Chapter 37
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Sophia
The dress weighs more than it should.
"Everyone's ready," Vittoria says from the doorway. "The cars are waiting. Pietro's already at the church with Nico."
I smooth invisible wrinkles from the bodice. Two days ago, I picked this dress in a rush.
"You look beautiful." Vittoria steps closer, adjusting my veil. "Lorenzo won't be able to breathe when he sees you."
"Sophia?" Marina appears beside Vittoria, concern etching lines around her mouth. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." The word comes out flat.
Marina's eyes narrow. She knows me too well. "Don't lie to me. Not today."
I turn from the mirror, busying myself with the bouquet of white roses. Their perfume makes my head swim. "We're not normal, Marina."
"What couple in this family is?" Vittoria tries for humor, but it falls short.
Marina studies my face. "You're doing that thing again."
"What thing?"
"Shutting down. Going blank." She steps closer.
My chest tightens.
"I need to be okay," I whisper. "For the ceremony today. For the reception. For all those people who'll watch us and judge whether this marriage is real tommorow enough to respect."
"Fuck them," Marina says fiercely.
Vittoria laughs, surprised. "She's right. Fuck them all."
But it's not that simple. Those people hold my life in their hands.
I straighten my spine, lifting my chin the way my mother taught me. "Help me with the veil?"
Marina's face falls, recognizing my retreat into performance. But she helps Vittoria arrange the fabric around my shoulders.
"There," Vittoria says. "Perfect."
Perfect. I practice a smile in the mirror—not too bright, not too dim. A bride's smile. Happy but not giddy. Confident but not arrogant.
"Better?" I ask Marina.
She shakes her head. "No. But convincing enough."
That's all I need.
I pick up my bouquet with steady hands. No trembling allowed. No questions about whether Lorenzo and I will ever share lazy Sunday mornings or fight about normal things.
The staircase stretches forever. While Lorenzo waits at the bottom.
The breath catches in my throat. He's wearing a charcoal suit that fits him like armor, every line tailored to perfection. But it's not the suit that stops me cold.
He's smiling and it transforms his entire face. Softens the hard angles, brightens his dark eyes, makes him look happy.
My knees go weak. Marina's hand tightens on my elbow, steadying me.
The world could end right now. The ceiling could collapse, the floor could open up and swallow us whole, and I'd die content having seen Lorenzo Sartori smile like that.
If there's another life after this one, I'll search for that smile. I'll cross oceans and centuries to find it again.
"Breathe," Marina whispers.
I force air into my lungs as we reach the bottom step.
"Beautiful," Lorenzo says. His eyes travel from my face to the dress and back.
Dante clears his throat. "We should move. The photographer's already at the church, setting up for the ceremony shots."
"Photographer?" My voice comes out higher than intended.
"Just for the ceremony," Dante explains, checking his phone. "Family only. But after—" He looks up, his expression serious. "After the ceremony ends, we go public. The photos will be everywhere within an hour."
Lorenzo takes my hand, his thumb brushing mine. "Tomorrow night's reception is listed as a charity gala. Half of Chicago's elite already have invitations."
"They think they're attending a fundraiser," Vittoria adds with dark amusement. "Wait until they realize it's your wedding reception."
"By the time guests arrive tomorrow, everyone will know you're married. No room for doubt, no space for challenges." Dante says.
"Smart," Marina says, though her grip on my arm suggests she's not entirely comfortable with the plan.
"Pietro's idea," Lorenzo says. "Control the narrative before anyone else can spin it."
Dante opens the front door. Three black SUVs idle in the driveway, engines running. "Pietro and Nico are already at the church with Father Miguel. Bruno..." He pauses. "Bruno sends his regrets."
Lorenzo's about to talk, but he says nothing.
"Small ceremony today," Dante continues, helping Vittoria into the first SUV. "Tomorrow, we make a statement."
He helps me manage the dress as I slide into the leather seat. Marina climbs in after me, then Lorenzo enters from the other side, sandwiching me between them.
"The photographer's discrete," Dante says from the front passenger seat as our driver pulls away. "Old family friend. He knows what shots we need. We need for sure to sell the romance."
Sell the romance.
Lorenzo's hand finds mine among the white silk. His thumb traces circles on my palm, and I wonder if he feels me trembling.
Lorenzo
Father Miguel's voice echoes through the empty church, but I barely hear the words.
Sophia stands across from me at the altar, and Christ, she's going to kill me. The dress clings to her curves before flowing out like water.
Mine.
The word pounds through my blood with every heartbeat. I want to grab her hand, pull her down the aisle, and disappear. Fuck the reception tomorrow. Fuck Chicago's crime families and their politics. Fuck everyone who isn't her.
"Lorenzo?" Father Miguel prompts.
I blink. Pietro shifts behind me. Across from us, Marina stands as Sophia's maid of honor, watching me.
"I do," I say, though I missed whatever Father Miguel asked.
Sophia's lips twitch. She knows I wasn't listening.
My gaze drops to her mouth, painted soft pink. Then lower, to where the dress dips just enough to hint at the swell of her breasts. The lace overlay creates patterns on her skin that I want to trace with my tongue.
Focus.
But how can I focus when she's standing there in white, looking like every dark fantasy I've tried to bury? The bride in her wedding dress, about to become mine in the eyes of God and law.
My cock hardens. Here. In church. At the altar.
I shift my stance, grateful for the suit jacket's coverage.
"The rings?" Father Miguel asks.
Nico steps forward from his position near Pietro, producing two simple gold bands. We kept them basic. No time for customization with the rushed timeline.
I take Sophia's hand. Her fingers tremble slightly as I slide the ring on.
"With this ring, I thee wed," I repeat after Father Miguel, but the traditional words feel insufficient.
With this ring, I claim you. With this ring, I promise to burn down anyone who threatens you. With this ring, I swear you'll never spend another night afraid.
Sophia takes my ring from Nico. Her eyes meet mine as she pushes it onto my finger.
"With this ring, I thee wed."
Her voice stays steady, but I see the storm beneath. The questions. The doubts. The fear that this is all pretense.
If you could see inside my head, piccola, you'd run screaming from this church.
Because right now, all I can think about is lifting that dress. Spreading her across the altar. Claiming her while she's still wearing white, still—
"You may kiss the bride," Father Miguel announces.
Finally.
I cup Sophia's face, my thumb brushing her cheek. She tilts her chin up, lips parting slightly.
The kiss must be casual since we have an actual audience now.
But the moment our lips touch, control shatters.
I deepen the kiss, one hand tangling in her veil while the other pulls her against me. She makes a soft sound and her hands grip my jacket.
The photographer starts snapping pictures
Someone clears their throat. Pietro, probably.
I pull back. Sophia's lipstick is smudged, her pupils dilated.
"Congratulations," Father Miguel says, though he looks scandalized. "May God bless your union."
"Just a few more," the photographer promises. "These need to look perfect for tonight's release."
Sophia poses like she was born for this, smiling at the camera, leaning into me at just the right angle. But I feel the tension in her body, the performance she's maintaining.
"One more by the altar," the photographer directs.
I pull Sophia back to where we stood moments ago. The photographer adjusts his lens while Pietro checks his phone, probably coordinating tomorrow's reception security.
The compound feels different when we return. Giulia has strung white lights through the dining room, and fresh flowers sit on every surface.
"Congratulations," Vittoria says, hugging Sophia first, then me. "The photos are already circulating. Every family in Chicago will know by midnight."
Sophia starts toward the stairs. "I'll just go change and—"
My hand catches her wrist. I pull her back against me, my mouth finding her ear.
"You'll eat wearing the dress." My voice drops low enough that only she can hear. "And when dinner's done, I'm going to fuck you while you're still wearing it."
Her breath catches. The others continue talking around us.
Sophia turns her head slightly, her eyes meeting mine. She runs her tongue across her lips. The sight sends blood rushing south.
"I'm wearing something underneath you might like," she whispers back.
My grip on her wrist tightens. Images flood my mind.
"I'm going to rip it off." My lips brush her ear. "Then I'll tie your hands with it while I fuck you."
"Lorenzo," Pietro calls from the dining room. "Stop whatever you're discussing and get in here. Giulia made enough food for an army."
Sophia's cheeks flush pink. She smooths her dress with her free hand, but I don't release her wrist.
"After dinner," I promise.
She nods, not trusting her voice.
I guide her to the dining room where everyone has gathered. Marina sits next to Vittoria, both of them grinning at Sophia like they know exactly what just happened.
"So Pietro," Nora says, cutting into her chicken parmigiana, "when are you planning to tell everyone about the new warehouse on Cicero?"
"After the reception tomorrow." Pietro's jaw tightens. "We need the Torrino territories secured first."
"Speaking of territories," Nico sets down his wine glass, "the Corellis have been sniffing around the docks again."
"Let them sniff," Dante says. "They won't find anything."
Marina pushes food around her plate. "This is what you people talk about at dinner? Territory disputes and warehouses?"
"Would you prefer we discuss the weather?" Dante's voice carries that edge it gets when Marina's around.
"I'd prefer actual conversation," Marina shoots back. "Like normal people."
Vittoria laughs. "We're not normal people, Marina. Haven't you figured that out yet?"
"Some of us try," Nora says, squeezing Pietro's hand. "Though it's a losing battle in this family."
The conversation drifts to Vittoria's latest security upgrades. I barely listen, too focused on how Sophia's tongue darts out to catch a drop of sauce on her lip.
"This silence is killing me," Vittoria suddenly announces. "We need music. This is supposed to be a celebration."
She pulls out her phone, connecting it to the sound system. Modern pop fills the room.
"Absolutely not," I say. "Turn that garbage off."
"It's Taylor Swift," Vittoria protests.
"Exactly." I reach for my own phone. "Let me show you what real music sounds like."
Frank Sinatra's voice flows through the speakers. "My Way" fills the dining room.
Sophia bursts out laughing. "Oh my God, Lorenzo. Could you be more predictable?"
I turn to stare at her. "What?"
"Sinatra? Really?" She's still giggling. "What's next, Dean Martin? Maybe some Tony Bennett?"
"Those are classics."
"Those are ancient." Sophia's eyes sparkle with mischief. "I bet you have a whole playlist called 'Songs My Grandfather Liked.'"
Marina snorts. "She's not wrong."
"I have taste," I defend. "Unlike my sister who thinks computer-generated noise counts as music."
"It's called production value," Vittoria says.
"It's called auto-tune," Nico mutters. "Though Lorenzo's geriatric playlist isn't much better."
I lean close to Sophia's ear, my voice dropping to a whisper only she can hear. "Keep laughing, piccola. I'm going to make you scream so loud tonight, the whole compound will hear exactly what kind of music I can make you sing."
Sophia's laughter dies. Her face turns scarlet.
"Jesus Christ," Nico pushes back from the table. "I'm going to be sick."
"What?" Pietro looks between us.
"Look at them," Nico gestures with his fork. "They need to find a room before we all lose our appetites."
"We're eating," I say calmly, though my hand finds Sophia's thigh under the table.
"No, you're eye-fucking each other while the rest of us try to digest," Nico stands. "I'm getting more wine. Try to keep it PG while I'm gone."
Marina laughs. "This is the weirdest wedding dinner I've ever attended."
"Welcome," Dante says dryly.
Sophia shifts in her chair, and I feel her leg press against mine. The simple contact sends heat through my body.
"Maybe we should change the music to something everyone can agree on," Nora suggests diplomatically.
"There's nothing wrong with Sinatra," I insist.
"There's nothing wrong with Taylor Swift either," Vittoria counters.
"How about some middle ground?" Pietro pulls out his phone. "Something from this century that doesn't sound like it was made by robots."
The opening notes of "Crazy" by Gnarls Barkley fill the room.
"See?" Pietro grins. "Compromise."