Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Valentina
Moretti.
For a moment, I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting off the terrible wave of disappointment.
For a moment, just a moment, I had hoped—prayed—I was going to be saved from my horrible fate.
Bravely I meet his eyes.
The careful order that usually surrounds him has been disturbed.
His tie is slightly askew, the knot loosened just enough to suggest it was straightened quickly rather than adjusted with his usual deliberate precision. One dark lock of hair has slipped across his forehead, and my attention lingers there before sliding downward.
To his hands.
His knuckles are bloodied, not dripping, but dramatic and unmistakable. The dark red has begun to dry along the sharp ridges of bone, smeared across skin that looks like it collided with something—or someone—far less fragile.
The sight lands in my chest with a strange, quiet certainty.
So that’s what delayed the ceremony.
I don’t have to ask what kind of man stands in front of me.
I already know.
He was the Moretti enforcer—the man sent when a message needed to be delivered in bone instead of words, when diplomacy has failed and someone needs to remind the world exactly how power works.
And recently he’s been elevated to underboss, a far more dangerous position.
Which means he’s no longer simply the weapon.
He’s the man deciding when the weapon needs to be used.
His gaze sweeps over me slowly, taking in every detail with the kind of quiet thoroughness that makes it impossible to pretend he’s missed anything.
My bare feet on the polished floor.
The way I’ve gathered my dress in both hands so I can run.
The bouquet splattered on the floor, flowers lying against stone like some sort of pale sacrifice.
His mouth curves slightly.
“Were you expecting someone else, princess?”
The question lands softly in the room, almost conversational, but there’s something in his tone that makes my pulse jump.
Heat creeps up my neck as I become painfully aware of how I must look—caught somewhere between bride and fugitive.
“I…” My voice falters, and I clear my throat to try again. “What happened?”
Then I shake my head. He’s not going to answer that question. Moretti will never explain himself to me.
Instead of answering, he walks into the room and closes the door behind him.
Every movement is unhurried, controlled, each step carrying the quiet certainty of a man who never doubts where he’s going.
He stops beside the bouquet.
For a moment, he simply looks down at it.
Then he bends to pick up the bouquet, and I can’t help noticing the contrast. Soft white blooms against knuckles that are marred with blood.
What a perfect metaphor for the disaster that my life has become.
When he straightens, his gaze returns to me. “You dropped these.” He holds the remaining flowers to me.
I hesitate.
And his eyes become dangerous. “Take them.”
Our fingers brush as I follow his order.
“Now your shoes, Valentina. The priest and our guests are waiting.”
He holds me steady while I reluctantly slip into the pumps.
After he nods his satisfaction, he places his fingertips against the small of my back. I feel his touch through the delicate fabric of my dress. Surprising me, he isn’t rough, but he’s firm enough to leave no doubt about who’s in control of the direction we’re about to take.
Evidently satisfied, he knocks on the door, then guides me from the relative safety of the bridal room.
Soldiers lead us and follow, and numerous others flank the walkway.
We reach private chapel, and instead of releasing me to walk down the aisle, Moretti keeps his fingers where they are.
The beautiful space is smaller than I expected, and the soft glow of candlelight fills every corner, reflecting against polished wood and stained glass.
At least a dozen soldiers line the room, completely on guard.
The few guests rise and turn to face us.
Bella is standing next to her husband, Nico, who I remember from Las Vegas.
He offers no acknowledgment, but Bella flashes a small, reassuring smile that feels almost painfully kind in this moment.
We begin the too-short walk down the center of the room.
Then I take in the people next to them.
Immediately I recognize Gina Moretti, Dante’s mother.
Her dark hair is swept into a smooth twist, pearls resting at her throat like a deliberate statement of elegance and control.
Beside her is a man I’m guessing is the youngest brother, Dario.
His hand rests lightly on Gina’s forearm in a gesture that’s protective without drawing attention to itself.
On her other side is Alessia. Like Bella, she gives me a small smile.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t return it.
At the altar is Matteo.
He stands beside the priest, his posture perfectly composed, mouth set in a grim line as we draw closer.
Instinctively I look around again, searching. But my brother isn’t here.
In a place full of Morettis and their soldiers, I don’t have a single ally.
The realization settles into my chest slowly, like something heavy sinking through deep water.
When I hesitate, Moretti presses his entire palm against my spine, urging me to my doom.
When we reach the altar, the priest smiles warmly, then invites the family to take their seats.
Matteo faces forward, along with his brother.
The priest begins in a calm and practiced voice. The ceremonial words are familiar, but I barely hear them over the buzzing in my head.
Moretti still has his hand on me, not trusting that I won’t run.
Within only a few moments, the officiant turns to Moretti to ask the first question. This may be the shortest ceremony in history.
“Dante Moretti…” The man folds his hands before him. “Repeat after me…”
As he speaks, his voice is steady, certain, like the outcome of this moment was never in doubt.
Then the priest turns to me and clears his throat, not meeting my eyes.
“Valentina Russo…” His voice seems to echo around me.
“Do you take Dante Moretti to be your lawful husband? To stand beside him as his wife, to honor the vows spoken before God and family, and to join your life with his from this day forward?”
Dear God. No.
Panic ricochets through me.
I can’t do this. Can’t.
How can I marry the man who kidnapped me? Who probably hurt my brother? A man with blood on his hands?
Moretti’s hand presses harder against my back.
To anyone watching, the pressure is invisible. But to me the warning is unmistakable.
Then he leans just enough that his breath brushes the shell of my ear.
“You will do this for the sake of your family.”
What the…? Fear races down my spine.
“One signal from me, and you’ll find out how little choice you have.”
Does he have my brother? Someone else from my family? Is that whose blood is on his hands?
Frantically I look around. No one has moved or reacted. “You can go straight to—”
“Say I do, princess.” His voice is harsh and unyielding. “Or live with the consequences.”