Chapter 8 #2
The priest clears his throat, and we both turn to face him. My hand remains trapped in Damiano's much larger one, his thumb brushing absently across my knuckles in a gesture that appears loving to everyone watching but feels possessive to me.
The ceremony begins, a blur of Latin prayers and scripture readings. I recite my vows mechanically, the words hollow and meaningless. Damiano speaks his with conviction, as though he actually means them. For better or worse. In sickness and health. Until death do us part.
Death will part us sooner than he thinks.
When it's time to exchange rings, I feel the cool platinum band slide onto my finger. It's heavy, like a shackle. I place his ring on his finger with steady hands, despite the rage burning inside me.
"By the power vested in me," the priest intones, "I now pronounce you husband and wife." He smiles benevolently at Damiano. "You may kiss your bride."
My heart pounds as Damiano turns to me, slowly lifting my veil. His eyes drop to my lips, and I brace myself for the contact I've been dreading. The thought of his mouth on mine makes bile rise in my throat, but I maintain my loving expression.
He leans in, his eyes locked with mine in a silent challenge. I can feel the collective anticipation of hundreds of guests waiting for this moment—our first kiss as husband and wife.
But at the last second, he shifts, pressing his lips against my cheek instead. His lips linger there, warm against my skin, as applause erupts around us.
"This isn't over," he whispers against my cheek before pulling away, his public smile firmly in place.
I take my new wife's hand, feeling her fingers stiffen in my grasp. Her eyes flash with something—hatred, fear, I'm not sure which—before she masks it with a practiced smile. Good. At least she knows how to play her part.
"Come, Zoe," I say. "Time to meet the family."
The reception hall buzzes with activity—waitstaff carrying champagne, photographers capturing candid moments, guests mingling in their designer finery. I guide Zoe through the crowd with a hand at the small of her back, feeling the heat of her body through the delicate fabric of her wedding gown.
I spot my siblings and Alessio near the bar. Lucrezia notices us first, her face lighting up like a child on Christmas morning. She practically bounces on her heels, already halfway to us before we reach them.
"She's beautiful!" Lucrezia exclaims, embracing Zoe without hesitation. "I'm Lucrezia—your new sister! I've been dying to meet you properly."
I watch Zoe carefully, searching for cracks in her facade, but she returns Lucrezia's hug with convincing warmth.
"It's wonderful to meet you," Zoe says, her voice gentle. "Damiano mentioned how talented you are with your art."
Lucrezia beams at me, clearly pleased. "He did? Well, I'll have to show you my studio sometime. Maybe I could paint you—your bone structure is divine."
Enzo steps forward next, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. My brother has never been good at hiding his feelings—and his skepticism about this marriage radiates from him like heat.
"Welcome to the family," he says, kissing Zoe's cheeks formally.
"Thank you," Zoe responds smoothly.
Enzo nods, his eyes darting to mine with a look that clearly says we need to talk before he steps back.
Alessio approaches last, his dark eyes taking in every detail of my new bride. He takes her hand, bringing it to his lips in an old-world gesture that lingers just a touch too long.
That fucking grin on his face means trouble. He releases her hand finally, only to lean toward me, his lips brushing against my ear.
"I think you might have a problem with this one," he whispers, his voice low and amused.
"Fuck off," I mutter, keeping my smile fixed for the benefit of watching eyes.
Alessio's laugh rumbles as he steps back, eyes dancing with mischief. I've known him long enough to recognize when he thinks he's figured something out. But what exactly does he see that I've missed?
I watch Zoe as she chats with Lucrezia. The way she laughs, the gentle touch of her hand on my sister's arm. For someone who didn't want this marriage, she's throwing herself into the performance with surprising conviction.
"Zoe, come meet our cousins!" Lucrezia tugs at her arm, already pulling her toward another group across the room. "Marco and Sophia came all the way from Milan just for the wedding."
Zoe looks over her shoulder at me, her expression a perfect blend of apology and affection—a look any real bride might give her groom when being whisked away.
"Go," I say with a nod. "I'll find you."
As she disappears into the crowd with my sister, I turn to find Alessio watching me with that knowing expression that makes me want to punch him.
"What?" I demand.
He runs his thumb along his bottom lip, thinking. "She's too good at this."
I raise an eyebrow. "Isn't that the point?"
"People who are genuinely reluctant slip up. Show their true feelings," Alessio says. "She doesn't."
I fix my gaze on Alessio, about to question him further when I notice Byron approaching, weaving through the crowd like a shark circling prey. His smile is too wide, too practiced—the perfect picture of a proud father giving away his daughter.
"Damiano!" Byron extends his hand, grasping mine with excessive enthusiasm. "What a magnificent ceremony. You and my Zoe make such a striking couple."
I take his hand but release it quickly. "Byron."
"I must say, seeing my little girl walk down that aisle—" Byron places his hand over his heart in a theatrical gesture. "—brings a father such pride. She's been the light of my life since the day I took her in."
The fakeness of his performance makes my skin crawl. This man has never given a shit about anyone but himself.
"Cut the act, Byron," I say, keeping my voice low. "We're not on stage, and there are no cameras here right now."
His smile falters for a microsecond before returning full force. "I don't know what you mean. Can't a father be emotional on his daughter's wedding day?"
"Stop acting like you're some happy daddy whose daughter just got married," I say, my words sharp enough to slice through his performance. "We both know this is a business arrangement. Save the theatrics for someone who gives a fuck."
Byron's eyes harden, though his smile stays firmly in place. Alessio shifts beside me, alert to the tension crackling between us.
"You've always been direct, Damiano. It's what I admire about you," Byron says, his tone cooler now. "But today is about appearances, isn't it? For both our sakes."
"Today is about sealing our deal," I correct him. "Nothing more."
Byron glances toward where Zoe stands with Lucrezia, laughing at something my sister has said. "My daughter seems to be adapting well to her new family."
"She's good at playing her part." I say, watching his reaction carefully.
I follow Byron's gaze to where Zoe stands with my sister, their heads close together in conversation.
Movement at the edge of the crowd catches my attention. Noah Rivera leans against a pillar near the string quartet, arms crossed over his chest. My most effective enforcer looks completely out of place in his tailored suit, dark eyes focused like a predator's on something across the room.
I follow his line of sight to the violinist. She stands slightly apart from the other musicians, eyes closed as her bow glides across the strings.
Even from here, I can see the passion in her movements as she plays a contemporary piece with classical undertones—something I vaguely recognize but can't name.
"Interesting choice of entertainment," Alessio murmurs beside me.
I nod, excusing myself from Byron with a curt "We'll speak later" before making my way toward Noah.
"If you stare any harder, you might burn a hole through her," I say, stopping beside him.
He shifts his weight, still watching her. "Who is she?"
"Evelyn Anderson. She's performed at Carnegie Hall. I liked her music and hired her and her team for the day."
Noah nods, the muscle in his jaw twitching. Something about this woman has him on edge, which is unusual for a man who typically shows about as much emotion as concrete.
"You know her?" I ask.
"No."
"Really? Because you're looking at her like you either want to kill her or fuck her."
Noah finally tears his gaze away from the violinist to look at me, his expression unreadable. "Just admiring the music."
I snort. "Bullshit."
I leave Noah to his strange fixation and move through the reception hall. Fucking waste of time, these society obligations. But necessary.
Senator Mitchell catches my eye from across the room. His practiced politician smile freezes when I nod in acknowledgment. He doesn't approach—smart man. Instead, he raises his champagne glass slightly before turning to engage with the banking executive beside him.
"Don Feretti," a voice calls, and I turn to find Judge Harriman extending his hand. "Congratulations on your nuptials."
I clasp his hand firmly. The man who's dismissed three cases against my lower-level operations in the past year looks uncomfortable in my presence despite our mutually beneficial arrangement.
"Judge. Glad you could make it."
"Beautiful ceremony," he says, shifting his weight. "Your bride is lovely."
"Yes, she is." I scan the room, locating Zoe still charming my family members. "If you'll excuse me."
Police Commissioner Davis blocks my path next, his handshake overly firm—compensating for something.
"Feretti. Quite the affair you've put together."
"Commissioner." I match his grip, adding just enough pressure to remind him who he's dealing with. "Enjoying the champagne?"
"Yes, very fine." His eyes dart around nervously. "Listen, about that situation in Brooklyn—"
"Not today," I interrupt, my voice low. "This is a celebration. Business can wait until Monday."
He nods quickly, relief washing over his flushed face. "Of course, of course. Congratulations again."