Chapter 26 #2
Matteo's hand at the small of my back is warm, steady. He guides me forward, and I focus on putting one foot in front of the other, on breathing through the tightness in my chest, on not stumbling in the heels Isabella insisted I wear despite my protests.
When we reach the priest, Matteo turns to face me. He takes both my hands in his. His palms are warm, slightly rough, and I feel the tremor in them—barely perceptible, but there. He's nervous. The realization steadies me somehow.
The priest clears his throat, opens his prayer book. "In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti."
We cross ourselves together, and the gesture is so automatic it takes me by surprise—muscle memory from years of Sunday mass with my parents, from the Catholic schools they sent me to where the nuns made sure we knew every prayer, every ritual, every sacred gesture by heart.
Then he switches to Italian, his voice carrying through the candlelit room. "Matteo Romano, prendi tu, Alessia Moretti, come tua legittima sposa, secondo il rito della Santa Madre Chiesa?"
Do you take Alessia Moretti as your lawful wife, according to the rite of Holy Mother Church?
Matteo's eyes lock on mine. His grip on my hands tightens fractionally. "Sì."
The single word reverberates through me. Simple. Final. Binding.
The priest turns to me. "Alessia Moretti, prendi tu, Matteo Romano, come tuo legittimo sposo, secondo il rito della Santa Madre Chiesa?"
Do I take Matteo Romano as my lawful husband?
My throat is dry. The word sticks for a moment, caught somewhere between my chest and my mouth. Then it breaks free.
"Sì."
The priest nods, satisfied. He continues with the blessing, words washing over me in a cadence that's both familiar and foreign. When he pauses, Matteo reaches into his pocket.
He pulls out a ring—platinum band with a single diamond that catches the candlelight. It's simple, elegant, exactly what I would have chosen if anyone had asked.
He slides it onto my finger with hands that are steadier now. "Con questo anello, io ti sposo," he says quietly. "E con tutto me stesso ti onoro."
With this ring, I marry you. And with all that I am, I honor you.
The cool metal settles against my skin. A claim. A permanent mark that says I belong to him.
"Quello che Dio ha unito, l'uomo non separi," the priest intones. What God has joined, let no man separate.
"You may kiss your bride."
Matteo's hands frame my face, thumbs brushing along my jaw. He leans in slowly, giving me time to pull away, to change my mind, to run. I don't.
When his lips meet mine, the kiss is gentle. Reverent, almost. So different from the desperate hunger of the pool, the possessive claiming of every other time he's touched me. This kiss tastes like promise and permanence and something dangerously close to tenderness.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine. "Signora Romano," he murmurs, and the name sends electricity down my spine.
Around us, glasses lift—whiskey appearing from somewhere, already poured. Rafael's voice cuts through first, carrying that irreverent edge that makes Enzo roll his eyes.
"To the bride who actually survived long enough to get Matteo to an altar. We had bets going that it wouldn't happen."
Scattered laughter follows and even Luca's mouth twitches.
Dante raises his glass higher, always the smooth one. "To the Signora Romano. May she bring some civilization to this family. God knows we need it."
There's more laughter, though with an edge. Because they all know what being part of this family means. The violence. The danger. The weight of loyalty and blood.
Enzo's voice cuts through, quieter but carrying more weight. "To family. Blood and chosen both."
"To family," they echo, and the words echo through the candlelit room.
They drink, then come forward. Enzo first, shaking Matteo's hand with a grip that looks like it might hurt. He turns to me, and for a moment I think he'll just nod. Instead, he takes my hand, bows slightly over it. "Welcome, Signora. You have my loyalty."
The formality of it surprises me, but the sincerity in his eyes is unmistakable.
Rafael is next, grinning around his cigarette—when did he light that? "Try not to let him get too boring. We need someone to keep him interesting."
"I'll do my best." I manage a small smile.
Dante's smile is smoother, more calculated. "If you need anything—anything at all—you ask. You're family now."
Family. The word keeps echoing, and each time it does, my throat tightens. I haven't had people who meant that word—truly meant it—since my parents died. The Morettis never felt like family—just people I was trapped with, bound to by marriage and lies and fear.
But these men, with their guns and their scars and their unwavering loyalty to Matteo—they're offering me something I didn't expect. Belonging.
Luca is last. He approaches slowly, and when he stops in front of us, his eyes find mine first instead of Matteo's.
"I was wrong," he says quietly. "About you."
"Were you?" I keep my voice level.
"You're stronger than I gave you credit for." His jaw tightens. "Matteo needs that. Needs someone who won't break under the weight of what being with him means."
I give a small nod at that.
He turns to Matteo then, and they grip forearms in that way men do when handshakes aren't enough. No words pass between them, but something does—understanding. Acceptance, maybe.
Isabella appears at my elbow, pressing a glass of champagne into my hand. "You survived," she murmurs. "The hard part's over."
I look at Matteo across the room, surrounded by his men, and I know she's wrong. The hard part is just beginning. Being his prisoner was one thing. Being his wife—that's uncharted territory.
But when he catches my eye and smiles—a real smile, not the cold one he shows the world—I find myself smiling back.
Maybe I can survive this after all.