Chapter 41
41
EMILIA
T he dress was white.
Not ivory. Not champagne. Not some edgy off-white that whispered rebellion. No. This was pure, unapologetic white. The kind that screamed tradition and legacy and every impossible expectation stitched into the fabric like a threat.
And still—I wore it.
Because this wasn’t about rebellion.
Not today.
Today, I chose this.
The dress was custom Dior, fitted within an inch of my life. Hand-beaded lace hugged my torso, delicate and intricate, like spiderwebs spun from diamonds. The skirt flowed like water when I moved, layers of silk and tulle that pooled around my feet in a way that made me feel like royalty. Or a sacrifice. I hadn’t decided which yet.
The veil was long. Dramatic. The kind of thing that belonged in a cathedral, not a private estate guarded by men with guns under their jackets. But Dante had insisted.
“If I’m marrying you again,” he’d said, “I want the whole damn world to know.”
And so, the veil.
The diamonds.
The orchestra.
The guest list that read like a who’s who of organized crime and old money.
I stood in front of the mirror in the bridal suite, staring at a version of myself I barely recognized. My hair was swept up in a sleek chignon, a few soft tendrils framing my face. My makeup was flawless—sharp winged liner, soft blush, lips tinted just enough to look like I’d been kissed.
I looked… beautiful.
I looked like a bride.
“Holy shit,” Adrianna said behind me. “You look like a Vogue cover and a threat to national security at the same time.”
I smiled, turning slightly to face her. She wore a deep emerald gown that hugged her curves, her dark hair cascading over one shoulder in soft waves. Her husband, Michael, stood beside her in a perfectly tailored tux, looking both impressed and vaguely terrified.
“Is that a compliment?” I asked.
“It’s the highest form of one,” she said, stepping forward to adjust my veil. “You look like you could stab someone with a hairpin and still get a standing ovation.”
“Don’t tempt me,” I muttered.
She grinned. “You nervous?”
I hesitated.
Was I?
I wasn’t scared. Not of Dante. Not of the ceremony. Not even of the hundred pairs of eyes that would be watching my every move as I walked down the aisle.
But something inside me felt tight. Coiled. Like a spring wound too far.
“I’m not nervous,” I said finally. “I’m… aware.”
Adrianna raised a brow. “Of what?”
“Of what this means,” I said. “Of what I’m choosing.”
She nodded slowly. “You’re choosing him.”
“Yes.”
“And the empire.”
“Yes.”
“And the blood.”
I looked at her.
And then I nodded. “Yes.”
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t try to talk me out of it. She just smiled, soft and real, and squeezed my hand.
“Then let’s go make you a Conti. Again.”
The ceremony was held in the vineyard.
Not mine. Not yet. But the one Dante had bought for me, the one we’d walked together just a week ago, hand-in-hand, talking about grapes and soil and futures.
Rows of white chairs lined the edge of the vines, facing a raised platform draped in white silk and framed by arches of roses and olive branches. The sun was beginning to set, casting everything in gold. The air smelled like lavender and wine and something sweeter—hope, maybe.
The guests were already seated when I stepped out of the villa, my arm looped through my brother Marco’s. He looked uncomfortable in his tux, his expression tight, but he didn’t complain. He just glanced at me, then muttered, “You sure about this?”
I smiled. “Too late to run. And we technically are married already.”
He grunted. “I’ll keep the car running anyway.”
The music swelled.
And then I was walking.
The world narrowed to the path in front of me and the man waiting at the end of it.
Dante.
He wore a black tuxedo, crisp and perfect, with a black shirt and a black tie. His hair was slicked back, his jaw freshly shaven, and his eyes—God, his eyes—were locked on me like I was the only thing that existed.
He didn’t smile.
Not at first.
But when I reached him—when he placed my hand in his and stepped back—he leaned in and whispered, “You’re the most dangerous thing I’ve ever seen.”
And then he smiled.
And I forgot how to breathe.
The vows were traditional.
At first.
But then Dante took my hands in his, looked me dead in the eye, and said, “I vow to protect you. To worship you. To burn the world down if it ever tries to take you from me.”
The vineyard held its breath.
There were a hundred people watching—men in suits with blood under their nails, women in jewels sharp enough to cut. The heads of families. The underbosses. The wives who pulled strings behind closed doors. All of them sitting in perfect rows of white chairs, pretending this was just another wedding. Pretending their smiles weren’t barbed, their gazes heavy with calculation.
But when Dante said those words, when his voice dropped low and reverent like a prayer he didn’t deserve to speak, the world narrowed to just us.
Me.
Him.
And the promise he’d just carved into the air between us.
I swallowed hard. My fingers tightened around his, the diamond on my left hand catching the last of the sun as it dipped behind the hills. The vineyard glowed gold around us, the vines swaying gently in the breeze, the scent of lavender and earth thick in the air.
He looked at me like I was everything.
Like he’d already killed for me.
Like he’d do it again.
And I believed him.
“I vow,” I said, my voice steady despite the tremble in my chest, “to never let you forget who I am. To never let you forget who you married.”
A few chuckles rippled through the crowd.
Dante’s smirk was slow. Dangerous. Proud.
“I vow to challenge you. To fight you. To love you in every way that matters—and some that don’t.”
He arched a brow.
I smiled.
“I vow to be your partner. Your equal. Your weapon. Your peace.”
The officiant—some poor bastard who’d been vetted by three security teams and probably had a sniper trained on him from the trees—cleared his throat.
“Do you, Emilia Conti, take this man?—”
“I do,” I said before he could finish.
Dante’s smirk widened.
“And do you, Dante Conti, take this woman?—”
“I already have,” he said, eyes still locked on mine.
The officiant blinked. “I… pronounce you husband and wife. Again.”
Laughter. Applause. The soft swell of strings from the quartet tucked behind the rose arch.
But I didn’t hear any of it.
Because Dante pulled me to him, one hand at the small of my back, the other cradling my jaw, and kissed me like he’d waited his whole life for this moment.
Like he was claiming me all over again.
Like he was making sure the whole world knew I was his.
The reception was held under a canopy of fairy lights strung between the olive trees. Long tables draped in white linen stretched across the lawn, covered in candles and flowers and enough wine to drown a small country.
Adrianna found me near the bar, a glass of champagne in one hand, her other tugging me into a hug that nearly knocked the breath out of me.
“You did it,” she said, pulling back to look at me. “You married the most terrifying man in the city. Again.”
I grinned. “He’s not that terrifying.”
She gave me a look.
“Okay, he’s terrifying,” I amended. “But he’s mine.”
Michael appeared beside her, already two drinks in, his tie loosened and his smile lazy. “You look like a queen,” he said. “And he looks like he’s one wrong look away from murdering someone.”
“Perfect match,” Adrianna said, raising her glass.
We clinked.
Across the lawn, Dante was deep in conversation with Rafe and Luca, his posture relaxed, his smile rare and lethal. But every few minutes, his eyes would find me. And when they did, the rest of the world disappeared.
I finished my champagne and wandered toward the vines, the soft music and laughter fading behind me. The stars were out now, scattered across the sky like spilled diamonds. The air was cooler, the scent of grapes and earth grounding me.
I needed a minute.
Just one.
To breathe.
To steady the chaos in my chest.
To remember who I was.
I wasn’t just Vincent Ricci’s daughter.
The youngest child.
The only daughter.
The mafia princess groomed to smile, stay quiet, and one day be married off to secure an alliance.
I wasn’t just the girl they whispered about at parties.
The one they said would be someone else’s problem soon enough.
The girl they thought would spend her life as a pawn in someone else’s game.
I was Emilia Conti .
And I had rewritten the rules.
I hadn’t been handed this life.
I had taken it.
Every step, every choice, every risk—I had chosen this.
I had chosen him.
And I didn’t regret it for a second.
The footsteps behind me were soft, but I knew them.
He didn’t speak. Just wrapped his arms around my waist from behind and rested his chin on my shoulder.
“You disappeared,” he murmured.
“I needed air.”
He kissed the curve of my neck. “You’re always running.”
“And you’re always chasing.”
He chuckled. “You like it.”
“I do.”
We stood there in silence, the vineyard stretching out before us, the stars above, the music behind. His arms around me. His breath in my ear.
We stood there in silence, the vineyard stretching out before us, the stars above, the music behind. His arms around me. His breath in my ear.
I leaned back into him, letting his warmth seep into my skin, grounding me. My fingers toyed with the edge of his cuff, brushing the cool metal of his watch—the one I’d stolen once, the one he never took off now.
“You know,” I murmured, “for a man who just married me twice, you’re awfully quiet.”
Dante’s lips brushed my shoulder, the bare skin exposed by the low back of my dress. “I’m trying not to ruin the moment by dragging you into a closet.”
I laughed, low and breathless. “You say that like it would be a bad thing.”
He turned me in his arms, his hands settling at my waist, his eyes dark and heavy with something that made my stomach flip. “You’re dangerous when you smile like that.”
“I learned from the best.”
His gaze dropped to my mouth, and for a second, I forgot where we were. Forgot that there were a hundred people just behind us, sipping champagne and pretending not to be watching us like we were the main attraction.
“You’re mine,” he said, voice low and rough. “Do you know what that means?”
I tilted my head. “That you’re going to spend the rest of your life trying to keep up with me?”
His mouth curved into a smirk. “It means I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure no one ever forgets it.”
The weight of his words settled over me, not heavy, but solid. Real. Like a vow carved into stone.
I reached up, brushing my fingers along the line of his jaw. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He caught my hand and pressed a kiss to my palm. “I know.”
For a moment, we just stood there, the world quiet around us. The vines rustled in the breeze, the stars blinked above, and somewhere behind us, the band started playing something slow and soft.
“Dance with me,” I said.
He didn’t answer. Just took my hand and led me back toward the lights.
The reception was in full swing when we returned, the tables half-empty, the dance floor full. Adrianna was twirling in the arms of her husband, laughing like she didn’t have a care in the world. Rafe stood near the bar, drink in hand, watching the crowd with the kind of detached amusement that came from being the most dangerous man in the room who wasn’t currently dancing with his wife.
Dante pulled me into the center of the floor, his hand finding the small of my back, the other clasping mine.
The music wrapped around us, slow and sultry, the kind of song that made you sway without thinking.
“You’re staring,” I said, looking up at him.
He didn’t look away. “I’m memorizing.”
I rolled my eyes, but my heart stuttered. “You already know what I look like.”
“Not like this,” he said. “Not in white. Not with the whole world watching and still knowing you’re mine.”
“You’re going to make me cry,” I warned.
He smirked. “Not until after I get you out of this dress.”
I laughed, and the sound felt like sunlight in my chest.
He spun me once, slow and deliberate, then pulled me back into his arms.
“I still can’t believe you bought me a vineyard,” I said, resting my head against his chest.
“I’d buy you a country if you asked.”
“I don’t want a country.”
“What do you want?”
I looked up at him. “You.”
His expression softened, just slightly. “You already have me.”
I smiled. “Good.”
Later, after the cake had been cut, the toasts given, and the guests had started to trickle out, I found myself barefoot in the vineyard, my heels dangling from one hand, my other hand wrapped around a bottle of wine I’d stolen from the bar.
Dante found me there, of course.
He always did.
He walked toward me slowly, his jacket gone, tie loosened, shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He looked like sin and salvation and everything in between.
“You’re hiding,” he said.
“I’m celebrating,” I corrected, lifting the bottle in a mock toast. “In solitude.”
He took the bottle from me and drank straight from it. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m married,” I said. “Again.”
He handed the bottle back. “Regretting it already?”
I took a sip. “Not even a little.”
He stepped closer, his hand sliding around my waist. “Good. Because I’m not letting you go.”
I leaned into him, my head resting against his shoulder. “I don’t want you to.”
We stood there for a long time, the vineyard stretching out around us in quiet, golden darkness. The fairy lights strung between the olive trees flickered like stars, the music had faded to a low hum in the distance, and the rest of the world felt far, far away.
Dante’s arm was warm around my waist, his chest solid against my back. I could feel the steady rhythm of his heart, the slow rise and fall of his breathing. It grounded me, tethered me to something real after days of chaos and fear and too many people trying to decide what I was worth.
But here, in this moment, I wasn’t currency. I wasn’t leverage. I wasn’t a pawn or a bride or a Conti.
I was just Emilia.
And I was his.
“Do you remember,” I said softly, “the first time we danced?”
His hand pressed against the small of my back, his thumb brushing slow, deliberate circles over the lace of my dress. “I do,” he murmured, his voice low and steady.
“I told you…” My voice wavered slightly, the memory vivid even now. “I told you that you made me feel like I couldn’t breathe.”
His lips curved into a faint smirk, his dark eyes locked on mine. “And I told you that you were mine,” he said, his voice dipping lower. “That I’d protect what’s mine. Whether you liked it or not.”
A shiver ran through me, just like it had that night. “You meant it,” I whispered.
“I still do.” His gaze darkened, his hand tightening slightly as he pulled me closer. “Do I still make you feel that way?”
“Like I can’t breathe?” I swallowed hard, my chest tightening. “Yes.”
His fingers splayed against my back, grounding me in the moment. His voice dropped, quieter now, but no less intense. “Good,” he said. “Because you do the same to me.”
The weight of his words settled between us, the music fading into the background as the memory of that night lingered in the air. He hadn’t just said I was his back then—he’d claimed me. And now, here we were, years later, and nothing had changed.
I tilted my head slightly, my lips curving into a small, knowing smile. “And yet, here you are.” I said softly, leaning in just a fraction closer. “Married to me. Again.”
He smirked. “I’m a glutton for punishment.”
I reached up, brushing my fingers along the line of his jaw. “You’re a fool.”
“For you?” he said, catching my wrist and pressing a kiss to the inside of it. “Always.”
The words settled in my chest like a promise. Not loud, not dramatic. Just steady. Certain.
I leaned in, resting my forehead against his. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For choosing me. For choosing this.”
He pulled back just enough to look at me, his expression unreadable. “You think I had a choice?”
I frowned.
He smiled. “I didn’t. Not really. Not after that first night. Not after you stole my watch and then had the audacity to call a $960,000 Patek Philippe pedestrian .”
I laughed. “You loved it.”
“I did.”
He kissed me then—slow and deep and full of everything we didn’t need to say out loud. His hands slid up my back, fingers tangling in my hair, and I melted into him like I’d been waiting my whole life to be held this way.
When we finally pulled apart, I was breathless.
“Take me home,” I whispered.
He didn’t ask which one.