"Sixteen pews, two side doors, one main entrance, zero ways this ends well for me." Mara said to herself as she counted the exits.
"Smile, Mara." Uncle Dario pressed his lips close to Mara's ear so no one in the pews could catch it, digging his fingers into her arm. "You look like a woman walking to her own funeral."
"Let go, Uncle."
"Not until you look grateful."
"You cleared four hundred thousand euros of gambling debt with one niece," Mara said, staring straight ahead at the white altar flowers. "Be grateful I'm even walking."
He gripped her arm tighter. "You will not embarrass me tonight."
"I'm surviving tonight. There's a difference."
"Careful."
"Or what?" she asked softly without missing a step.
He didn't answer as they continued walking up the aisle.
The chapel smelled like incense and old stone. There were dozens of thick, white candles everywhere, dripping wax on their iron holders and giving the whole room a soft, amber glow.
The altar flowers were white too: white roses, white lilies, white everything, as if someone believed that that made this whole occasion holy.
Father Matteo stood at the front looking like a man who had learned a long time ago not to ask questions about the Ferrante family. He was looking at the heavy gold crucifix above his head instead of the door.
Smart.
Mara ran the numbers again. The south gate guards changed exactly at 9 PM, giving a three-minute window where the guards didn't overlap; one man left before the next one came.
She just needed to get through tonight. If she could survive the dinner and the suite, that window of time would be hers.
"We're here," Dario muttered, dropping her arm and stepping back with a satisfied smile.
Mara took a deep breath as she stared up at who was a few minutes away from being her 'husband'. More of a sugar daddy infact, even though there was nothing sweet about the arrangement.
Don Gio Ferrante was sixty-five years old and had the build of someone who they'd never told him no before.
He stood straight with his hands together in front of him. His silver hair was brushed back from a face that looked handsome in the way of old portraits: very neat, serious, and completely still. He wore his age well.
He took her hand when she reached him.
His grip was dry and unhurried. She could feel the weight of every ring on his fingers. "You look lovely," he said.
"I was instructed to."
He smiled, entirely unbothered.
Father Matteo cleared his throat. "We are gathered here…"
Mara tuned him out as she focused on other important things: south gate… guard change… 9PM… three-minute window.
Only when the priest got to this part did she listen.
"Do you, Mara D'Angelo take…"
"Yes."
Father Matteo blinked. "I haven't finished."
"Yeah… uhm, sorry," she calmly said. "Nerves."
A few people from the pews laughed, then the priest continued.
The vows continued. She repeated every word perfectly. She had rehearsed it this part standing in the bathroom at four in the morning, whispering "I do" to the mirror until it stopped sounding like "help me."
The cold ring fitted perfectly as it slid on her finger, meaning someone had measured her finger without her knowing.
"Congratulations," Don Gio murmured.
And just like that, she was owned.
—
The reception was in the main hall. There were long tables, crystal glasses, and men whose names she tried to remember as they were said. Vito. Carlo. Antro.
"Welcome to the family," Vito said, kissing her cheek.
"Thank you," she replied.
"A beautiful bride for a powerful man," Carlo added, holding her hand a fraction too long.
Mara pulled it back smoothly with a smile. "You're so kind."
There was also a man who had a scar on his chin and a nickname she didn't quite remember the first time it was mentioned. She would try to catch it later.
Don Gio remained calmly by her side, watching everything. "You're not drinking," he observed.
"I prefer to stay clear-headed."
"You won't need your head tonight."
She looked at him straight in the eyes. "Everyone needs their head."
He laughed slowly.
Across the room, at the far end of the main table, a man was watching her.
He had a thick neck and heavy shoulders. The look in his eyes was not calm; it was calculating. He hadn't moved from that spot for forty minutes. When he saw her looking, he slowly lifted his glass to her.
"Who is that?" she asked quietly.
"My brother," Don Gio said, not looking. "Bruno."
"He stares."
"He assesses. Ignore him."
Mara didn't look at Bruno again for the rest of the evening, but she felt his eyes on her every time she moved.
—
The evening ended just exactly as she had pictured it.
Don Gio rose from his chair, and the room shifted.
The conversations slowed down. Every person at that table knew what the moment meant, and they watched while trying not to look like they were watching.
The Don stretched his hand to her. "Come, wife."
Two words. The room heard them.
She placed her hand in his and stood up.
Twenty-six steps from the dining room to the bridal suite. She counted every one.
The hallway was quiet. Her heels made slow, soft clicks on the marble floor. Don Gio walked slowly, and she matched his steps. None of them said any thing.
They were halfway down the corridor when he spoke finally. "You understand what tonight means, right?"
"Yes."
"Good. I don't enjoy resistance."
"Neither do I," she replied almost immediately.
He stopped walking and turned to look at her. "For your uncle's sake, I hope you're obedient."
"For my uncle's sake," she said evenly, "I'm here."
He looked at her for a second or two again and then he continued walking.
The guard stationed by the suite door moved out of the way before they got there. He grunted as he pushed the heavy double doors to the suite open.
The curtains were drawn, a candle was already lit, meaning someone had prepared the room before now. There was an unopened bottle of wine on a side table. White roses once again sat in a crystal vase.
The door clicked shut.
8:20 PM. Forty minutes until the south gate rotates. She needed to be in the east corridor by eight-fifty, which meant she needed fifteen minutes from here, which meant she needed…
Don Gio reached for her.
Mara held entirely still, forcing her breathing to stay even as his hand came up toward her face.
Then his hand dropped.
Something in his expression shifted wrongly, and then his mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Instead, his hand went to his chest, pressing hard against his jacket, as if he was trying to keep something inside.
She didn't understand it for a full second.
"Don Gio?"
Then he grabbed himself with both hands, his knuckles white and his jaw so tightly clenched that she could see the pull of it in his neck, and then his knees buckled.
He fell forward.
His full weight crashed into her chest and pushed her back against the wall. She grabbed at his jacket by instinct, trying to slow it, but he was too heavy and coming down too fast.
They both fell on the floor, with him landing on top of her. She hot the ground hard, the impact knocking the air out of her lungs.
She lay there, pinned beneath him in her blood-red dress, staring at the painted ceiling. He wasn't moving.
Mara pushed Don Gio's weight off her chest and quickly sat up. Her dress caught under her knee, so she pulled it free and pressed two fingers to the side of his neck.
Nothing.
She checked again, pressing harder this time.
Still nothing.
The bedside clock read 8:23 PM.
She straightened up and quickly looked around the room. The wine glass he had been holding was shattered near the foot of the bed. The bed itself was still perfectly made. The candle was still lit.
Nothing seemed out of place except for the dead man on the floor and the bride standing over him in a blood-red dress.
She knew exactly how this was going to look.
'Call for a guard. Report it. Play the horrified widow.' That was the only move that made sense right now.
She turned toward the door. But before she could reach them, the heavy double doors burst open.
Nico Ferrante filled the doorway.
He wore dark travel clothes, and his jacket still carried the cold of wherever he had just flown in from. His jaw was sharp, his brown eyes were even sharper, and in his right hand, he held a gun pointed right at her chest.
He held it easily, like someone who had done this many times before and didn't think need to much of it.
He looked at his father on the floor.
Then his eyes came back to her and stayed.
"Gold-digger or murderer?"