The first thing I noticed was the weight of the veil.
It pressed over my head like a sentence I hadn't agreed to serve, its delicate lace tickling my cheeks as if mocking me. Outside the arched window, the city skyline glittered in gold and steel, but the view felt like a cage. Somewhere beyond those high-rise towers, freedom still existed. Just not here. Not for me.
"Stand straight, Elena," Aunt Marissa's voice cut sharply behind me. Her perfume—roses and something bitter—lingered too close. "You're about to marry the most powerful man in the city. Stop looking like you're attending a funeral."
I almost laughed. A funeral would have been preferable. At least there, I could mourn openly.
The silk gown clung to me like liquid moonlight, every seam custom-fitted, every pearl hand-sewn. Beauty, I'd learned, could be its own kind of shackle. This dress wasn't chosen for me—it was chosen for him, to present me as the perfect, docile wife a man like Damian Moretti deserved.
A man whose name was whispered in fear across the city's underworld.
I had never met him. Not properly. Only seen him once, from a distance, stepping out of a black Maserati, his hand buried in the pocket of his tailored suit. The rumors painted him as cold, ruthless, untouchable. Yet, here I was, about to be tied to him for life—because my family owed him a debt they could never repay.
The ornate double doors opened, and Marco, one of the Moretti family's men, stepped inside. His presence was like a shadow swallowing the light, his black suit perfectly pressed, his eyes assessing. "It's time," he said simply.
I swallowed hard, my pulse a drumbeat in my ears. Time for what? To lose my name? My life? My freedom?
Aunt Marissa tugged my veil down. "Remember, smile. He can give you everything you've ever dreamed of—if you please him."
If.
The word sat heavy in my chest.
The walk down the grand hall toward the private chapel felt longer than it should have been. My heels clicked softly against the marble floor, echoing in the silent tension. The air smelled faintly of incense and something sharper—gun oil, perhaps. My palms were slick inside my gloves.
When we reached the chapel doors, Marco nodded, and two other men pulled them open. Light spilled in, warm and golden from the chandeliers above, illuminating rows of guests dressed in the richest fabrics. Faces turned toward me—strangers, every one of them. I didn't see a single friend from my old life.
And then I saw him.
Damian Moretti stood at the altar like a dark pillar carved from stone. His black suit fit him like sin, the crisp white shirt beneath highlighting the hard lines of his jaw. He didn't smile. He didn't blink. He simply watched me approach, his gaze cool and unreadable, as if he were studying a weapon he'd just purchased.
My knees threatened to buckle, but I kept moving. Each step felt heavier than the last, and when I reached him, I could barely lift my chin to meet his eyes. They were darker than I remembered—almost black—but there was something else there. Not warmth. Not yet. But not the icy indifference I'd been warned about, either.
"Miss Elena Rossi," the officiant began, his voice steady, "do you take Damian Moretti to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
The words blurred. My chest tightened, and I could hear my own breathing over the murmurs in the pews. I didn't want this. Every instinct screamed for me to say no, to run, to shatter this gilded arrangement before it began. But behind me, I felt Aunt Marissa's eyes burning into my back. And somewhere in this room, I knew the Moretti family's men would be ready to stop me if I tried.
I thought of my father, sitting in a hospital bed with bills we couldn't pay. Of the threats that had arrived at our door in the form of black envelopes and broken windows. This wasn't just about me. This was survival.
"Yes," I said, the word tasting like ash.
The officiant turned to him. "And do you, Damian Moretti, take Elena Rossi to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
"I do," he said, his voice deep, unshakable, and final, as if he were sealing a business deal.
The moment the rings were exchanged, his fingers brushed mine—cool, firm, unyielding. A shiver climbed my spine, not entirely from fear. There was a strange calm in his touch, as if he were silently promising something I couldn't yet understand.
"You may kiss the bride," the officiant said.
Damian's hand lifted the veil slowly, his gaze never leaving mine. The room blurred, every face fading into nothing. His lips brushed my cheek, lingering just long enough to send an unexpected warmth into my chest. It wasn't a lover's kiss. It was something else—a silent warning, perhaps, or an unspoken pact.
As we walked back down the aisle together, his arm firm around mine, I heard the first whispers ripple through the crowd. Some were admiring. Others were skeptical. And somewhere, deep inside me, I realized this was only the first step into a life I didn't choose—a life that could either protect me or destroy me.
When we reached the black car waiting outside, Damian opened the door for me himself. I hesitated, looking up at him.
"You're trembling," he said quietly. It wasn't a question.
"I'm fine," I lied.
His eyes narrowed slightly, as if he could see straight through the false calm I'd draped over myself. Then, in a voice low enough that only I could hear, he added, "You don't have to be afraid of me, Elena. But you should be very afraid of this world."
Before I could respond, he guided me into the car, his hand warm at the small of my back. The door closed, sealing me inside. The engine started, and the city lights began to blur past the tinted glass.
Somewhere in that blur, I felt the first stirrings of something I hadn't expected—curiosity. About him. About the man I was now bound to. About why, in a world built on fear, the mafia's most dangerous man had chosen someone like me.
But I had a feeling I'd find out soon enough.