34. CHAPTER 33—ANTONIO
CHAPTER 33—ANTONIO
M y bride comes wrapped in white lies and silk. I don't move, don't give her father the satisfaction of seeing me react.
But my eyes devour her - mapping every curve the dress highlights, every inch of skin I'll claim. Soon. Hard and slow, until she forgets everyone who came before.
She'll surrender willingly - that's the sweetest part of my revenge. She'll give herself to the Beast, and then she'll learn exactly what life's been like since flames remade me. I won't break her body - that's amateur hour. But her spirit? That's mine to crush.
Franco stands beside me while Naomi watches from across the aisle - witnesses to make sure every family knows. This union's carved in stone, in blood, in betrayal. Not like the joke of a marriage her father forced on my mother.
This time, the chains are permanent.
This time, I own what I claim.
This time, she'll understand what losing really means.
These jeans and shirt? Just another fuck-you to ceremony, to everything her father holds sacred. But when she reaches me, breath catching as the first notes fill the chapel, something shifts. Because that music - it's from the last dance she performed for me, before everything burned.
Her father decided on that music. Or maybe she did.
Another reminder of what we lost.
What she helped destroy.
“Tonio.” My name barely whispered on her lips is burning my skin, but all I do is glare at her—and then smile as the song switches to a piano ballad that was played at my mother’s wedding to her father.
A wedding that turned a marriage into blood.
She inches back. Only slightly. But she knows. There’s no hope of a happily ever after. Not for us. Not after what she’s done.
“Isabella,” I growl back at her. “You okay?” My tone is cold. Icy even.
And she nods.
Doesn’t she know my mother told me the words that mattered the most? Bella. Betrayal. Me.
Doesn't she realize I know? Her lies don't matter. Not anymore.
Does she think I believe her act of pain and regret and heartache about the murder she helped orchestrate?
Her father stares at me with contempt. Like I care about what he thinks.
The priest is waiting for us, clearing his throat, not uncomfortable, after all he's part of my team, of my men, of my family.
The one I had to make for myself because she destroyed everything I had. Everyone I cared about.
I lift my eyes briefly, then fix them back on her. Her damn honeysuckle scent is all over this place, clashing with the musty air of the old church. The veil she's wearing hides too much; I can't see the look in her eyes. I'm itching to. That dress – it's a damn costume, not her. It's wrapping around her like some fairytale, but it's all wrong. She's no princess, not anymore.
There's this new fire in her now, the way she's standing tall, like she's ready for a fight. Her voice, when she speaks, it's not soft or scared. She asks, "Are we starting?" like she's challenging the world, not just walking into a wedding that's supposed to change everything. I catch this slight tremble in her words, though. She's putting on a brave face, but I can tell, she's scared underneath it all.
And that moves something deep within.
"Tonio." Her whisper hits like a bullet to the chest, and I force my face into granite, into something that can't crack. But fuck if that name on her lips doesn't burn like acid under my skin. I let my smile turn cruel as the piano notes drift through the chapel - the same fucking song they played at my mother's wedding. The day she signed her own death warrant by marrying Isabella's father.
Blood wedding. Blood marriage. History repeating its bullshit cycle.
Isabella takes a tiny step back, like some scared little bird finally realizing it's in a cage. Good. Let her know there's no fairy tale ending here. Not after what she did. Not after my mother's blood-stained marble floors.
Not after seeing her body look like a broken doll, bloodied up and sad.
"Isabella," I growl, the name tasting bitter on my tongue. "You okay?" I make my voice arctic, the kind of cold that freezes everything it touches. Makes her shiver in that ridiculous white dress.
She nods like a puppet on strings. Stupid girl still doesn't get it. My mother's last words weren't some sweet fucking goodbye - they were a confession.
Bella. Betrayal. Me. Three words that changed everything.
Her father's glaring daggers at me from the front row. Like his contempt means shit to me anymore. The priest clears his throat. Getting impatient.
I glance up briefly before my eyes lock back on her. That damn honeysuckle scent of hers floods the musty chapel air, making my head swim. Can't see her eyes properly through that veil - another thing pissing me off. The wedding dress hangs on her like costume armor, trying to sell some princess fantasy. But she lost the right to play that role the day she chose her father over my mother.
There's something different about her though - a steel in her spine I don't remember from before. When she asks "Are we starting?" her voice carries a challenge, like she's ready to throw down right here at the altar.
But I catch that little tremor underneath. She's terrified behind all that bravado.
And fuck me if that slight shake in her voice doesn't stir something in my chest I thought I'd burned away years ago.
Her father's perched in the front row like some smug king on his throne, almost cracking a smile at her words. Like he's finally seeing something in his perfect little ballerina that makes him proud. I shoot him a smile over Isabella's head - all teeth, no warmth - and he nods back. That nod hits me wrong, carries weight I can't decode. Makes something twist in my gut like a knife being turned.
"Make it the short version," I cut off the priest's droning about unity and souls and all that bullshit. My eyes stay locked on her father's face, reading every micro-expression. He's too calm. Too satisfied. Makes my skin crawl, because in our world, that kind of calm usually means blood's about to spill.
Then Isabella lifts her veil and fuck if my heart doesn't stutter. I thought I was forged in steel, hardened by years of hate, but seeing her face... Christ. She's not just beautiful - she's fucking devastating. The kind of stunning that makes you forget how to breathe. How to think. Makes you want to believe lies so you can forget she's the reason your mother's dead.
She licks her lips - nervous tell I remember from years ago - and something primal in me wants to trace that path with my tongue. The priest's still talking but all I can think about is whether she'll actually go through with this. Part of me, the part that's been burning in hell since my mother died, expects her to bolt. To prove once again that Isabella Moretti only looks out for herself.
But when her eyes meet mine, there's resolve.
"I do," she whispers, and for one stupid second, I let myself imagine another world. One where she didn't betray us. Where my mother's watching this with that knowing smile of hers, instead of lying cold in the ground because of the woman I'm about to make my wife.
When the priest turns to me, repeating words that don’t mean shit, I force another smile. One that should scare her.
"I do." The words tear from my throat like gravel, like violence. Like promise.
The priest's barely finished declaring us man and wife before I'm on her. My hands find her waist, fingers digging into silk and flesh, yanking her against me. This isn't some sweet wedding kiss - this is claiming. Marking. My mouth crashes into hers with enough force to bruise, tongue demanding entry, teeth scraping her bottom lip. Let them all watch. Let them see who she belongs to now.
Fuck. She melts into me like honeyed sin, like she's been waiting for this. Her little gasp of surprise turns into a moan that shoots straight to my cock. Those delicate fingers of hers - the ones that used to dance across stage - clutch my shirt like she's drowning, like she needs this as badly as I do. She's fighting it, fighting me, but her body knows better. Knows she's mine.
She takes this shuddering breath that makes me want to devour her right here, church be damned. Her silk-soft hair brushes my face, carrying that damn honeysuckle scent that makes me want to bury my face in her neck and just breathe her in.
Christ. I need to stay focused. But with her lips parting under mine, her body trembling against me... This isn't just possession anymore. This is dangerous.
Gunshots crack through the air like thunder, ripping us out of that kiss and straight into hell. Isabella's whole body goes rigid against mine, her fingers digging into my arm hard enough to leave marks. The fear in her eyes is raw, unfiltered - none of that carefully constructed grace she usually wears like armor. For a split second, my body moves on pure instinct, wanting to shield her before my brain catches up with what my heart's doing.
Through the chaos, I spot him - Naomi's father. Fuck. The man I once trusted, who my mother trusted, is storming down the aisle like vengeance incarnate. The air crackles with the kind of tension that usually ends in blood.
"Dad!" Naomi's terrified scream cuts through the mayhem like a blade.
"Wait, Naomi!" Isabella's voice carries that mix of fear and fierce protection that threatens to stir something in my chest. She's reaching for her friend, trying to keep her from rushing into crossfire, and shit - there's that protective instinct of hers I used to admire before everything burned.
Then time freezes.
Naomi's father whips around, and suddenly I'm staring down the barrel of his gun. Our eyes lock, and the cold calculation in his gaze tells me everything I need to know. This isn't some desperate father trying to save his daughter. This is an executioner who's been waiting for his moment.
The realization hits like a punch to the gut - we're not his allies.
We're his fucking targets.