Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Alessia
I wake to Matteo's arm wrapped around my waist, his body pressed against my back. The room is too bright—morning sun cutting through the curtains we forgot to close last night. My body aches in places that remind me of the pool, the tile, his hands.
He shifts behind me with a quiet groan, and his arm loosens slightly around my waist.
"Matteo?"
"Mm." His voice is rough with sleep, and he presses his face against my shoulder. "What time is it?"
I glance at the clock on the nightstand. "Almost nine. We should probably get up."
"In a minute." But instead of relaxing back into sleep, he stays tense against me, and I feel him rub his temple with his free hand.
I turn in his arms to face him. His eyes are closed, and there's a slight crease between his brows that suggests discomfort more than pain. "Headache?"
"Just a dull ache. Nothing serious."
I slip out of bed and cross to the dresser where I keep the few personal items that are actually mine. "I have something that might help. The doctor left painkillers. Remember? After I hit my head. I never took them."
I didn't need them. The headaches from the concussion faded after a few days, and I've never liked taking pills unless absolutely necessary. But I kept them, tucked behind the jewelry boxes Isabella keeps bringing me that I never wear.
I open the second drawer and reach behind the velvet boxes where I know the bottle should be, but my fingers find empty space instead.
That's odd.
I move the jewelry boxes aside to look properly, but the orange prescription bottle definitely isn't there.
"Alessia?" Matteo's voice calls from behind me.
"That's strange. The pills aren't here." I check the drawer again, moving things around more carefully this time. "I could have sworn I put them right behind this box."
Matteo comes up beside me, looking over my shoulder. "Maybe you moved them and forgot?"
"Maybe." But that doesn't feel right. I remember specifically tucking the bottle behind the jewelry box because I didn't want it sitting out in plain sight. "I don't usually move things around without remembering where I put them, though."
"Probably just got misplaced somehow." But there's something in his tone that suggests he's filing this information away rather than dismissing it.
I close the drawer and walk back to the bed, but the missing bottle nags at me in a way I can't quite explain. It's not the pills themselves but the idea that something I distinctly remember putting in a specific place has just vanished.
Matteo pulls me against him, his chin resting on top of my head. "Don't worry about it. Things go missing in big houses like this all the time. Probably Maria moved it while cleaning and forgot to mention it."
"You're probably right." I let myself lean into his warmth, even though part of my brain is still circling the problem. "Is your head still hurting?"
"A bit, but I've had much worse. I'll grab some coffee and aspirin and be fine in an hour." His arms tighten around me briefly before he lets go.
We spend the next twenty minutes getting ready for the day, and by the time we're both dressed, I've almost convinced myself that the missing pills are nothing to worry about. Things get misplaced. Houses this big have too many people moving through them.
But as we're leaving the room, I can't help glancing back at the dresser one more time, that nagging feeling refusing to fully disappear.
Three days after the pills go missing, the wedding day arrives with a knock on my door before dawn.
I'm already awake, have been for an hour, lying in bed staring at the ceiling while Matteo slept beside me. He left about twenty minutes ago to get ready with his brothers, kissing my forehead and murmuring something about traditions.
Isabella's voice filters through the wood. "Alessia? Time to get ready."
I open the door. She stands in the hallway with a garment bag draped over one arm and a small case in the other. Her eyes are bright despite the early hour.
"We have three hours," she says, slipping past me into the room. "Which sounds like a lot, but trust me, it's not."
She sets the garment bag on the bed, unzips it with careful hands. The dress inside catches the dim morning light—cream silk that whispers when she lifts it out. Simple. Elegant. Nothing that screams traditional wedding, just clean lines and expensive fabric.
"It was my mother's," Isabella says quietly. "Matteo asked if I still had it."
My throat tightens. "I can't—that's too much."
"She would have wanted you to wear it." Her hands smooth the silk. "She would have liked you, I think."
I don't know what to say to that, so I let her help me into the dress. The silk is cool against my skin, sliding into place like it was made for me. When she zips it up, I feel the weight of it—not heavy, but substantial. Like I'm putting on more than just fabric.
Isabella works on my hair next, pinning it up in a style that's softer than I usually wear. Makeup comes after—subtle, just enough to brighten my eyes.
When she finally steps back, I turn to face the mirror.
The woman staring back looks nothing like me.
My neck is exposed, hair pinned up to show the column of my throat.
The makeup softens features I usually keep bare, makes my eyes look larger and less guarded.
And the dress fits perfectly, draping in elegant lines that make me look refined, almost delicate.
"Beautiful," Isabella murmurs. Then, quieter: "Are you ready for this?"
Am I?
The question brings a flood of memories I've been trying to avoid.
When I was a little girl, I used to watch my mother get ready for parties, and I'd ask her about her wedding day.
She'd smile and tell me about the church full of flowers, about how my father cried when she walked down the aisle, about how she knew—absolutely knew—that she was marrying the right man.
I'd close my eyes and imagine my own wedding someday. A real one, where I'd wear a dress I chose myself and marry someone I actually loved. Someone who made me laugh. Someone who looked at me like I was the most important person in the world.
Instead, I got Lorenzo. A church ceremony I barely remember because I'd been crying so hard in the dressing room.
A reception where I smiled until my face hurt while Lorenzo's hand stayed clamped on my waist like a shackle. A wedding night that ended with bruises instead of tenderness because he got so drunk, he didn’t know what he was doing.
And now I'm doing it again. Putting on a dress, promising forever to a man I barely know.
Except this time, there's no crying. No one forcing me to smile.
And the man waiting for me is dangerous in ways Lorenzo never was, but he's also shown me glimpses of something else—protection, maybe, or possession so absolute it might as well be the same thing.
"No," I admit. "But I'm doing it anyway."
She squeezes my hand. "That's all any of us can do."
Just then, a knock at the door interrupts us, and then I hear Matteo's voice: "It's time."
Isabella opens it, and there he is. Black suit that fits him perfectly, white shirt, and I notice he's holding a black tie in one hand like he hasn't decided whether to put it on yet. His hair is slicked back, revealing the full length of his scar. He's not hiding today.
When his eyes find me, he goes very still. I watch his throat work as he swallows, see his hands curl into fists at his sides before he forces them to relax.
"Cristo," he breathes.
"Is that good or bad?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
"Good." He crosses to me in three strides, stops just close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "You're—" He stops, jaw working like the words are stuck. "My mother's dress."
"Isabella said—"
"I know." His hand comes up, cups my face with surprising gentleness. "She would have loved seeing you in it."
The tenderness in his voice cracks something open in my ribs. I cover his hand with mine, feel the calluses on his palm, the old scars across his knuckles.
"Are you sure about this?" I ask quietly.
His thumb brushes my cheekbone. "I've never been more sure of anything."
He offers his arm, I take it and together we walk toward whatever this ceremony will make us.
When we get to the study, I notice it has been transformed.
Candles flicker on every surface—dozens of them casting warm light that softens the leather furniture and dark wood paneling.
White roses fill crystal vases, their scent thick and almost overwhelming.
Someone has moved the furniture to create an aisle of sorts, chairs lined up in neat rows even though there can't be more than ten people here.
The men stand when we enter. Enzo near the window, dressed in a suit that actually makes him look civilized.
Rafael beside him, cigarette conspicuously absent for once.
Dante by the bookshelf, watching with those calculating eyes that miss nothing.
Luca near the door, arms folded, expression unreadable as always.
And at the head of the room, a priest. Old, gray-haired, looking uncomfortable in his vestments like he's been dragged here against his better judgment.
My pulse kicks hard against my ribs, and suddenly I'm back in that other church, the one in Chicago where I married Lorenzo.
The priest there had looked at me with pity, like he knew what my life was about to become.
I'd stood at the back of that church in a dress that cost more than most people's cars, and all I could think was that I was walking toward my own execution.
This is different, I tell myself. This time I'm choosing it, even if my choices are limited.
This is actually happening. No more hypotheticals or strategies or distant future plans. Right now, in this room, with these witnesses, I'm becoming Matteo Romano's wife.