Chapter 9
Six months later…
They say you’ll just know on your wedding day.
Know if it’s right.
Know if it’s love.
Know if you’re making a mistake.
I don’t know anything.
But I do know this: I’m calm. My hands aren’t shaking. My lips curve when they’re supposed to. My mother would’ve said that means I’m ready, that I’m doing what’s expected of me. That’s the Orsi way: do your duty, smile beautifully, bleed quietly if you must.
The morning has been a soft blur of satin and champagne. The house smells like roses and warm marble, and the air buzzes with the excited chatter of a dozen women floating around me like butterflies.
Gigi, my maid of honor, is fussing with my veil, trying not to cry.
She’s cried twice already, and we haven’t even made it down the stairs.
Izzy and Cammie are there too, matching dresses, matching laughter, the same mischievous glint in their eyes as they used to have when we snuck out the back of clubs and dared each other to flirt with soldiers.
I thought I’d lost them. But I didn’t.
That’s been one of the unexpected gifts of this engagement; these last few weeks have been… good. Not perfect. But simple. Soft.
Like coming up for air after months underwater.
Roberto has been kind. Polite. Charming even. He takes me to dinners, talks to me about art and politics, and lets me speak without interruption. He brings me coffee in the morning when he knows I haven’t slept well, and he touches me only when I allow it. He’s never forced anything.
And no, I don’t love him. But maybe one day… I might.
Affection, at least, seems… possible. Warmth. Companionship. Something like love, if I squint. It’s not the dream I had when I was younger. But I’m not that girl anymore.
Still… sometimes, when it’s quiet—when I close my eyes to sleep—I see him.
Raffael.
I haven’t seen him in months. Not since the night he disappeared like smoke from the edges of my life. No goodbye. No warning. No explanation. Just… gone.
And yet, I still can’t stop thinking about him. Not in the way I used to. Not like some teenage fantasy. It’s worse now. Deeper. Like a splinter buried in bone.
I don't dare ask my father or Angelo where he went. I’m not stupid. The questions alone could get me or him punished. But in the silence, my mind turns over a thousand possibilities.
Did he run?
Was he killed?
The not-knowing drives me mad.
I force myself to breathe. To think about Roberto. To conjure his face and calm, steady smile. To recall the way he listens when I speak, and the safety of his hands when he touches me like I’m made of something breakable.
No good will come from pining after a ghost—especially one who clearly forgot me. Raffael left me in the rearview of his life.
And I’m about to walk down the aisle with another man—one who actually sees and acknowledges me. No, I'm not that girl anymore. I glance in the mirror and see someone else staring back at me. A woman. Bare shoulders, pale silk. Eyes lined with quiet resolve.
"Time to go," Gigi says gently, brushing an invisible speck from my dress.
I nod. My smile holds. My spine straightens.
Cammie is wringing her hands like she's done a lot lately, throwing worried glances my way whenever she thinks I'm not looking.
It's sweet of her to worry about me, but I think she just greatly exaggerated some sibling rivalry between her and Roberto.
I've looked these past months—not that there would be any help for it if I found what Cammie is worried about—but there is nothing. He's never even been cross with me.
My maid of honor and my ten bridesmaids file out.
My father stands at the other side of the door, ready to give me away.
A smile curves his lips while the girls walk by him, greeting him and giggling.
The smile dies the moment the last one moves past him.
His eyes turn to stone when he enters and closes the door behind him.
"You know how to behave today?" He ensures.
I bite the inside of my cheek. Only a few more hours, and I will be away from him and my brother.
I won't ever have to be alone with either one of them if I don't want to.
Funny, that this thought has never occurred to me before.
I've been looking at this marriage like walking into another cage; instead, I'm walking out of one.
No matter if I ever love Roberto or not, I will forever be grateful to him for getting me away from my family.
"Yes, Papa," I force out.
He studies me, searching for rebellion in my tone, weakness in my posture. I give him neither.
"You’ll smile when you’re supposed to," he says, keeping his voice low and sharp enough so I won't mistake his words for anything other than a command. "You’ll speak only when spoken to. And you’ll remember who made this day happen."
I nod again, the perfect picture of submission, but inside, something curls, and I hope he won't read the disgust on my face. He walks over and straightens my veil with a rough flick of his fingers. His touch scrapes my temple like he’s erasing fingerprints.
His mouth drops near my ear. "You’re still mine, always will be. You’d better remember that."
My throat tightens, but I say nothing.
"You’ll keep your ears and eyes open. You’ll make that husband of yours love you and trust you, and then you’ll report everything back to me."
I freeze. He isn’t letting me go. He’s embedding me deeper.
"And you’ll please him," he adds, his voice a hiss now, hot and venomous. "In public. In private. In and out of bed. Or you’ll answer to me."
My stomach twists, but my face remains a mask—pale silk and silent. I know better than to show fear. Deep down, though, I know that I won't do any of these things. He can't force me back to him once I'm Roberto's. He can't force me to do anything.
Something like hope swells inside my chest. It’s small.
Fragile. But it’s there. From what I’ve gotten to know of Roberto, he’s not like them.
He’s ambitious, yes. Calculating, sure. But cruel?
No. Not in the way my father and Angelo are.
There’s a line in him he doesn’t cross, and maybe that’s na?ve, but I’ve spent my life with monsters.
I know the difference between cold and evil.
And I’m almost certain—almost—that if I told him what my father expects…
he’d protect me if I tell him the truth.
Not today. Not here. Not with the weight of my father’s eyes burning into the back of my skull.
But one day. When it’s quiet. When we’re alone.
I’ll tell him everything. I’m done being silent.
Done being a pawn. If this marriage is the only exit I’m getting, then I’m going to use it.
Fully.
My father reaches for the door handle. "You’ll remember your place, Sophia."
I nod. "Yes, Papa."
But in my mind, the words shift. You’ll remember mine. Right now, I'm Carlos Orsi's daughter, but in a few minutes, I'm going to be Mrs. Roberto Giordano. One day, I'll be his queen, and in between, I'm most definitely not going to be my father's pawn.
My father opens the door, and we step out into the hall as the music swells, echoing up the marble stairwell. My heart beats once—twice—then calms. I take his arm and walk with him down the steps and into the light. Cameras flash. People stand. Faces blur.
And there, at the end of the aisle, is Roberto.
Waiting.
Steady.
Smiling.
He doesn’t look like a hero. He doesn’t look like the man I once prayed for. But he looks safe. And sometimes, safe is enough.
Still… as we walk, something pricks the back of my neck.
A pulse of heat. A flicker. Like a warning.
It's in the glint in Roberto's eyes. A flash, there and gone so fast I almost think I imagined it. I haven’t seen that glint before.
Not in all the months of gentle smiles and polite conversation.
Not in the way he touched my hand or asked me about my favorite books.
This look is… sharper.
Hungrier.
And then it’s gone, smoothed over by charm and ceremony. The mask is back in place so neatly I almost call myself silly for noticing at all. Almost.
But the prickling under my skin doesn’t stop. Not when we stand before the priest and say our vows. Not when I say "I do" and hear it echoed back to me. Not even when the room erupts in applause and rose petals fall like confetti around us.
Roberto’s hand is firm on my lower back as we walk among the guests. It stays there through the endless congratulations, the toasts, the kisses on both cheeks. But the longer it lingers, the more I notice it’s not just a touch. It’s a hold.
A grip.
One that tightens just a little too much when no one’s watching.
Not painful. Not quite. Just enough to remind me that I belong to him now.
The touch makes my stomach flutter, and not in the way it’s supposed to.
Not in excitement. Not in nerves. Something darker.
A kind of… an unease I can’t name. Something primal whispering that something isn’t right.
I glance around, half-expecting—half-hoping—to see Raffael standing in the shadows. Watching. Scowling. Waiting to stop this.
But he’s not here. Of course not.
He left. He made his choice. And I made mine. Not that I ever had one.
Dinner passes in a blur of candlelight and speeches. I manage smiles. I sip champagne, and the wine helps just enough to dull the edge of whatever’s clawing at my gut.
We dance our first dance under a canopy of gold light. Roberto’s hand is warm at my waist. His smile is perfect. His movements are graceful. To anyone watching, we look like a fairytale. And I want to believe it's true. So, so much.
But every time his eyes meet mine, that glint is there again. Faint and flickering.
Like something just waiting for the lights to dim before it bares its teeth.
I tell myself it’s just my nerves. My past. My paranoia.
But deep down… a part of me wonders if I’ve made the worst mistake of my life.