35. Azra
Azra
The chapel doors are shut, but I hear the murmur of the crowd inside.
They sound like a hive of bees, ready to burst out and swarm me the second I step over the threshold.
My palms sweat, and my throat feels tight.
I flatten my hand against my chest, sure that my heart is close to bursting out of my chest.
This is it. The moment I’ve been preparing for. The plan I’ve been crawling toward for four years. I’m so close to greatness I can taste it.
One step at a time, I tell myself. Then you’ll be one step closer to ending this nightmare.
My chant is confident, but my legs feel like stone.
They transformed the chapel at a local hotel into a winter wonderland.
It’s so beautiful and polished—it doesn’t suit a man with decaying insides like Antonio.
Vivienne, the wedding planner, has surpassed herself.
She always does. I saw the photos of Antonio’s first wedding.
Vivienne could transform a broom closet into a royal ballroom if given enough ribbon and a proper budget.
Roses, lilies, and a thick, lung-clinging scent fill the air. The lighting is warm and golden, casting a soft glow over everything like a filter on a celebrity photoshoot. Tall glass cylinders holding flickering candles line the aisle, and their flames dance as if whispering secrets to each other.
Bows in my favorite color adorn every pew. That is a detail meant to make me feel seen, cherished, and understood. Instead, it feels mocking. This isn’t me. It’s the idea of me, dressed in satin and flowers, without ever acknowledging who I really am.
Vivienne stands a few feet away, waving her hand in frantic encouragement. She’s already propped up my nerves twice this morning, but the dread in my stomach still hasn’t moved.
Her third wave of support is even larger than the first two, her eyes wide with a mix of excitement and panic.
I force myself to breathe before I gesture to the man manning the door to open it.
The air in my lungs rushes out in a hurry when I spot who is waiting for me.
Antonio is commanding the altar like a king waiting for his auction prize to arrive.
His suit is immaculate and tailored within an inch of its life.
His hair is flawless, his posture is perfect, and his expression is unbearably smug.
He’s acting like he’s already won, and this ceremony is merely a formality to make his victory official.
My stomach twists as Vivienne waves again—her arms practically flapping now.
I force myself to take a step, and another, before I freeze just inside the chapel’s entrance.
The front row on the bride’s side is meant to be empty.
It isn’t. My mother and brothers hog the entire pew.
It’s not hard. Ahmet is built like a tank.
He stands a foot taller than everyone surrounding him.
And Kemal’s aura is too dark and dangerous for anyone to consider filling the portion of the pew on each side of him. They’d rather stand.
My breath catches, and for a split second, I’m convinced I’m hallucinating.
What are they doing here?
None of my relatives should know I am getting married today.
They shouldn’t be here.
Under normal circumstances, excluding my mother, they wouldn’t be here. Unless it benefited them, they haven’t cared about me in years. I made them look weak, not powerful. That was enough to have me removed from every family meeting since I grew boobs.
I must be dreaming. That is the only solution. Then my father steps forward, and his scowl reminds me that this is as real as it gets.
He presents the same as he always has—stern, polished, and completely unreadable. His expression is carved from stone as he extends his arm like he’s been waiting his whole life to walk me down the aisle.
“Daddy—”
“Let’s not keep your husband waiting, Azra.” He freezes me in place with an angry glare. “Tardiness is as disrespectful as disobedience.”
I swallow hard, then nod.
As he guides us past guests gushing like they know a single thing about me, I whisper, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you—”
He cuts me off without even looking at me. “This will form a good alliance between us and our Sicilian compadres. That is all that matters.”
His snarled words replicate an icy bucket of water being thrown over me.
Of course that’s all he cares about. It’s never been about me or my happiness. My safety doesn’t even get a mention.
It is always about alliances and power.
I smile at Don Adami when I catch his eye. I must play the role I’ve been primed for since birth. But also, this is the final step before everything changes.
I’ll be free after this, and so will Hattie.
The aisle feels impossibly long, stretching out with every step. My dress swishes around my legs, heavy and suffocating, as my father guides me forward like I’m a pawn being moved across a chessboard to protect the king.
Halfway down, I notice a small table near the altar. It’s a memorial table for loved ones who have passed. My grandfather takes center stage, but just to his left, framed in silver, is a picture of Hattie.
My chest tightens as my pulse rings in my ears. She is so alive in the photo. So bright and full of hope, like she was when she promised she’d find me my own foreign prince so I could also escape what we thought was a fate worse than death.
We had no idea.
Antonio was not her prince. He twisted her into something she didn’t recognize and stole the only true friend I ever had.
I tear my gaze away from Hattie and look at Antonio. His smirk is triumphant and certain.
His cockiness sets my determination in concrete.
I will not break.
I will not falter.
I will not let him win.
When we reach the altar, my father releases my arm and steps back, his verbalization on the situation indecipherable.
With no time to waste, the priest begins the formalities. His voice reverberates in the chapel, but I barely hear him. My pulse is too loud, and my thoughts too chaotic. Even more so when the chapel door flies open, and a ripple of shock moves through the room.
I know who is there before I twist my neck to follow the attendees’ wide gazes.
Matteo stands in the entryway, breathless, wild-eyed, and drenched. Huh? His lips twist before a breathtaking smile lifts half his mouth.
“I object,” he says, confident that is all he needs to say to stop this wedding.
I have news for him.
The priest blinks. “We… ah… we haven’t reached that stage yet.”
Before I can react, my father’s voice booms over the shrill of my pulse. “His concerns also don’t matter. My daughter marries whom I say she marries.”
He turns toward the intruder—toward Matteo—and recognition flickers across his face. In a nanosecond, interest replaces his peeved expression.
“What is this about?” he asks, his curiosity unhidden in his high tone.
Matteo doesn’t look at my father or Antonio.
He doesn’t look at anyone except me.
“Can I speak with you?” he asks. “In private.”
“No.” My brain rattles against my skull from my quick headshake.
“I’m marrying Antonio. He is my choice.” I say my lie sharply, hopeful it will scare Matteo away like it did last night.
He needs to let me finish what I started, then, once that is done, he will learn the truth. But not before. It can’t happen before.
Matteo stares at me for a few nerve-racking moments before he shifts his eyes to my father. “There are things you don’t know that may have you reconsidering who you want to give your daughter’s hand to.”
“Such as?” my father asks, completely ignoring my immediate denial of his claim.
When Matteo gestures subtly with his head toward the priest’s chamber behind the altar, my father nods once before following him to it.
Just as fast, Antonio snatches up my wrist and drags me after them, his grip tight and possessive. I stumble but don’t resist. I need to hear whatever excuse Matteo comes up with so I can remind him of it when I make him pay for ruining everything just as it’s coming together.
Inside the office, Matteo turns to face Antonio, my father, and me.
“They can’t get married. She doesn’t love him,” he says, voice low but steady.
Don Adami’s scoff unnerves me. I hadn’t realized he had joined us. “Marriage isn’t about love.”
Matteo lifts his eyes to Don Adami, who barges his way into the room with no concern that Matteo’s family has more power in this realm than both him and my father combined. “It isn’t?”
“No. It’s about alliances and strengthening ties with our international comrades.”
Matteo’s disgust is as strong as mine when his focus shifts to my father, the person more concerned about alliances than his flesh and blood.
“You’re going to let your daughter marry a monster for an alliance not worth the piece of paper her marriage certificate will be printed on.
What the fuck is wrong with you?” Concern flickers through his eyes when he returns them to me.
“His last wife died a week after they wed.”
“By suicide.” Antonio throws my earlier words in my face. “That’s no one’s fault.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Matteo glares at my father before raking his eyes down his frame, his disgust unmissable. “I’m sure we could find someone to blame if we looked deep enough.”
My heart launches into my throat when my father steps closer to Matteo. I’ve seen him gun down men for less disrespect. It’s just fortunate that Matteo’s brothers and father joined the celebrations this morning, or I might have seen the man I can’t get out of my head murdered before my very eyes.
It wouldn’t be the first time my father killed someone I cared about.
“Unless you have a better alternative for my daughter, be a man and show yourself out.”
Matteo doesn’t get even three seconds to think before Don Adami orders the priest back to the altar. It pushes his desperation to a fever pitch.
Reaching into his jacket, he pulls out a folded document and throws it onto the desk. My heart stops beating. It’s the marriage contract that held his name for mere days, open on the non-penetration term of our agreement.
“A vital term of their marriage contract became void, rendering it invalid.” He collides his eyes with mine. His gaze is apologetic; however, his words are anything but. “We broke the non-penetration rule last night.”
“No,” I say immediately, my heart sinking to my feet.
Breaking that term means I can’t marry anyone but him.
He thinks throwing this out will stop me from marrying Antonio.
He has no clue it will tie me to him for life.
Or worse.
“We didn’t do anything. Nothing happened. I swear on Nine’s life.”
My father doesn’t even look at me. I could scream until I turn blue in the face that Matteo is lying, and he’d never listen. He never does. I was the child he had to keep his wife happy and submissive. That’s it.
Support comes from the last person I expect. “Without proof, you can’t void our contract. Your word alone is not enough.”
Matteo’s jaw tightens as he strays his eyes to Antonio, my only lifeline. “I have proof.”
He pulls out his phone, and my blood turns to ice. The footage he plays shows me bent over the desk in the nightclub office. Since Matteo is double my width and a foot taller, I’m fully covered, but no amount of coverage can hide the sharp thrust of Matteo’s hips.
It looks bad. Worse than anything I could have imagined.
It makes it seem as if I gave Matteo my virginity in a nightclub office.
“You said nothing happened!” Antonio roars, ripping his hand away from mine. “You fucking wh—”
“Finish that sentence, and I will gut you where you fucking stand,” Matteo interrupts, his tone announcing his threat isn’t idle.
Stupidly, Antonio sniffs, goading Matteo. He wants him to make a mistake he can’t take back. I’m familiar with Turkish mafia law, but I learned a thing or two about the Cosa Nostra before arriving in Sicily.
To stop internal wars that almost wiped the Cosa Nostra off the map, they have a rule that you can’t kill a sanctioned member. If you ignore that ruling, your name is the next carved on a headstone.
Although I shouldn’t, I put myself between Matteo and Antonio. Matteo takes my position as an immediate sign to back off. Antonio’s thoughts are more deranged.
“You’re protecting him!”
“No, I—”
My father’s face hardens as he throws a hand in the air. “Enough.” I can’t breathe when all his attention homes in on me. “You will not marry Antonio.” His verdict is cold and final. “You will marry Matteo. Today.”
I stare at Matteo as the fury burning through me switches to sick humor. He’ll object. He has to. The world knows his dislike of monogamy and marriage, so he certainly won’t agree with my father’s ruling. But what he doesn’t know is that his refusal will send me to my deathbed.
Sex before marriage is a sin my father will never forgive.
I stop giving him my best thanks-for-killing-me look when half his mouth quirks.
Although a flare darts through his eyes, he doesn’t say a word when my father tells the priest there’s been a modification to the lineup.
Not a single one.
He doesn’t object, nor does he backtrack on the lie that will add the title of husband to his personal dossier within the hour.
He just stands there, silently manipulating the world into his own twisted game of ownership.