Chapter 36
A fter breakfast, I'm whisked back upstairs to begin the wedding preparations. Again.
My bedroom has been transformed into a bridal suite. Makeup cases sprawl across my vanity, hair tools scattered on every surface. The Marchesa gown hangs from my closet door, pristine white and mocking.
The hairdresser, a petite woman with pink-tipped hair, approaches me cautiously. "Ms. Feretti, how would you like your hair styled today?"
I meet her eyes in the mirror. "Do whatever you want. Don't ask me anything."
She blinks, startled. "But?—"
"Please," I say, my voice hollow. "Just make decisions. I don't care."
The makeup artist exchanges a worried glance with her. "And for makeup? Any preferences?"
"None." I close my eyes. "Make me look like a bride. That's all that matters."
They hesitate, then begin their work in uncomfortable silence. I feel their hands in my hair, brushes against my skin, but I remain perfectly still, eyes closed. If I look, if I participate, I might shatter.
The door opens, and I hear Bella's familiar voice.
"Hey," she says softly, sitting on the edge of my bed. "How are you holding up?"
I don't answer. Can't answer.
"Lucrezia?" Her voice wavers.
I open my eyes, meeting her gaze in the mirror. "I'm fine."
"You don't have to pretend with me."
"I'm not pretending." I keep my voice flat, emotionless. "I'm doing what needs to be done."
The hairdresser weaves flowers into my hair, her fingers trembling slightly. The makeup artist dabs concealer under my eyes, covering the evidence of my sleepless night.
"These women are just doing their jobs," Bella whispers, leaning closer. "You don't have to be so cold."
I know she's right. They're innocent bystanders in this mess. They don't deserve my ice. But if I thaw even slightly, if I let one crack form in this carefully constructed wall, everything will come pouring out.
And I can't afford that. Not today.
"I know," I whisper back. "But if I start feeling anything right now, I'll burn this whole place down."
Bella's eyes widen.
"Not literally," I clarify, though I'm not entirely sure that's true. "But I can't be kind right now. I can't be anything. Do you understand?"
She nods slowly. "I do."
After at least half an hour the makeup artist applies a nude lipstick, her hand steady despite my intensity. The hairdresser steps back to examine her work, a crown of delicate braids with baby's breath woven throughout.
"Is this acceptable?" she asks tentatively.
I nod once, sharp and final.
"You look beautiful," Bella says, her voice thick.
"Thank you," I force myself to say to both women. "You've done excellent work."
They pack up their supplies quickly, eager to escape the tension in the room. I don't blame them.
The door opens again as Zoe and Sienna slip into the room. Sienna holds a small velvet box.
"It's time," Zoe says softly, her eyes meeting mine in the mirror.
I stand mechanically, letting them approach. The Marchesa gown rustles as Zoe unfolds it, the sound like whispers of condemnation. I raise my arms obediently as they slide the dress over my head, the cool silk slipping against my skin.
I say nothing as Zoe works the tiny pearl buttons up my spine. Each one feels like another lock clicking into place, sealing my fate.
"Damiano is waiting downstairs," Zoe says. "When you're ready, we'll leave for the church."
My stomach twists. "The church?"
"St. Patrick's Cathedral," she confirms, smoothing the fabric over my hips. "The Sartoris are already there. All of them."
Of course. The grand cathedral for the grand alliance. Nothing but the best for the Feretti-Sartori merger.
"Bruno's waiting at the altar," Sienna adds, opening the velvet box to reveal a pair of diamond earrings. "These are from Enzo. He wanted you to have something new."
I accept the earrings, sliding them into my ears with numb fingers. They catch the light, throwing prisms across the wall.
"Is everyone there?" I ask, my voice sounding distant even to my own ears.
Zoe nods.
Sienna adjusts my veil, pinning it carefully into my braided crown. "You look beautiful," she says, but her eyes are sad.
I step into the heels they've placed before me, gaining three inches of height but feeling smaller than ever.
"The car is waiting," Zoe says, checking her watch. "We should go."
"I'm ready," I lie, turning toward the door.
Bella picks up my bouquet and hands it to me. Our fingers brush, and I see tears gathering in her eyes.
"Don't," I whisper. "Please don't cry. If you start, I might not stop."
She blinks rapidly, nodding. "Sorry."
We move toward the door in a somber procession. Zoe leads, then me, with Sienna and Bella following. The hallway stretches before us like the long walk to an execution.
"Damiano will meet us at the bottom of the stairs," Zoe explains over her shoulder. "He'll ride with you to the church."
My brother, who once promised to protect me from everything, now escorting me to my cage. The irony isn't lost on me.
As we reach the top of the grand staircase, I pause, gripping the banister. Below, I can see Damiano in his tuxedo, checking his watch. Enzo stands beside him, his face a mask of barely contained fury.
The cathedral doors loom before us, massive and imposing. Damiano offers his arm, and I take it, my fingers barely gripping his sleeve.
"Are you ready?" Damiano asks, his voice low.
I don't answer. What could I possibly say?
The organ music swells as the doors swing open. Rows of faces turn toward us. Crime families pretending to be legitimate. Not friends. Not people who care about me. Just witnesses to a transaction dressed up as a celebration.
The aisle stretches before me like a prison corridor. Each step feels heavier than the last as Damiano guides me forward. My veil obscures my peripheral vision, creating a tunnel that leads only to Bruno, standing at the altar.
My bridesmaids walk ahead of me—Zoe, Sienna, Hazel, and Bella—each in midnight blue gowns that match the Feretti colors. Their faces are solemn despite their practiced smiles.
Riccardo and Ava Sartori sit in the front row, satisfaction radiating from them. Next to them are sitting the other Sartori brothers, three of them and Vittoria. The only sister.
I feel Damiano's arm tense beneath my fingers as we approach the altar. Bruno steps forward, extending his hand to receive me from my brother.
"Who gives this woman?" the priest asks, his voice echoing through the cathedral.
"I do," Damiano answers, his voice firm despite the slight tremor I feel in his arm.
He places my hand in Bruno's, and I suppress a shudder at the contact. Bruno's fingers close around mine, warm but unwelcome. Damiano steps back, taking his place beside Enzo in the front row.
The priest begins the ceremony, his words washing over me without meaning. I stand perfectly still, my face a mask of serene acceptance. Inside, I'm screaming.
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today..."
I look at Bruno's face, trying to see him as something other than my jailer. He's objectively handsome—strong jaw, dark eyes, tall frame. But all I can think about is Daniel. Daniel's hands. Daniel's voice. Daniel's heart.
"...to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony..."
The cathedral feels airless suddenly. My bouquet trembles slightly in my grip. I force myself to breathe evenly, to maintain the facade. The priest continues, speaking of love and commitment, of honor and cherishing. Words that have no place in this arrangement.
Bruno smiles at me, a practiced expression.
"The bride and groom have prepared their own vows," the priest announces.
Bruno clears his throat, producing a folded paper from his pocket. His voice carries clearly through the cathedral as he recites flowery promises of devotion and partnership. Empty words for the audience, not for me.
When he finishes, all eyes turn to me. I'm supposed to speak now, to lie before God and these witnesses about love and commitment to a man I barely know.
The bouquet shakes more visibly in my hands. Bruno's eyes narrow slightly, a warning. Speak the words. Play your part.
I open my mouth, but no sound comes out.
I slip through the hidden service entrance at the back of St. Patrick's Cathedral, my Glock secure against my hip. The weight of the kevlar vest beneath my shirt reminds me of the stakes. Intel from the Russian I interrogated confirmed Volkov's plan to attack during the ceremony.
The narrow corridor leads me past the sacristy. Voices echo from the main sanctuary. The priest's solemn tone, then Bruno's practiced speech. My jaw clenches at the sound.
I reach a small alcove with a view of the altar. Lu stands there in white, a vision that punches the air from my lungs. Her face is a perfect mask, but I know her well enough to see the emptiness behind her eyes.
For a moment, raw instinct takes over. I could storm down that aisle, grab her hand, and run. But reality crashes back. We wouldn't make it ten feet before Damiano's men cut us down. Or worse, they'd kill me and force her to continue this farce.
Focus.
Find the shooter.
The Russian mentioned a sniper position in the upper level. I locate the narrow spiral staircase leading to the choir loft and balconies. My boots make no sound as I ascend, scanning each shadow.
The main floor spreads out below me. The wedding party at the altar, guests filling the pews. Damiano and Enzo sit rigid in the front row. I spot Matteo and Noah positioned at strategic points around the perimeter, alert but unaware of the real threat.
Movement catches my eye near the organ pipes. A figure in maintenance coveralls adjusting something that isn't a musical instrument. The barrel of a rifle glints in the stained-glass light.
I draw my weapon and move silently across the balcony. The shooter has positioned himself perfectly, partially concealed behind the massive pipes with a clear line to the altar.
Below, the priest asks Lu for her vows. She stands frozen, silent.
The Russian raises his rifle, settling into position. I'm still fifteen feet away—too far for a guaranteed clean shot. I close the distance as he lines up his sight.
His finger moves to the trigger.
I raise my Glock moving faster.
The Russian fires.
The shot cracks through the cathedral.
I squeeze my trigger twice. The Russian's head snaps back, his body slumping against the organ pipes, rifle clattering to the floor.
Screams erupt as Bruno jerks backward, blood blooming across his chest. He crumples to the ground as chaos erupts below.
I rush to secure his weapon, confirming he's dead with a quick check. Below, the cathedral has erupted into pandemonium. Guests scramble for exits while Feretti and Sartori security draw weapons.