Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Valentina
“Ms. Russo, this way.”
A soldier extends his hand, and I’m assisted from the armored SUV and ushered into a special entrance at the back of the cathedral. Not that I’m surprised. The one my family attends has a similar set up.
Within seconds, I’m sealed inside.
The entire way over, I was on guard, expecting my family to intercept the vehicle and rescue me.
But the drive through Houston’s early-morning streets was uneventful.
No doubt Moretti sent a decoy vehicle, just as we would have done. Which also means my family expected him to make that maneuver.
The stone floors echo faintly beneath the soldiers’ footsteps, and the coolness brushes over my feet as we move down a quiet corridor away from the main sanctuary.
From somewhere deeper in the building, I hear the distant murmur of voices, but this wing is calm, sealed away from the rest of the morning.
We stop in front of an entrance, a female soldier steps aside, and I enter a small room unmistakably meant for a bride.
Tall mirrors framed in antique gold line one wall, reflecting soft light from a pair of high windows.
A long table nearby is arranged with trays of food that look more appropriate for a luxury hotel than a cathedral dressing room—fresh fruit, delicate pastries, tiny sandwiches stacked with surgical precision.
Crystal flutes filled with pale gold champagne wait beside a silver carafe of orange juice.
Mimosas.
Thank goodness. It’s the ammunition I’ll need to survive the next couple of hours. Much as I want to drown myself in the expensive bubbly, I dare not drink too much. I need my wits about me in case of a rescue attempt.
My gaze shifts slowly across the room, absorbing every detail with the wary attention of someone stepping into enemy territory.
And then I see it.
My dress.
The fabric catches the light in a way that makes it look ethereal.
It’s gorgeous. Just as Moretti knew it would be.
Inside the sleeves of the oversize hoodie, I curl my fingers.
For a brief, dangerous second, my throat tightens.
Then the door opens, and a voice breaks the silence.
“Well,” a woman says lightly, “this is already my favorite wedding of the year.”
I turn.
She’s tall, with dark hair spilling over one shoulder in effortless waves. A fitted black dress hugs a figure that probably makes men forget their own names, and the heels on her feet are the kind that signal money without screaming about it.
She studies me with warm brown eyes that are far too amused for someone who’s just entered a cathedral dressing room.
And she’s very obviously taking in the fact that the bride has arrived wearing a pair of Dante Moretti’s sweatpants.
A slow smile spreads across her face.
Then she pushes away from the counter and walks straight toward me.
Not cautious.
Not hesitant.
Just…confident.
Before I can even ask a question, she’s crossed the floor and wrapped her arms around me in a quick, surprisingly warm hug.
I freeze.
The faint scent of vanilla brushes my senses, light and clean, and for half a second, my brain simply stalls.
I hadn’t imagined being greeted this way by anyone.
She pulls back, her hands still lightly resting on my arms as she gives my outfit another appreciative glance.
“I like your style,” she says.
My brows lift.
“Showing up to a mafia wedding in sweats?” Her grin widens. “That takes commitment and courage.”
For a moment, I just stare at her.
“Unless…” She scowls. “Is that all Dante gave you to wear?”
“No.” Then I admit the truth. “He left a dress for me. And heels.”
“And you were thinking strategically.”
We both know what she means.
Then she shakes her head. “I’m so sorry. You have no idea who I am. I’m Bella.”
“You’re married to Nico.” Nico, who’d I’d met in Vegas at the Four Corners Alliance. And she’s the family’s communications specialist.
“You’ve done your research.” She grins. “I’ve heard you’re a great asset to your father.”
Was.
I was a great asset. Until I fell into Dante Moretti’s carefully laid trap. So stupid of me.
She gestures to the table with its elaborate spread.
“I figured you might need a friend since Dante has been hiding you away.” She adds the barest splash of OJ to each glass of champagne, then offers one to me.
“Thank you.” I wish I could say I’d be as thoughtful as her if I learned that my brother Giovanni abducted an enemy and decided to marry her.
She angles her glass in my direction.
Despite myself, I like her. Smiling, we clink our rims together, and she takes a sip.
I hadn’t expected to find an ally here, and I appreciate her offering of friendship. Even if I’m stolen from the cathedral before the ceremony happens.
The door opens again, and a woman bustles in holding a Bonds tablet.
“Mrs. Henderson,” Bella explains.
Even though Moretti said she was in charge, I finally am able to piece together who she is.
Without me needing to say anything, Bella nods. “Jaxon Mills’s mother-in-law.”
Mrs. Henderson has become quite renowned in Houston society for planning weddings and events. The first ever was for her daughter’s whirlwind marriage to the infamous, loud-mouth podcaster who holds millions spellbound every day.
After we exchange greetings, the efficient woman brings me up to date.
The ceremony will begin precisely at ten. Following the exchange of vows, the certificate will be signed, and pictures will be taken.
Her focus and professionalism are perfect, and if she thinks the bride showing up barefoot and in sweats is unusual, she says nothing.
“Hair and makeup are standing by whenever you’re ready,” she informs me.
I glance over my shoulder at the dress again, at the soft sweep of silk waiting patiently on the back of the door.
Then I look down at myself.
“Shall I give you a few minutes?”
Despite everything, the corner of my mouth threatens to twitch. I do my best to suppress it, but Bella notices.
Her own grin widens. “Why don’t you give us ten minutes, Mrs. Henderson?”
I’m thinking that the Moretti women might be far more dangerous than the men. And that’s something I appreciate.
When we’re alone, Bella drags a hot pink duffel bag from under the skirted table. She unzips it and pulls out a silk robe. “I knew no one would think of this. It will make getting ready much easier.”
“Thank you.” I accept the gift and hold it against me.
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” Bella says in the loud, overwhelming silence.
“You’re…?”
She studies me for another moment, taking in far more than I’m comfortable with. “Every woman should get to marry who she wants to,” she says quietly. “If she wants.”
The words hang in the air between us.
I almost laugh.
Almost.
Because we both know that didn’t happen for her either.
Her gaze flicks over my face, and for a moment, something softer settles there—understanding, maybe. Or recognition.
“I’m sorry we’re meeting under these circumstances,” she adds. “I’m sure this isn’t the way you imagined your wedding morning would look.”
No, it isn’t.
Still, the sincerity in her voice surprises me.
She shifts closer, lowering her voice as if the soldiers posted outside the door might somehow overhear.
“If you need anything,” she continues, “anything at all, you come to me, okay? I mean it.”
“Thank you.”
She snatches a phone out of the purse that’s tucked inside the duffel bag. “Let me call your cell, that way you’ll have my number.”
“I no longer have a phone.”
The silence that follows is sharp.
“What do you mean?” Looking at me, she scowls. “You don’t have a phone?”
“Dante took everything that belongs to me.”
Her expression changes.
The warmth is still there, but her eyes blaze.
For a split second, she looks like she might march straight out the door and start a war.
“I’ll fix that.” Her words are calm, but the determination behind them is unmistakable.
And with the way she says it—like it’s already done, like the world will simply rearrange itself to make it happen—I believe her.
By the time I’ve changed into the silky robe, Mrs. Henderson returns.
Bella shepherds me to a chair in front of a mirror and then refills my mimosa before pressing the glass into my hand.
I take a deep drink as the stylist unpacks brushes and curling irons.
The room slowly fills with the quiet sounds of preparation.
Every moment takes me closer to the time that I’ll have to walk down the aisle to face my enemy.
About twenty minutes later, there’s a soft knock at the door.
Bella hurries to answer it.
“Alessia!”
The woman enters, dressed in an elegant, simple, flowing cream dress.
“Perfect timing!” Bella says.
“Is it okay if I come in?”
I freeze for a moment. Even though her posture is composed, there’s a small frown between her eyebrows.
Alessia Moretti, the new boss’s wife.
I’m not sure of my reception from her. Does she believe that my family killed her father-in-law?
And yet, unless something happens soon, we’re going to be family.
The consigliere in me knows that alliances need to be forged.
Pretending my heart isn’t racing, I nod.
I’ve met her husband and the previous don. But that was on neutral territory. I’m hyper aware that I no longer have that luxury.
Bella hurries to the table and pours Alessia an orange juice.
Interesting.
Glass in hand, Alessia comes closer to where I sit while the stylist works on my hair.
“You may know that I wasn’t exactly a willing bride.”
That catches my attention.
I’ve certainly heard the whispers about her—the way the alliance was arranged, and the way she disappeared to Europe for months before returning.
Alessia sets her glass down carefully.
“My father supported it,” she adds simply. “He believed the wedding mattered. And…” She gives a small smile. “Matteo was forced to come after me.”
Her confession makes the tightness in my chest loosen a fraction.
“But you’re the don’s wife.”
“And a woman.” She nods. “About to be a mother.”
Our intel had missed that piece of information.
The stylist finishes pinning a section of hair and steps back to examine her work.
“Perfect,” Mrs. Henderson murmurs approvingly from across the room.
“I’ll be back to help with the veil,” the stylist says.
Veil? I hadn’t selected one of those.
Which no doubt means Moretti made more decisions about my life.
Outside the door, I can hear the quiet shuffle of soldiers moving in the hallway.
“And I’d want any daughter of mine to have a choice.”
Our eyes meet in the mirror, and for a moment, neither of us speak. Even in a case like this?
I don’t ask the question, though.
No one here, except me, will believe my family is innocent.
Mrs. Henderson breaks the tension. “Makeup is on the way.”
“Is it okay if I stay?” Alessia asks.
Her question surprises me. “You actually want to?” What does your husband think?
“Look…” Bella takes a sip of her drink. “Being in a mafia family is hard. Being a Moretti wife is hard. Loving men who…” She stops herself. “Sorry.”
I attempt a small smile. None of this is her fault, and I appreciate everything she’s trying to do.
“I think what my sister-in-law is trying to say is that we all need friends,” Alessia finishes. “You’re going to be part of the family.”
Again, I am surprised by their attitude, especially since I don’t know how her brother feels about this whole thing. Or how the former don’s wife feels, for that matter.
The makeup artist introduces himself, and as he works, the clock seems to accelerate.
Outside the door, the murmur of voices rises and falls, distant and indistinct. Every sound reminds me that the world beyond this room continues to move forward whether I am ready for it or not.
“Perfect,” the makeup artist says at last.
He steps back so I can see the finished work in the mirror.
For a moment, I don’t recognize the woman staring back at me. Her eyes are too calm. Too controlled.
“Excellent,” Mrs. Henderson notes. “You look beautiful, and you’re right on schedule.”
Alessia finishes the last of her orange juice and sets the empty glass on the table.
She comes closer, resting a light hand briefly on my shoulder. “I’ll let you finish getting ready.”
Then she slips from the room, along with Mrs. Henderson.
The door closes behind her with a soft click.
“Do you mind if I’m the one to help you with your dress?” Bella asks.
“Please.” There’s no way I can manage this by myself.
She slides the fabric from the hanger. “Your dress really is beautiful.”
I agree. I just wish I wasn’t forced to wear it.
The material settles into place perfectly.
She helps me into the heels that are in another bag.
Then things become a whirlwind. The stylist returns to help with the veil that I’ve never seen before, and Mrs. Henderson brings in a photographer.
The woman is remarkably efficient, asking for a few shots near the mirror and another near a stained-glass window where soft morning light spills across the silk gown.
Next, the coordinator arrives with a gorgeous bouquet of flowers.
After I have more pictures taken with them, the photographer leaves. “Five minutes, Ms. Russo.” To Bella, she adds, “If you’re ready to take your place, Mrs. Moretti?”
“You’ll be okay?” Bella asks.
Part of me wants to beg her stay, but I instead offer her a small smile as I shake my head. “But thank you.”
Hand on the knob, she gives me a little wave. “I’ll be here for you.”
With her gone, the room suddenly feels larger and quieter.
Mrs. Henderson gathers her tablet. “You’re a beautiful bride, Ms. Russo.” After offering a professional smile and a promise to return in five minutes, she exits.
Despite myself, I move toward the mirror, studying the woman staring back at me.
The dress is breathtaking.
The veil drapes softly over my shoulders.
The makeup artist has transformed my face into something elegant and composed.
A perfect mafia bride.
From somewhere deep inside the cathedral, music begins to drift down the corridor.
Reverent and unmistakable organ music.
My heart thunders to a stop.
As the music swells, I squeeze my eyes shut. Every second suddenly feels heavier than the last.
Then—
The music stops.
Not gradually, but abruptly.
Silence floods the cathedral, and I straighten instinctively.
Outside the door, voices rise.
Low and urgent.
Footsteps echo against the stone floor.
My pulse hammers.
The door handle rattles, and someone speaks sharply in the hallway.
Something has gone very, very against Moretti’s carefully laid plans.
Immediately I drop my flowers and kick off my shoes, gathering the hem of my skirt, prepared to make my escape.
Then the door swings open.