Chapter 6 #2
But I'd seen it. That crack in his armor. That glimpse of something beneath the surface that was neither cold nor distant nor transactional.
He'd wanted that kiss. Really wanted it. And when it was happening, he'd felt the same terrifying electricity I had.
I turned to face the congregation on his arm, smiling automatically, accepting the burst of applause that meant absolutely nothing to me now. We walked down the aisle together, man and wife, and I performed the role I'd been trained for since childhood.
But inside, I was reeling.
I'd felt something. Something true.
Worse: I'd wanted to feel more.
Caruso's had been transformed from a cozy trattoria into something from a wedding magazine—white flowers, candlelight, crystal catching the light from every direction—but I barely registered any of it. I was too busy surviving.
The receiving line was endless. Face after face, hand after hand, congratulations and well-wishes blurring together until the words lost all meaning.
My cheeks ached from smiling. My feet screamed in the heels I'd been wearing for four hours.
And through it all, I felt Enzo Valenti's gaze on my skin like a brand.
He was seated at a table near the back of the room, just far enough from the family tables to maintain plausible distance. But close enough that I could feel him watching. That patient, possessive attention that hadn't changed in ten years.
I didn't look at him. Didn't let my eyes drift in his direction. But I always knew exactly where he was, the way prey always knows where the predator is standing.
"Mrs. Caruso." A woman with elaborate silver hair clasped my hands, her rings biting into my fingers. "Such a beautiful ceremony. Your mother would be so proud."
"Thank you." The words came out automatically. I'd said them a hundred times already.
Dante stood beside me, solid and warm, accepting his own endless stream of congratulations with the easy authority of a man who had been trained for this since birth.
Every few minutes, his hand would brush the small of my back—a touch so light it could have been accidental.
It wasn't. Each brush sent a small jolt through me, a reminder that he was there.
That whatever was happening, I wasn't facing it alone.
I hated how much that helped.
Donatella materialized at my elbow sometime during the second hour, pressing a glass of champagne into my hand and steering me away from a cluster of elderly aunts who wanted to discuss grandchildren.
"You're doing amazing," she murmured, her arm linked through mine. "Another hour and we can escape to the bridal suite for a break. I've got snacks hidden in my purse. Very classy, very emergency."
I laughed—or tried to. It came out more like a breath.
She stayed close after that. Filling silences with bright chatter that asked nothing in return. Positioning herself between me and Enzo's sightline whenever possible. Playing interference with the skill of someone who had grown up navigating these dangerous waters.
I wanted to hug her. I wanted to cry. I could do neither.
The bar was supposed to be safe. A quick moment to get water, to breathe, to escape the endless press of bodies and expectations. But the moment I stepped away from Donatella's protective orbit, I felt the air change.
"Congratulations, bella."
Enzo's voice slid over me like cold oil. I turned and found him standing too close, his pale eyes traveling down my dress with that familiar, proprietary assessment.
"You look radiant." He smiled. The same smile from a decade ago—charming on the surface, poisonous underneath. "Marriage suits you. I always knew it would."
My throat closed. Words evaporated. All my careful preparation, all my rehearsed composure—none of it worked. My body remembered before my mind could catch up.
"The groom is a lucky man." Enzo stepped closer. Not touching, but close enough that I could smell his cologne—the same expensive scent from a thousand nightmares. "I hope he appreciates what he has. Some men don't know how to handle precious things. They let them slip away."
I couldn't breathe. My champagne glass trembled in my grip.
Then a hand settled on the small of my back. Warm. Steady. Unmistakably possessive.
"Don Valenti." Dante's voice was pleasant. The kind of pleasant that meant nothing good. "Thank you for coming."
He'd appeared from nowhere. One second I was alone with a monster, and the next my husband was beside me, his body angled between us like a shield. His hand pressed firmer against my spine, and I realized he could feel me trembling—could feel every small shake I couldn't control.
Enzo's smile didn't waver. "Don Caruso. Congratulations on your marriage. The Morettis must be proud—such a valuable alliance."
"We're fortunate to have Gemma in our family." Dante's voice was silk over steel. "She's already beloved by everyone who matters."
Something flickered in Enzo's pale eyes. Annoyance, maybe. Or recognition that he was being outmaneuvered.
"I'm sure she is." He lifted his champagne glass in a small salute. "I knew her when she was young, you know. Watched her grow into quite a woman. It's gratifying to see her so well-settled."
The subtext was a knife. I felt it slide between my ribs, cold and familiar.
Dante's hand moved on my back. A small stroke, almost imperceptible. Soothing.
"I'm sure you have other guests to greet," he said. Still pleasant. Still deadly. "We appreciate you paying your respects."
A dismissal, wrapped in courtesy. Enzo heard it clearly.
He retreated with that knowing smile, the one that said this isn't over. The one that had haunted my dreams for a decade. He walked back toward his table, and I watched him go, and my whole body was shaking.
"Breathe."
Dante's voice was low enough that only I could hear. His hand pressed firmer against my spine—grounding, anchoring, holding me in the present when my mind wanted to flee into the past.
“You’ll get through this.”
Four words. Simple. Almost nothing.
But they hit me harder than the kiss had.
I shouldn't find comfort in those words. I knew that. Knew that trusting powerful men was how I'd been broken before. Knew that Dante Caruso was a mafia don, capable of violence and manipulation and all the dark things that came with this life.
But he'd appeared the instant I needed him. He'd put himself between me and danger without hesitation. He'd read my trembling for what it was and responded with gentleness instead of questions.
I found comfort anyway.
I let myself lean into his hand, just slightly. Let my breathing slow. Let his warmth seep into the cold places Enzo had left behind.
The hours blurred together after that. Toasts and first dances and cake, each ritual passing in a haze while I performed flawlessly on the outside and fell apart on the inside.
I smiled at the appropriate moments. I laughed at Marco's toast, which was funny and irreverent and made the older guests clutch their pearls.
I accepted hugs from Donatella and handshakes from men whose names I'd already forgotten.
I cut the cake with Dante's hand warm over mine on the knife handle, feeding him a bite while cameras flashed and guests cheered.
The perfect mafia bride. Exactly what I'd been trained to be.
But inside, I was a churning mess of confusion.
The kiss had changed something. I couldn't stop thinking about it—the warmth of his mouth, the gentleness of his hands. Every time Dante touched me now—my hand, my waist, the small of my back—I felt it like electricity crackling across my skin.
It was terrifying.
I watched him work the room between our shared obligations.
Commanding and controlled, moving from conversation to conversation with the easy authority of a man who had been born to this.
He shook hands with politicians and nodded at soldiers and made everyone feel like they had his full attention, even when I knew his mind was cataloging threats and calculating angles.
He's just like Enzo, I told myself. They're all the same.
But even as I thought it, a small voice whispered from somewhere I couldn't quite silence.
Enzo never looked at you like that.
The voice was treacherous. Dangerous. Exactly the kind of weakness that had destroyed me once before.
I pushed back against it. Built walls around it. Reminded myself that charm was a weapon, that tenderness could be a trap, that I had believed a man's gentle words before and it had nearly killed me.
The first dance was torture.
Dante's hand settled on my waist, warm through the silk of my dress, and his other hand took mine with that same impossible gentleness from the altar. The music swelled—something classical and romantic that my father had probably chosen without consulting me—and we began to move.
He was a good dancer. Confident, leading without pushing, adjusting to my smaller steps without making me feel clumsy. His eyes stayed on my face as we moved, dark and unreadable, and I couldn't tell what he was thinking.
"You're doing beautifully," he said quietly. "I know this is exhausting."
I blinked. "I'm fine."
"You don't have to be fine with me. I know you don’t want this."
I felt a chill.
"I'm—" I started, and then stopped, because I didn't know how to finish the sentence.
Dante's thumb brushed once across my waist. "We'll talk later. When we're alone."
The music ended. We stepped apart. The moment passed.
But I felt it lingering on my skin for hours afterward.
Santo glowered in a corner near the bar, watching everyone who wasn't family with the suspicious intensity of a guard dog who smelled intruders. Every few minutes his eyes would sweep the room, cataloging exits and threats, before returning to the guests with barely concealed hostility.