Chapter 4 #2
I sense the weight of everyone’s attention, waiting for some reaction. I give them nothing. This is business, and I intend to treat it that way.
Now, all that’s left is to wait for her to arrive.
Liam catches my arm as the group starts to scatter, pulling me a few steps away from the others. His voice is low, meant for me alone. “This is insane, you know that, right? You don’t even know her. Nobody’s seen her in years.”
I meet his eyes. “It was always going to be about the family, not the person.”
He shakes his head, frustrated. “This isn’t just business anymore. You can walk away. No one would blame you.”
I don’t answer. There’s nothing to say that will make him understand. We were raised in the same house, but Liam always believed there was a way out. I never did.
Before I can respond, our father wheels his chair over, gaze fixed on me. “I need a word, Dante.”
Liam steps back, jaw clenched, and disappears into the pews. Our father nods once and gestures toward the side door leading out to the cathedral garden. I follow, walking quietly beside him as the old stone path crunches beneath our feet.
The garden is empty, shielded by high hedges and statues gone green with age. The air is cooler out here, heavy with the scent of earth and faded roses. My father pauses in a patch of sunlight, his hand resting on the joystick of his chair, eyes set on some distant point.
My thoughts wander for a moment, to the new name he handed me without ceremony.
Adriana. The older sister. I wonder what she’s doing back in New York, after all these years gone and all those silences stacked up like debts.
If she’s anything like her family, she won’t be happy about being dragged into this.
And then there’s Julianne.
I picture her, the way she looked at our engagement dinner—eyes cold, chin high, beautiful in a way that draws a man’s gaze whether he wants to notice or not.
I’m not blind. I can admit that much. But I never really bothered to check up on her, not once in all the time since this was arranged.
Her moods, her wants, her plans never mattered to me.
She was always part of the deal, never the reason for it.
Now someone else is stepping into her place, and for the first time I feel a flicker of curiosity, wondering what the older sister will bring to the table.
My father tilts his head, studying me like he’s measuring how much of his time I’m worth today. “Say it,” he tells me.
I know what he means. I’ve known it since I was old enough to hold a knife steady. “Strength in silence. Loyalty without question.”
He nods once, satisfied. “Good. That’s what has kept us alive, and that’s what will keep us ahead of the men who want to see us gone.”
The chair creaks slightly as he leans forward. “Do not forget what the Petrovs did to us. They spat on our name. They laughed at me in rooms where I once held the floor. They thought they could cut us out and leave us crawling.”
I meet his gaze. “They paid for that.”
“Not enough,” he says flatly. “And not in the right way. This marriage is the last piece. It ties their blood to ours in a way they can’t erase. Every time they see her beside you, they will remember what they lost, and who took it from them.”
I let the words settle. He wants me to believe this is about uniting the families, about business. But I can hear it underneath—the need to make them kneel, to grind old humiliation into something permanent.
“Do you understand your duty?” he asks.
“I do.”
“Then you’ll do it without hesitation.”
I don’t answer right away. The sunlight is warm against my face, but it feels cold inside the space between us.
Finally, I say, “I’ll do it.”
And in my head, I add, because I always do.
My father and I return to the cathedral. The pews are almost full now, voices low, eyes following as my father’s chair moves down the aisle with me just behind him.
The Petrovs sit on the opposite side with their extended family filling the first rows.
Aunts in black lace, uncles in dark suits, cousins lined up in perfect posture.
None of them look like they came for a wedding.
They look like they came for a wake. Roman Petrov stares ahead, his cane balanced across his knees, his face carved from stone.
His wife keeps her gaze lowered. The sons watch everything without speaking, their expressions locked and unreadable.
Even the younger relatives, usually restless at events like this, sit still.
It’s not grief I see in them. It’s the stiff composure of people swallowing something they can’t spit out in public.
I move to my place at the altar. The marble reflects the fractured colors of the stained glass above, reds and blues stretching across the aisle.
The organ begins to play, the first notes rolling through the high arches. Conversations die instantly. Heads turn toward the great wooden doors at the far end.
I keep my eyes there too. And I wonder if my replacement bride will walk through them…or if this day will end in bloodshed.
The great wooden doors open at last, spilling pale light across the aisle, and a figure steps through.
She moves slowly, her face veiled, the lace falling low enough to turn her into an outline rather than a person.
The dress is white, but wrong in the way it hangs on her frame, a borrowed garment that doesn’t quite belong.
The sleeves sit too high, the bodice just a little loose, the hem dragging unevenly behind her.
The Petrovs watch her approach like they’re attending a sentencing. Their patriarch doesn’t lift his head, but I see his jaw tighten.
She reaches the altar without pausing. There’s no hesitation in her steps, no stumble. But there is no grace for me either—just the fulfillment of an arrangement.
We face the priest. The vows are spoken, hers steady but without warmth. Only when it’s done do I reach up and lift the veil, to see her for the first time.
The veil is lighter than it looks. It catches slightly on the crown of her hair before it falls back, and then there is nothing between us.
Adriana Petrova looks nothing like her sister.
Her skin is warm-toned, sun-kissed in a way that says she hasn’t been hiding in drawing rooms. Her cheekbones are high, her mouth full but unsmiling, the curve of it holding no invitation.
Dark hair is drawn back into a style meant to be formal, though a few strands have slipped free, brushing her neck.
Her eyes meet mine without flinching. The color is difficult to place in the shifting light—somewhere between dark amber and gold—and there’s no trace of shyness in them.
The dress may be ill-fitted, but she wears the moment like it belongs to her. Not to me. Not to this family.
For a heartbeat, I forget that the Petrovs are watching. And I think this day may prove far more interesting than I expected.
Her defiance is there, unblinking, alive in her eyes. It’s not loud, not reckless, but it’s impossible to miss.
Something moves through me before I can stop it. My body reacts before my mind catches up, a pulse low and insistent. The priest’s voice fades somewhere behind me. There’s only her, standing in front of me, looking at me like I’m just a man and not the one holding her future in his hands.
I know I’m meant to kiss her. The formality. The seal. But the need to do it now comes from somewhere else entirely. Without thinking, I close the distance. My hand finds the edge of her jaw, and I press my mouth to hers. Hard. Claiming.
Her mouth is cool, unyielding at first, then she tips her chin a fraction so the guests see what they came for. It reads like consent to anyone who needs to believe it. It is not surrender. I taste breath and mint and the clean edge of nerves held in check.
I pull back, slow enough to make it final. Her gaze finds mine again, calm and unafraid, the veil pooled behind her like she’s a snake that shed its skin.
She’s trouble. I know it as clearly as I know my own name.
Good.