest grins at me, and I find myself unable to breathe. The words cut at my throat like slivers of glass.
• "Elena Romano, do you take—"
• "She does."
• I turn my head to Luca. "Excuse me?"
• His lips curl into something that might be a smile if smiles had the power to bleed. "You do. That's why you're here, isn't it?"
• The cathedral grows utterly still. Even the candles seem to stop fluttering.
• "I can speak for myself," I murmur.
• "Can you?" He moves in, close enough that I catch a whiff of his cologne—something dark and expensive that makes my head spin. "Then speak, Elena. Tell everyone why you're really here."
• My throat is sore. Because he is right, isn't he? I'm here because Alessandro's life is on the line. Because our family name is drowning in debt and enemies. Because I'm the last bargaining chip.
• "I do," I force out.
• "Louder."
• The word smacks me with physical impact. Three hundred people that surround us are all holding their breath.
• "I do." Louder this time, but it burns.
• Father Benedetto mutters through the ring exchange. Luca's fingers are warm when he puts the band on mine—a heavy ring of gold that wraps around my finger like a shackle. When it's my turn, his hand remains rock-steady as mine trembles.
• "You may kiss—"
• "No."
• Luca's refusal bounces off the stone walls. Father Benedetto blinks.
• "Why tradition—"
• "Tradition can go to hell." Luca turns to face the crowd, his hand clamping around my wrist. "Ladies and gentlemen, Mrs. Valenti."
• The title burns like a slap. Mrs. Valenti. No longer Elena Romano. That girl's dead now, hidden underneath silk and promises I didn't want to give.
• The guests erupt into courtesy applause, but under it I hear something else—relief. They'd come to see the Romano bloodline die, and I just gave them front-row seats.
• ---
• The reception is hell in three courses.
• We sit at the head table like king and queen of the damned. Luca's hand is on my thigh—possessive, claiming—while person after person comes to offer congratulations that sound more like condolences.
• "Such a beautiful bride," Mrs. Ricci sighs, one of the elderly society women whose glamour has faded. Her smile doesn't reach her eyes. "The Romano women are always so... battered."
• Resilient. Slang for desperate.
• "Thanks," I manage to get out.
• She leans in closer, the perfume thick enough to gag on. "Your mother would be so proud. God rest her soul."
• My heart gets tight. Mama's been dead three years, but the ache still whams into me like a sucker punch sometimes.
• "Yes," I say to him. "She would."
• Mrs. Ricci disappears, and I reach for my wine glass. Luca's fingers encircle mine before I can lift it.
• "Careful," he breathes against my ear. His breath sends unwanted shivers down my spine. "Don't want anyone to think you need liquid courage."
• "Maybe I do."
• "Perhaps you should have thought of that before you said 'I do.'"
• I try to pull my hand free from his grip. His grip tightens.
• "Smile, Elena. You're the blushing bride, remember?"
• So I do it. I smile until my face hurts, until my cheeks feel as if they'll split. I smile as strangers kiss my cheeks and congratulate me on my luck. I smile as the photographers snap photos that will probably be used to build an evidence file someday.
• The cake-cutting is a gag. Luca puts my hand on the knife, his chest against my back, and I'm pinned between the blade and his warmth. When it's time to feed the other person, he clasps my wrist so hard I catch my breath.
• "Be gentle with the knife, wife." His voice is steel wrapped in silk. "Don't want you getting hurt."
• The cake tastes like ash between my lips.
• Finally—finally—the party disintegrates. Guests filter out in little groups, air-kissing and promising to swing by that we all know won't occur. Alessandro catches sight of me at the wine table, my eyes dark and bloodshot as if I haven't slept in a month.
• "Elena." His voice cracks on my name. "I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."
• "Don't." I can't even bear to look at him. If I do, I'll begin crying, and I won't give these people the pleasure. "It's done."
• "It doesn't have to be. We could—"
• "Could what?" I finally meet his eyes. "Run? Hide? Think you he wouldn't find us?"
• Alessandro's jaw clenches like he's chewing glass. "There has to be another way."
• "There isn't." The words leave my mouth tasting flat, dead. "We both know there isn't."
• He reaches out to me, and I jerk back. I don't like his touch right now—can't like anything soft or soothing when I'm so busy trying to stay hard.
• "Take care," I whisper. "That's all I need from you now."
• And before he can answer, Luca appears at my side. He doesn't speak, just places his hand on the small of my back. The burn travels through the silk.
• "Ready?" he asks.
• No. I'll never be ready.
• "Yes."
• ---
• The ride to his estate is in silence. Luca rides in a black Maserati that purrs down the winding roads beyond Palermo. I sit by the window, watching the city lights flash past like streaks of shooting stars.
• The car smells of leather and his cologne. Costly. Lethal.
• "Second thoughts?" he asks without looking at me.
• "Would it matter if I was?"
• "No."
• At least he tells the truth.
• The villa appears out of thin air—a huge mansion atop cliffs over the Mediterranean. Wrought iron gates groan open as we approach, pushed by unseen force. Security cameras track our passage like robotic eyes.
• Breathtaking. Remote. Perfect for disappearing people.
• Luca drives into the round drive and steps out to open my door. Such a gentleman. If gentlemen were the type of men who liked to collect wives like trophies and smile like wolves.
• "Welcome home," he says.
• Home. The term is bitter.
• Inside, the villa is marble-tiled floors and vaulted ceilings. Costly artwork on the walls, no doubt plundered. Crystal chandeliers that cast prismatic light upon surfaces honed to mirror polish. It's lovely and frigid as a mausoleum.
• "Your room is upstairs," Luca says, shrugging out of his jacket. "Third door to the right."
• "My room?" The question escapes before I can catch it.
• He turns, and there's something feral in his smile. "Did you think we'd be sharing? How sweet of you."
• Flame rises to my cheeks. "I didn't—I just thought—"
• "You guessed wrong." He undoes his tie with slow, calculated precision. "I married you to torture you, not to fuck you."
• The words strike like blows. I fold my arms around myself, chilled by the warm evening air.
• "Why?" The word doesn't do justice to my meaning. "What did I ever do to you?"
• His expression doesn't alter. "You were born a Romano. That's crime enough."
• He moves toward a corridor that leads deeper in the house, then pauses.
• "Elena?"
• I look up, some stupid part of me wanting sympathy. For humanity.
• "This wedding is no union," he whispers, voice as slick as a knife moving between vertebrae. "It's your punishment for your father's sin."
• And then he's out the door, leaving me alone in my white wedding gown in a house that's more of a cell than a home.
• I stand there until the grandfather clock in the corner rings midnight. My feet ache in the high heels. The dress is like it's a thousand pounds.
• Mrs. Valenti. That's me these days.
• I don't know how long it will take for him to break her.