Chapter 6 - Almeria
Weddings are supposed to be sacred.
Mine feels like a performance on a stage built for a war I didn’t choose.
The gown they chose for me is ivory, sleek, and devastatingly elegant. Silk hugs my figure in ways that feel unfamiliar, a plunging neckline daring attention I don’t want, and a veil so long it trails behind me like a storm cloud swallowing the floor. Somewhere in the chaos of fittings, fabric samples, lace trials, and press arrangements, my opinion stopped mattering. I became a project, a symbol of an alliance. No longer a woman. Just a name to attach to Gaspare’s.
I said yes to everything because it was easier than arguing.
And maybe because deep down, I didn’t have the strength to resist. Not when it’s about Luca.
I sit in front of the vanity mirror now, alone except for the quiet hum of anticipation from beyond the heavy doors. My face is unrecognizable. Flawless. Hollow. Painted to perfection. I barely blink, barely breathe.
Luca was here earlier. His little legs swung from the edge of the bed while I got my hair pinned back. He kept looking at me like I was someone unfamiliar—someone beautiful.
“You look like a princess, Mama.”
I almost cried.
But I didn’t. Because today, I can’t afford to be soft. I can’t let the weight of all I’ve sacrificed undo me.
The car that brings me to the cathedral is a black Rolls-Royce. The kind you see in movies or royal processions. It hums like it knows its importance. Gaspare has spared no expense, not even for the illusion. If this is a chess move, it has to look like victory.
I sit stiffly inside the vehicle, gripping the bouquet tighter than I should. Calla lilies and gardenias—white, innocent, ironic.
Outside the stone cathedral, I hear the murmuring of a crowd before I see them. The media is everywhere. Flashing lights. Soft clicks. Someone calls my name—my real one. Someone else calls me “Mrs. Colosimo.”
The guards open the door and extend their gloved hands. I take them.
When I step out, the world swells with noise.
“Look, there she is!”
“She’s gorgeous—where has she been hiding?”
“That’s the Spadafora girl, right?”
“Didn’t think she was real.”
“And the boy—that’s her son?”
“Is the boy Gaspare’s?”
“Might be the reason this is happening, eh?”
“The Colosimos really pulled this off... it’s a statement.”
Every word lands like a pin against my spine. I don’t respond. I don’t make eye contact. I walk with measured, practiced steps. A puppet. A queen being crowned in a kingdom of men.
Luca is holding my hand tightly. He’s dressed in a miniature tuxedo and glowing. For him, this is all magic. A fairytale. For a seven-year-old boy who spent most of his life dodging shadows, this attention feels like sunlight. And I let him have it. Because he deserves something good.
Even if the good came wrapped in teeth.
The cathedral doors open and music starts—an organ, heavy and melodious. The moment I step inside, my breath catches.
The room is awash in candlelight and polished gold. White roses line every pew, perfectly arranged. The chandeliers glint like constellations above our heads. It’s overwhelming, majestic, and cold.
And at the end of the aisle, Gaspare.
He stands tall and composed, dressed in midnight black with a silver tie that catches the light. His eyes are fixed on me, unreadable, unwavering. His hands are clasped in front of him like he’s keeping them from reaching out.
He doesn’t smile.
Neither do I.
Step by step, I walk down the aisle. The hem of my dress glides silently. My heartbeat is loud in my ears. I pass the rows of powerful men and glittering women. Some nod in approval. Some watch with suspicion. Some with awe.
And still, Gaspare never looks away.
This isn’t love. We all know that.
This is survival.
A merging of names. A protective contract dressed in ivory and steel. One that would secure my son’s protection, and a leg up the ladder for Gaspare.
Luca is escorted by one of Gaspare’s man to a seat, one that is positioned in such a way that it will always be my view at all times as I take my vows. As if to remind me of the reason I’m doing this so I don’t bolt off at the last minute.
When I reach him, he extends his hand. I place mine into his, cool and clammy. He squeezes gently. My fingers twitch.
Not until his thumb brushes my knuckle do I feel something shift.
The officiant begins.
He doesn’t ask if we love each other.
He doesn’t speak of joy or romance.
He speaks of honor. Loyalty. Alliance. Legacy.
Everything this marriage is meant to symbolize.
“Do you, Gaspare Colosimo, take this woman—”
“I do.”
His voice is steady. Strong. Quick. Eager.
Like he’s been waiting to say it.
“Do you, Almeria Spadafora, take this man—”
I look at him.
The man who once accused me of betrayal.
The man who left me to suffer alone in the dark.
And the man who returned—protective, persistent, and quietly broken.
“I do.”
It sounds like surrender.
And yet it feels like something more dangerous than that.
The kiss is expected.
Gaspare steps forward slowly, reverently. His fingers lift my veil with care. For a heartbeat, the air between us pulses with static.
His lips brush mine.
Soft and respectful.
But when he pulls back, his eyes are burning.
The reception is a battlefield dressed in crystal and champagne.
The ballroom is magnificent. Silver linens, towering cakes, waiters gliding like ghosts. Everyone claps. Everyone drinks. Everyone pretends this is a love story.
Gaspare never leaves my side. He’s composed, charming when needed, stoic when not. But he watches me constantly, like I might slip away if he looks elsewhere for too long.
He doesn’t touch me.
But his presence is weight enough.
When I dance with Luca, it’s the only real moment I have all evening.
He’s giddy. Light. He tells me he wants to dance forever.
“Everyone’s looking, Mama.”
“Let them.”
We spin. We laugh.
For a moment, I forget where I am.
Until Gaspare steps forward.
He holds out his hand.
Luca grins and passes me over like a baton in a race. I bet Gaspare likes that. Likes that the boy doesn’t see him as a monster, but as someone he can trust his momma with.
I take Gaspare’s hand.
His grip is firm. Steady. Gentle.
We dance.
Slow. Silent. Not lovers. Not strangers.
Something in between.
“You’re doing well,” he murmurs.
“You make it sound like I’m on trial.”
“Aren’t we?”
I don’t reply.
By the end of the night, I am crumbling.
The dress is heavy. My feet throb. My smile aches.
Gaspare appears beside me like a shadow.
“Ready?”
I nod.
We walk through the guests like victors. Everyone claps. A few cheer. One man, a rival from another family, raises his glass and smirks.
“May you have many powerful years,” he says.
I want to throw my champagne at him.
The car ride is quiet.
Luca sleeps soundly on my lap, hand clutched in mine.
Gaspare breaks the silence.
“You were magnificent today.”
I keep my eyes on the window. “Don’t.”
“I’m just telling the truth.”
“You were watching me like you were memorizing me.”
“I was.”
I turn slightly, surprised by his honesty.
“You made people believe,” he says softly. “Even the ones who wanted to doubt us.”
“I didn’t do it for them.”
“I know.” His tone changes. “You did it for him.”
He gestures to Luca, still sleeping peacefully.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“I get it now,” he adds. “What he means to you.”
I glance at him. “Do you?”
“I do. Even if I had doubts, watching him these past weeks... watching you... I clearly see it.”
He doesn’t say more. And he doesn’t have to.
But then he tries again. His voice takes on a warmer edge.
“You looked beautiful, Almeria. Like a painting. An angel.”
I tense, trying to stop the twitch on my lips that wants to curl up in a small smile.
But then, Luca stirs on my lap and the twitch is completely gone.
“Mama...” he moans, trying to find a more comfortable position.
I run a hand through his hair until he stops moving.
“You should stop,” I say sharply.
Gaspare looks at me. “Me?”
“Yes.”
“Stop what?”
“Whatever this is. The flattery. The words.”
He blinks. “Why?”
“Because he’s awake. Because I don’t want him confused. And because this isn’t real.”
His jaw flexes.
He says nothing for the rest of the drive.
The mansion takes my breath away.
Modern. Expansive. A castle above the world. Marble floors and velvet walls. A view of the skyline glittering like fallen stars.
He’s bought me a kingdom.
But it feels like a cage lined with gold.
I walk through in silence as Luca is carried to bed by one of the guards. My steps echo. My heart is too loud in my chest.
Gaspare walks me to the door of my room.
He says nothing until I reach the handle.
Then, softly:
“What I said earlier... I meant it. You were beautiful today. You looked like a perfect angel.”
I turn to him.
I don’t have the energy to argue.
I don’t have the courage to believe him, either.
“Goodnight, Gaspare,” I say calmly, with a slow exhale.
With that, I step inside my room, close the door and slide to the floor in silence.
After I hear him leave, I exhale again.
And for the first time in weeks, I let the tears fall.
Because I am married.
To a man I once hated.
To a man I don’t yet understand.
And somewhere, buried beneath the ache and anger and fear...
Something else stirs. Longing? Danger? Hope?
I don’t know if either of those will save me.
Or ruin me.
But it’s already here.