Chapter 35
NIKKI
The chapel smells like roses and really old secrets. Not the cozy kind. The creepy, heavy kind that probably come with curses and spells.
It's tucked into a hillside, a place so remote I'm pretty sure not even Google Maps knows it exists. Rafe said his mother lit candles here once, years ago, before she disappeared. Before her life, and his, imploded.
And now I'm here, lighting mine, a tiny flickering flame against an uncertain future.
My dress isn't white or cream. Of course not. That would be too… traditional. Too innocent. And absolutely nothing about this situation, or my feelings, or Rafe, is innocent.
It's liquid silver, floor-length, and covered in intricate beading sharp enough to slice skin if you hug too hard. It's backless, sleeveless, designed to look impossibly fragile and utterly dangerous all at once. Like me, apparently.
I don’t just look like a girl getting married. I look like a damn headline. A walking, glittering threat. And next to Rafe? We’re the whole fucking front page.
My mom watches from the front pew, a tiny island of familiar comfort in this sea of dangerous strangers.
She looks beautiful, dressed in a soft lavender gown we picked out.
Her hair's curled perfectly, her makeup expertly applied.
Her presence is a lifeline, a reminder of the real life I might be sacrificing if things go wrong.
Enzo sits next to her. Not smiling, of course.
His eyes are constantly sweeping the small, intimate chapel, assessing every shadow.
Glowering like he'll shoot anyone who moves wrong.
And honestly, he probably would. He's Rafe's shadow, his loyal enforcer, and if Rafe tells him to protect me, he'll do it with a ruthless efficiency without thinking twice.
The few guests, all hand-picked by Rafe, are a mixture of grim-faced men, and a handful of sleek, elegant women. No one looks entirely comfortable or happy.
Except maybe for me. And that's the most terrifying part of all. Maybe they all know something I don’t.
Rafe waits for me at the altar, a dark, imposing figure against the soft glow of the candles.
Black suit. No tie, a deliberate choice that makes him look both less formal and more dangerous.
One hand is behind his back, clenched, like he's trying not to reach for me too early, trying to maintain some semblance of control.
My heart's pounding as I start to walk down the aisle while the soft strains of classical music fill the small chapel. Each step feels monumental, an irrevocable choice. I focus on him, on the way his eyes, dark and intense, are fixed solely on me. It's both unnerving and thrilling.
My knees are shaky, but I fake a Vogue-worthy glide towards him, the silver silk whispering around my legs. My mom smiles as I pass her, then she wipes her eyes with the handkerchief Enzo hands her.
When I get to Rafe, he doesn’t say anything. Just takes my hand like we’re not moments away from tying our lives together.
He kisses the inside of my wrist, slow, possessive, tender, right where my pulse is racing. It's a silent claim, a promise made without words.
"Ready," he murmurs. His eyes, dark and intense, search mine, seeking an answer beyond the performance.
"No," I whisper back, my voice a little breathless, but laced with a sudden, fierce conviction. "But I want to do it anyway. More than anything."
Because the terrifying truth is, I do. I want to dive headfirst into this beautiful, dangerous chaos with this man I love more than life itself.
He smiles and squeezes my hand.
And then we begin. The ceremony’s short. No frills, no flower girls, just a priest with tired eyes and a voice like old wine, low, solemn, probably judging me. Or wondering what the hell he’s doing here.
This isn’t a fake wedding for Instagram.
This is real.
Real rings.
Real danger.
Real forever, if it doesn’t kill us.
When it's my turn to speak, my voice is surprisingly steady. I look into Rafe's eyes, and for a fleeting moment, the outside world, the danger, the lies, they all disappear. It's just us. Two broken people, standing on the edge of something terrifying and beautiful.
"I, Nikki Ricci," I say, the words clear, ringing in the quiet chapel, "take you, Raffaele, to be my husband. To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part. And even then, Rafe. And even then, I’ll probably still text you.”
His jaw tightens, almost imperceptibly, and a flicker of surprise passes through his eyes.
He squeezes my hand again. His own vows are equally simple, equally profound.
He speaks in Italian, his voice deep and resonant, words of loyalty, of protection, of a lifetime commitment that feels chillingly real.
When he slides the simple gold band onto my finger, next to the diamond that already gleams there, it feels heavy. Permanent. Real. This isn't just about optics anymore. This isn't just about a fake engagement. This is a choice. My choice. Our choice.
"You may kiss the bride," the priest says, his voice a soft murmur.
Rafe pulls me close, his hands on my waist, his eyes intense. There's no hesitation. No pretense. Just pure, unadulterated hunger. His mouth crashes down on mine, hot and demanding, a brutal, desperate claiming.
I melt into it, my body curving against his, my fingers tangling in his dark hair, pulling him closer, deeper. The chapel fades away. The world disappears. There's only him. Only us.
When he finally pulls back, breathless, his forehead rests against mine. His eyes are still closed for a moment, and I see the raw vulnerability in his face, a flicker of emotion he rarely allows to show.
He opens his eyes, looking at me, truly looking at me, with an intensity that steals my breath. "I love you, Nikki. We're tied now for real."
"Forever," I whisper, my heart pounding. "And I wouldn't have it any other way."
He smiles then, an utterly devastating grin that promises chaos and a lifetime of brutal, beautiful moments. He takes my hand, lacing his fingers through mine, and turns to face the small, watchful crowd.
The chapel erupts in a smattering of applause, polite and reserved.
My mom's crying, a handkerchief pressed to her mouth.
Enzo gives a brief, almost imperceptible nod, his eyes still scanning the room, ever watchful.
The few guests offer muted congratulations, their faces betraying little emotion.
They're witnesses, not participants. They're here to observe the power. To acknowledge the claim.
Rafe leads me out of the chapel, his hand a firm, possessive anchor. The sunlight outside's blinding after the dimness of the church. The air's fresh, carrying the scent of pine and wild herbs. My body feels lighter, yet grounded.
I just married a man who might set the world on fire for me. Not the wedding I pictured. But honestly? Way more badass.
And perfect.
Who needs a Pinterest wedding when you’ve got bodyguards, murder vibes, and a ring that might double as a tracking device? 10/10. Would marry again.