Chapter 9
Birdie
“What do you think Sienna would say if she were here?”
I glance up from my tea at Dante, warmth from the porcelain cup bleeding into my palms. Over the last few weeks, we’ve fallen into an easy rhythm I never expected.
We talk in the evenings, sometimes over dinner, sometimes like this—quietly, with the windows open and the sea air drifting in.
And somewhere in all of that, I learned he knew Sienna far better than I ever realized. Better, maybe, than anyone but me.
She’d been there for him after his fiancée betrayed him. Helped pull him out of whatever dark place that kind of loss leaves behind. It should feel strange, sharing memories of my best friend with a man I’m only about to marry out of necessity.
Instead, it feels... nice, like Sienna is somehow still with me when we say her name out loud.
I smile into my cup. “I think she’d tell us we were both insane.”
Dante huffs a laugh. “She wouldn’t be wrong.”
“No.” I set my tea down and look at him. “She’d probably call this a terrible idea, then help me pick out shoes for the wedding.”
That draws a real smile from him, quick and rare. “That sounds accurate.”
“She always did love a little chaos.”
His gaze softens. “She did.”
For a moment, neither of us says anything. The silence isn’t awkward.
“I’m glad you talk about her with me,” I admit.
Dante’s eyes meet mine. “So am I.”
The honesty in his voice catches me off guard.
There’s no performance in it. And maybe that’s why what comes next feels so unfair.
Because the closer the wedding gets, the more a strange unease begins to coil inside me.
Not fear, exactly. Just the awful, creeping sense that something is wrong.
I tell myself it’s normal. Of course I’m nervous.
I’m about to marry a man I barely know, even if I like him more than I ever planned to.
I’m carrying another man’s baby. My entire life has twisted itself into something unrecognizable in a matter of months.
Anyone would be nervous.
But this morning, when I woke before sunrise with my heart already pounding, it doesn’t feel like nerves. It felt like a warning.
Teresa arrives and makes a shooing motion at Dante before leading me to the bridal suite. By the time the dress is laid across the bed, the house is already humming with quiet activity downstairs.
Flowers being delivered.
Cars arriving.
Doors opening and closing.
The whole world moving toward the ceremony whether I’m ready or not.
I stand in front of the mirror in my slip while Teresa and the seamstress guide the gown over my head.
It’s beautiful.
Soft ivory silk with fitted lace sleeves and a high neckline that makes it feel elegant instead of too precious. The bodice is structured just enough, and the skirt falls in a graceful line that skims my body instead of clinging to it.
Most importantly, it hides my stomach.
When they finish fastening the back, I look at my reflection and barely recognize the woman staring back at me.
I look like a bride.
A real one.
My throat tightens.
Behind me, Dante clears his throat. “Everything okay?”
I meet his gaze in the mirror and shake my head once.
He says something in Italian and the room empties to just the two of us.
“Cold feet?”
I look back at the mirror. The dress. The veil waiting nearby. The pearls at my throat. Everything is exactly as it should be, and still I can’t shake the feeling that the ground beneath me is about to split open.
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “I just... feel strange.”
“Strange how?”
“Like something bad is going to happen.”
Dante asks, “Do you want to stop this?”
The question sends a sharp pulse through me.
Do I?
I think of Chicago. Of Lorenzo. Of fear. Of running. Then I think of Dante. Of the way he has never once asked for more than I could give. Of the quiet friendship that’s grown between us. Of the protection his name offers my child.
I shake my head. “No.”
And that’s the truth. I don’t want to stop it. I just can’t shake the feeling that peace like this was never meant for me.
Dante turns me gently so I’m facing him. “Listen to me. Nerves do not always mean something is wrong. Sometimes they mean something matters.”
I want to believe him.
So I nod, even though the unease is still there, low and pulsing beneath my skin.
Dante lifts a hand and cups my face, his thumb brushing lightly over my cheekbone. The gesture is gentle.
“Look at me, Juliette.” His dark gaze holds mine, steady and unflinching, like he can anchor me by force of will alone. “Nothing is going to happen to you today.”
The words should feel impossible to promise, and yet when he says them, I want to let myself believe.
“I know this isn’t how you imagined getting married,” he says quietly.
“I know none of this is what you would have chosen. But I need you to remember something.” His hand slides down, covering mine where it rests against the flat silk over my stomach.
“You are not walking into that church alone. You have me. You have my name. You have every man loyal to me standing between you and anyone who thinks they can take what is mine.”
A shiver moves through me at the possessive edge in his voice. Not because it frightens me but because some reckless, aching part of me likes the sound of it far too much.
His eyes search mine. “If you want to leave, I will take you out the back and no one will stop us. If you want to stand at that altar, I will stand beside you and make sure you get through it. Either way, I am with you.”
Emotion rises too fast, too sharp, catching in my throat. “Why are you being so good to me?”
Something flickers in his expression. Gone almost before I can name it.
“Because no one ever was for me,” he says.
My chest tightens, and for a second we just stand there, staring at each other in the middle of the bridal suite while the house hums around us, while my veil waits on the bed, while downstairs the world gathers to watch us bind our lives together for reasons that were never supposed to be romantic.
And yet nothing about this moment feels cold.
Dante brushes a strand of hair back from my face. “You’re trembling.”
“I know.”
His mouth curves faintly, but there’s no humor in it. Only tenderness. “Then let me give you one thing to remember besides fear.”
Before I can ask what he means, he leans in.
The kiss is soft. So soft it steals the breath from my lungs.
There is no demand in it, no force, no urgency—just the warm press of his mouth against mine, careful and reassuring and somehow more intimate because of it.
Like he’s trying to soothe something wounded inside me without breaking it further.
My fingers curl into the front of his jacket. He makes a low sound in his throat, one hand settling at my waist, the other still cradling my face, and for one fragile, dangerous moment the nerves go quiet.
The world goes quiet.
When he pulls back, he rests his forehead briefly against mine. “Better?”
I let out a shaky breath. “A little.”
His lips brush mine once more, almost a promise. “Good. Because you look beautiful enough to start a war.”
The words send another shiver through me.
Then he steps back just as the door opens again and Teresa sweeps into the room with her usual force of presence, muttering something scandalized in Italian when she sees how close we’re standing.
Dante only smiles.
I touch my mouth, still feeling the ghost of his kiss there, while Teresa settles the veil over my hair and declares me ready.
But as she leads me downstairs, that awful feeling returns.
It’s stronger now like fate has finally reached for the handle of a locked door.
The church is overflowing by the time I arrive.
Candlelight flickers against stone walls. Flowers spill from white arrangements at the ends of each pew, their sweetness heavy in the air. The music swells low and elegant, and every face turns as I appear at the back in my gown and veil.
For a second, everything blurs.
The guests. The priest. The aisle stretching endlessly ahead of me.
And at the end of it, Dante.
He stands at the altar in a black suit, broad-shouldered and devastatingly composed, watching me as if I’m the only thing in the room worth seeing. There’s something in his expression that makes my pulse stumble.
Teresa squeezes my hand before stepping aside.
I start walking. One step. Then another.
The dress moves beautifully around me, hiding the slight curve of my stomach exactly as it was meant to.
My bouquet trembles in my grip, though I tell myself no one can see it.
All I can hear is the rush of blood in my ears and the sound of my own breathing beneath the music.
Halfway down the aisle, Dante’s gaze catches mine and holds it.
I’m almost to him when the church doors slam open. The sound cracks through the ceremony like a gunshot. Gasps erupt behind me. The music dies in a strangled stop. My heart seizes so violently it feels like it actually misses a beat.
Then I turn.
Men pour into the back of the church in dark suits, weapons already drawn. And in the center of them, dressed in black like death itself, is Lorenzo. For one impossible second, I can’t breathe.
He’s here.
Oh my god, he’s here.
The church explodes into chaos. Women scream. Guests duck low in the pews. Dante’s men reach for their weapons almost instantly, chairs scraping against stone as bodies move, collide, shout.
But I can’t hear any of it properly.
I can only hear the roar of blood in my ears as Lorenzo steps forward, gun in hand, his eyes locked on me with a look so furious, so wild, it chills me straight through.
His gaze drops to the dress. To the altar waiting behind me. And whatever remains of his restraint dies.
“Oh no, cara, this won’t do,” he says, voice like a blade dragged over bone.