Chapter 4
DANTE
The TV’s on in the corner of the room, volume low, just enough for the words to bleed through.
“…arrested late last night in connection with an ongoing federal investigation…authorities confirmed multiple girls were found inside one of the shipping containers…”
I stop buttoning my cuff.
Serrano’s face flashes on the screen—sweaty, smug, eyes wide like he can’t believe they finally got him. He’s still in that overpriced suit, sleeves rumpled, mouth half-open like he’s about to argue with the camera.
The idiot.
I walk over and grab the remote, turn up the volume just enough.
“…charges include trafficking, unlawful transport, falsifying shipping documents…”
Of course they do.
He had one job. One simple, controlled delivery.
All he had to do was follow the plan, keep the paperwork clean, move the product discreetly, and disappear.
Instead, he shoved something into the container he wasn’t supposed to touch—girls, apparently—and now he’s on every news channel, making all of us look like amateurs.
I stare at the image of the container being rolled open, the blurred-out footage of what was inside. My jaw tightens.
That wasn’t part of the deal. And I didn’t know.
He acted on his own. Again.
He was a liability long before this. Sloppy. Loud. Obsessed with proving something no one cared about. And now he’s finished.
Still, it complicates things.
My phone buzzes once on the table. Unknown number. I don’t pick up. I watch footage of Serrano being shoved into the back of a squad car. He doesn’t fight it. He looks like a man who never saw this coming.
I shake my head once, quietly.
The door slams open without warning.
“Morning, sunshine.” Liam strides into the room like he owns it, tie half-knotted, jacket slung over his shoulder, energy bouncing off him like he’s already had three espressos and a victory lap.
I don’t look up from the screen.
He plops down onto the arm of the couch and kicks his heels against the side like a child. “You’re watching the news on your wedding day? You’re really committed to being dramatic.”
I finally look at him. “Get out.”
He grins. “Cheer up, brother. It’s your wedding day.”
I scowl. “You’re chirping like we’re heading to a picnic.”
“Well, we kind of are,” he says, standing again. “Except instead of sandwiches, there’s vodka, your future in-laws, and one very tense bride who may or may not be plotting your murder.”
He’s too pleased with himself.
“I can’t tell if you’re trying to distract me or provoke me,” I say.
“Yes,” he replies.
I close the TV. Serrano’s arrest is yesterday’s mess now. The kind that doesn’t go away, just drifts beneath the surface until it claws back up at the worst possible time.
But Liam doesn’t care. He never has.
“You got everything?” he asks. “Suit, vows, that cold emotional wall you wear to every family event?”
I stand, stretch once, and roll my sleeves down. “I’m not doing vows.”
Liam pretends to gasp. “No heartfelt declarations? No promises to cherish and honor?”
“She’s not here to be cherished.”
He goes quiet for a second. That’s rare.
Then he nods slowly. “Right.”
I walk past him toward the bathroom. “We leave in an hour. Try not to be late.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” he calls after me. “I wouldn’t miss this disaster for the world.”
The door swings shut behind Liam and the room falls silent again, thick with the kind of tension you can’t shake off with a shower or a drink.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror, the hard set of my jaw, the dark stubble I didn’t bother to shave this morning.
The suit hangs on the hook behind me, expensive fabric, the color chosen by someone else.
There’s a heaviness in my chest that I refuse to call nerves. Nerves are for people who have something to lose. All I have is obligation—old grudges, fresh debts, the weight of my father’s shadow long after I stopped believing I owed him anything.
I’m supposed to be grateful. That’s the word they used when they called last night—You should be grateful, Dante.
She’s more than you deserve. Maybe that’s true.
Maybe it isn’t. In the end, none of that matters.
This isn’t about her. Not really. It’s about the deal, the name, the family, the future that’s been mapped out for us since before she even knew my name.
I turn on the faucet and splash cold water over my face, let it sting, then stare at the drops on my skin until they disappear.
There’s nothing sentimental in me for what’s about to happen.
No room for regret or hope or the kind of tenderness people write songs about.
I button my shirt, knot the tie, drag the jacket on over my shoulders, and check the lines in the mirror.
I look like a groom. Maybe even a husband. But inside, there’s nothing warm. Only the resolve to see it through.
A phone buzzes in the other room. I let it ring.
Today, everything changes for Julianne. For her family. For mine.
For me, it’s just another day of doing what needs to be done.
I slip on the cuff links, the last detail, silver and heavy with the old family crest. One more tradition for the crowd. I move without thinking, the same way I did when I used to pack for missions. Mechanical. Efficient. No hesitation. Just forward.
When I walk out, Liam’s already downstairs, sitting on the armrest of the couch, scrolling through his phone.
He glances up. “You look like a man headed to a funeral.”
“Yours, if you keep talking.”
He smirks. “That’s the spirit.”
I pick up the watch on the table and fasten it without looking at him. “Car’s waiting?”
“Driver’s outside. Cathedral’s locked down tight. Press haven’t sniffed it yet, but they will.”
“They can try,” I say.
The cathedral rises out of the morning mist, ancient stone flanked by black iron gates and towering windows that catch the weak sun. Stained glass throws color across the steps, but inside, the light is pale, thin as ice.
Everything gleams. The marble floors, the vaulted ceiling, the long rows of pews that echo every footstep with ceremonial judgment. Gold trim flashes in the corners of the room. Candles burn in tall sconces. The air smells like incense and old wood.
But there’s no warmth here. No spirit. Only spectacle.
Liam whistles low under his breath as we walk in. “They went all out.”
I don’t answer. I’m already scanning the room.
Security’s tight. Our men are posted by the doors, in the choir loft, outside the sacristy. Everyone’s in position. Everyone but her.
Then I see him.
Our father.
He always swore he’d never use the damn thing. Said it made him look weak. But here he is, draped in a dark overcoat, legs covered, one gloved hand resting loosely on the chair’s armrest.
He doesn’t smile when he sees us. Just lifts his hand, the gesture clipped and impatient.
“Son,” he says, his voice low and dry. “There’s a change of plans.”
I stop two steps short.
Liam hangs back, silent for once. Even he feels the shift in the air.
I don’t look at the pews yet. I wait.
“What kind of change?”
Instead of answering, my father lifts a hand and gestures slightly to the right.
That’s when I turn and see the Petrovs.
They’re seated in the front pew, earlier than expected. Too quiet. Too still.
Roman Petrov, the patriarch, usually walks into any room like it belongs to him.
Now he sits with his hands clasped tight around his cane, eyes fixed ahead like he’s trying not to be seen.
His wife sits stiffly beside him, lips pressed thin.
They look like they’ve already lost something and are waiting for us to figure out what it was.
I glance back at my father.
He doesn’t need to explain further.
Something happened. The Petrovs aren’t gloating. They’re bracing. And that makes me wonder who exactly this change of plans was meant to punish.
My father watches my expression. Waiting. I keep my face still. Flat. But a weight settles in my chest.
“What changed?” I ask again.
This time, his voice is quieter. Almost bored. “She’s not coming down the aisle.”
“What?” Liam says, stepping forward.
I keep my eyes on our father, watching him the way I would watch an unpredictable fuse—silent, patient, calculating the moment it might blow.
But he doesn’t explode. He doesn’t explain. He simply says, “Yes. But a wedding will still happen today.”
Liam glances at me, then back at him. “What the hell does that mean?”
Our father doesn’t look at me as he speaks, voice flat and businesslike. “I promised you a Petrova bride. That’s what you’ll get today.”
I keep my tone even. “Who?”
He finally turns, meeting my eyes with something like amusement. “Her older sister. Adriana.”
Liam’s brow furrows. “I didn’t even know she had a sister.”
I almost smile at that. I heard the name, once or twice, years ago. Adriana Petrova. Never seen at any of the family gatherings, not pictured in any of the society papers. She left the city before any of this started, slipped off the map and out of everyone’s minds. No one important.
One of my uncles, standing beside us, scoffs with open contempt. His voice carries across the marble floor. “You’re marrying him to a whore. She walked away from the family. No one knows what she’s been doing all this time.”
Roman Petrov’s jaw tightens, his son shifting awkwardly beside him. The priest pretends to check his notes, his face blank.
I ignore the comment. None of that concerns me. I have no interest in their rumors, or what Adriana might have done while she was gone. Her past has nothing to do with the agreement that matters now.
Our father addresses the group, not just me. “This is settled. The priest will be ready. She’s already on her way.”
Liam leans closer. “Are you sure you’re fine with this?”
I keep my voice low, watching the colored sunlight crawl across the aisle. “It makes no difference to me. A Petrova is a Petrova.”