Chapter 19
Present
Upper East Side, New York City
February First. Sunday.
The room was quiet in that sacred, suspended way – like the air itself knew something permanent was about to happen.
I stood in front of the tall mirror, hands resting lightly at my waist, and stared at the woman looking back at me. She didn’t feel like me. Not entirely.
The dress was beautiful, a vision of white silk and soft structure, fitted through my bodice and exploding into layers that pooled around my feet.
It felt heavy, important. The kind of dress meant for history books and whispered legends.
My peony bouquet sat on the small table beside me, full and lush, ivory petals blushing faintly at the edges.
My hair was straight and smooth down my back, perfectly done, my makeup flawless – soft eyes, steady mouth, nothing out of place.
Too perfect.
I lowered my gaze to my hands.
The red-flower hair clip rested in my palm, its deep crimson petals impossibly vivid against all that white. Matteo had bought it for me two months ago in Hawaii.
And now, when I walked down that aisle, he would be the one waiting for me.
The thought sent something sharp and unfamiliar through my chest. I hadn’t talked to him since that night in my parents’ driveway.
I inhaled slowly. Then again. I was nervous. I had done far scarier things than this, and yet…
My fingers trembled as I tucked the clip into my hair, hidden just enough to be mine alone.
I reached for my veil and pulled it gently over my face. The world softened instantly, blurred at the edges. Protected.
A knock came at the door.
I stepped out into the corridor, and my father was there, waiting. Dressed immaculately. Steady. His eyes softened when they found me, just for a second, before the Don returned.
“Ready?”
I slipped my arm through his. “As I’ll ever be.”
We walked together the short distance toward the main room, our footsteps echoing faintly against stone. The doors loomed ahead, tall and ancient, heavy with tradition and consequence.
On the other side of them, Matteo was waiting.
The doors opened. Light flooded in first – soft and golden – then sound. Classical Italian music swelled through the cathedral, strings and piano echoing off ancient stone, wrapping around me like something alive. Every conversation stopped. Chairs shifted. An entire room rose to its feet.
I stepped forward beside my father.
The cathedral was full – rows upon rows of guests, faces turned toward me, expressions ranging from reverent to calculating. Power sat heavy in the air, layered beneath incense and history. This wasn’t just a wedding. It was a statement. Everyone knew it.
My arm tightened around my father’s as we began walking down the aisle.
The marble beneath my shoes felt cool, solid, grounding. My dress whispered with every step, silk brushing stone. I kept my head high, my spine straight – trained for this since birth – but my eyes had already found him.
Matteo.
He stood at the altar in a perfectly tailored dark suit, broad shoulders squared, posture calm but alert.
Hands clasped in front of him, jaw sharp, hair neatly styled.
He looked devastatingly handsome – dangerous in that effortless way that made the room feel smaller, like everything else had dimmed around him.
He was already looking at me.
The world narrowed to the space between us.
I wondered if he could see my eyes through the veil, if the soft layer of white hid anything at all. Something in his gaze told me it didn’t. That he saw me clearly. That he always had.
My breath caught – not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for me.
Step by step, we closed the distance.
When we reached the front of the cathedral, my father stopped. He turned toward me, lifted his hands, and gently pulled my veil back. His eyes searched my face, pride and something heavier flickering there. He leaned in and kissed my cheek.
“Be strong, mia Vittoria,” he murmured.
I nodded, suddenly feeling emotional once he called me by my middle name.
I turned to Matteo and placed my hand in his extended one, letting him help me up the small steps to the altar. His fingers closed around mine – warm, steady, grounding – and for just a second, the noise, the people, the weight of it all faded.
We stole a side glance at each other.
A look too long to be accidental. Too charged to mean nothing.
I faced forward again, heart steadying as I silently prayed – not for love, not for happiness – but for precision.
For control.
For everything to go according to plan.
For the sacred deception that this wedding was.
The ceremony began with the low, steady voice of the priest echoing through the cathedral.
His words were ancient – spoken in Italian, practiced and reverent – about covenant and unity, about God and witness and permanence.
I stood beside Matteo at the altar, hands folded, listening just enough to respond when required.
The rest of me was acutely aware of everything else: the warmth of his arm close to mine, the faint scent of his cologne cutting through incense, the way the candlelight caught in the gold of the altar.
“Francesca and Matteo, have you come here to enter into Marriage without coercion, freely and wholeheartedly?”
“I have,” Matteo and I responded together, though our voices lacked honesty.
“Are you prepared, as you follow the path of Marriage, to love and honor each other for as long as you both shall live?”
“I am.”
“Are you prepared to accept children lovingly from God and to bring them up according to the law of Christ and his Church?”
“I am.”
“Since it is your intention to enter into the covenant of Holy Matrimony, join your right hands, and declare your consent before God and his Church.
“Matteo, do you take Francesca to be your wife? Do you promise to be faithful to her in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love her and to honor, until death do you part?”
“I do.”
“Francesca, do you take Matteo to be your husband? Do you promise to be faithful to him in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, to love him and to honor him, until death do you part?”
“I do.”
The words settled into the space between us, heavier than they should have been.
The rings came next.
Matteo took my hand, his touch careful, reverent. The band was cool as it slid onto my finger, resting there like it had always belonged. When it was my turn, I lifted his hand and placed the ring on him, my fingers brushing his knuckles, feeling the quiet strength in them.
Wine followed. Then bread. We shared the cup, the deep red liquid catching the light before touching our lips. The bread was warm, torn and offered, symbolic and binding. Every movement felt deliberate, choreographed by tradition older than either of us.
Then the priest lifted his hands.
“May God bless this union,” He said, voice resonant. “You may seal your vows with a kiss.”
Time slowed impossibly.
The room seemed to fall away – the guests, the power, the whispers of what this marriage meant beyond us. I turned toward Matteo, the movement instinctive, inevitable.
He was already looking at me.
The intensity of his gaze rooted me in place, dark eyes searching mine with something unreadable – something dangerous. My pulse thundered in my ears. For a suspended moment, it felt like the truth hovered between us, fragile and electric.
This was supposed to be nothing.
A formality.
Yet the way he looked at me – like he was memorizing my face, like this moment mattered – made my chest tighten.
I swallowed, still holding his gaze.
The kiss waited.
Matteo’s hand came up to my face. His palm was warm against my cheek, his fingers firm as they framed my jaw.
He leaned in slowly, deliberately, and when his lips met mine, the kiss was soft – almost reverent.
He angled his body just enough, turning his head so he blocked the view, so no one could truly see us.
Respectful.
But the second his mouth pressed fully to mine, the world shifted.
The cathedral erupted in cheers, applause echoing off marble and stone, but I barely heard it. The kiss deepened – not rushed, not hungry, but meaningful. Grounding. The kind of kiss that stayed with you long after it ended.
When we finally pulled apart, he didn’t move far.
“Hi,” Matteo murmured, his lips still hovering inches from mine.
The word shouldn’t have done anything to me.
It did.
A shy smile tugged at my mouth before I could stop it, my cheeks warm beneath the veil.
Then reality rushed back in.
We turned together to face the cathedral, the sea of guests on their feet, clapping and smiling and celebrating us. The sound was thunderous now, undeniable.
Hand in hand, we descended the steps of the altar.
Down the aisle we walked, slower at first, composed – until halfway through, Matteo glanced at me with a crooked grin, and something broke loose inside my chest.
I laughed.
He laughed too.
And suddenly we were running.
Fast enough that my dress swayed and my bouquet bounced.
Fast enough that it felt like freedom.
A secret shared between just the two of us.
We burst through the cathedral doors into the bright rush of daylight, cheers following us out into the open air.
The limousine door was already open.
We climbed in without stopping, breathless and smiling, the door shutting behind us with a soft, final click.
The church faded away as the car pulled off, carrying us toward the Hamptons.
I glanced over at Matteo as he settled back into the leather seat of the limousine, one arm stretched along the backrest, posture relaxed like this wasn’t one of the most surreal moments of my life.
Sunlight spilled through the tinted windows, catching the sharp line of his jaw, the clean cut of his suit.
He was already looking at me.
“You wore the flower clip I got you,” he said, a smile tugging at his mouth – soft, genuine.