Chapter 14
Harlow
Today is my wedding day.
The words sit heavy in my mind, a weight I can’t quite shake. I never wanted this. Never imagined myself standing at the threshold of a life bound to someone else. I never needed anyone. Never longed for love or companionship the way others did. I had forged my existence upon solitude and survival, anchored by the unshakable conviction that I was all I needed. And yet, here I am.
Marrying a man I barely know. Tying my life to his, bound by duty rather than desire. I don’t feel ready. But readiness stopped mattering the moment this decision was made for me.
The days leading up to my wedding slipped through my fingers, blurring together until suddenly, inexplicably, I’m here, standing at the precipice of something inevitable. Dante and I barely crossed paths in the time up to this moment. Not by design, but not by accident either. We avoided each other, a quiet, mutual understanding. Maybe it was for the best. The less time we spent together, the easier it was to remind myself that this is nothing more than a business arrangement.
And yet, in his absence, I found an unlikely opportunity to spend time with Mattia and get to know him. Somewhere between our brief exchanges over breakfast and the quiet moments when he’d sit beside me without a word, a silent understanding took root. He’s a sweet boy, guarded, but not unkind.
But none of that matters now.
Stepping out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around my body, steam curling into the air behind me, I’m immediately met with chaos. Maids bustle around the room, moving seamlessly.
Near the vanity, a hairstylist and makeup artist are setting up, meticulously arranging brushes and palettes. In the centre of it all, my two cousins, Elena and Sofia, stand amidst the controlled frenzy, their presence a familiar anchor in a morning that feels anything but my own.
Sofia spots me first. “Finally!”
she exclaims, her face lighting up as she rushes over, wrapping me in a tight, warm embrace. The scent of floral perfume instantly surrounds me, familiar and comforting.
“I missed you so much!”
A small, reluctant smile tugs at my lips.
“I missed you too.”
Elena leans against the vanity, arms crossed, looking unimpressed.
“I still can’t fucking believe you’re actually getting married.”
I let out a dry, knowing laugh.
“Trust me, I’m just as bewildered as you are.”
Sofia claps her hands together, ever the ray of sunshine.
“It’s going to be fine! Who knows? It might even be beautiful.”
Her sister lets out a quiet scoff.
“Right. Because arranged mafia marriages always turn out great.”
“Don’t be so grumpy,”
Sofia says, elbowing her lightly.
“It’s a wedding! And, Harlow—”
her eyes light up as she rushes to a garment rack in the corner, dramatically spreading her arms toward it.
“I brought five exquisite dresses for you, just as I promised.”
My brows arch, intrigue flickering in my gaze.
“Five, you say?”
She blushes slightly, twirling a strand of her blonde hair.
“Well, I got a little carried away…”
I step closer, trailing my fingers over the fabric of one of the gowns.
“Did you design these?”
Her face turns a deeper shade of pink. “Maybe.”
I turn to her, sincerity softening my voice.
“They’re beautiful, Sofi.”
Her eyes shine with pride, and she grabs my hands.
“Try them on!”
The room erupts into motion. The stylists move swiftly, their hands precise as they begin working on my hair and makeup, transforming me with each careful stroke. Across the room, my cousins move with elegance, slipping into their bridesmaid gowns, sunlit shades of yellow, flowing and refined, each design meticulously crafted by Sofia herself. Despite being sisters, they are strikingly different. Sofi, with her golden hair and sun-kissed complexion, is the image of their mother, while Elena, with her dark, silky waves and porcelain skin, takes after their father. Where one radiates warmth and effortless charm, the other is softer in her presence, quieter, but with a bite that emerges when least expected.
“I still don’t understand why we had to wear yellow.”
Elena grumbles, tugging at the fabric as if she can will it into another colour.
Her sister shoots her an exasperated look.
“Because it’s warm, elegant, and looks amazing on us!”
Elena mutters something under her breath, but doesn’t argue further.
Finally, when the chaos settles and the room clears, leaving just the three of us, the girls carefully help me into my gown. As I step in front of the mirror, my breath catches.
It’s stunning.
The fabric is delicate yet structured, sculpting my figure before cascading into a flawless, flowing silhouette. Intricate lace detailing shimmers under the soft light, adding an ethereal touch, while the long, sheer gloves, an extension of the gown itself, encase my arms, a seamless blend of elegance and refinement.
As I take it all in, Sofi steps forward, carefully fastening the long, trailing veil into my hair. The weight of it settles against my back, a whisper of silk and tulle that drapes down like a cascade of moonlight.
Elena stands nearby, her dark hair styled into soft waves that frame her delicate features, the length grazing just past her shoulders. Though grumpy as ever, she still carries an innate elegance, grace wrapped in quiet defiance.
Sofia clasps her hands together, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears.
“Oh my god, Harlow, you look so beautiful!”
Elena steps forward, bouquet in hand, deep purple calla lilies, her expression impossible to decipher. “Here,”
she says, offering it to me with a touch of dry amusement.
“You’re going to need this.”
I take it, fingers tightening around the stems as a strange feeling settles in my chest.
This is real.
I’m about to marry Dante Salvatore.
As we leave the bedroom, the girls move around me, adjusting the last details, fixing a stray curl, smoothing the fabric of my dress. Their presence grounding me, even as my pulse thrums with the weight of what’s to come. Step by step, we descend the grand staircase, the distant murmur of voices rising from below. The atmosphere shifts, the air thick.
At the base of the stairs, my grandfather, Vincenzo, and Michael stand waiting, their presence a steady force amid the whirlwind of the morning. Nearby, bodyguards linger in silent vigilance, as immovable as the walls enclosing us.
Beside them stands another figure, Fabio Moretti, Michael’s younger brother and second-in-command. Taller by a fraction, he bears the same sharp, chiselled features, but where his older brother commands with an unyielding presence, Fabio exudes a quiet intensity. His confidence is no less formidable, tempered by years steeped in the world he was born into.
His gaze sweeps over me, lips pressing into something that nearly resembles approval.
“You look stunning.”
Nonno nods in agreement, his expression softer than usual.
“You do, piccola. Truly.”
I inhale slowly, steadying myself. The weight of their gazes, settles deep in my bones.
“She looks like a dream.”
Sofia adds, still beaming.
Elena, ever the realist, crosses her arms, her sharp eyes assessing.
“She looks beautiful, but I don’t think she’s convinced this isn’t a nightmare from which she’ll soon wake up.”
I huff a quiet breath, neither confirming nor denying. Instead, I lift my chin and shift my focus back to the men.
“Has Dante already made his way to the church?”
I ask, my voice strong, though beneath the surface, a storm brews, an ache of conflicted emotions.
Michael gives a slight nod.
“He left earlier. Mattia accompanied him.”
I nod once, glancing toward the door.
“Shall we?”
With those words, we move forward, shedding the last remnants of the past and stepping into the inevitable.
Outside, a fleet of sleek black cars awaits, their polished surfaces gleaming beneath the unforgiving sun. The drive to the church is silent, the weight of expectation pressing down like a loaded gun.
This marriage is a pact. A strategic move. Nothing more than an exchange of power. So why does it feel like a noose tightening around my throat, like something I’ll never escape?
When we finally arrive, the car rolls to a stop, and for a moment, I remain still, fingers tightening around the bouquet. Outside, the world is eerily quiet, no onlookers, no interruptions, just the heavy presence of what awaits beyond those doors.
I exhale slowly, then step out of the car. The church looms before me, an imposing masterpiece of stone and stained glass, its towering fa?ade bathed in sunlight. Shadows stretch across the steps in a silent invitation, or a warning.
My grandfather extends his hand. “Ready?”
No.
But I nod nonetheless.
Together, we ascend the steps, crossing the threshold into a world where escape is nothing more than a forgotten dream. The music begins, a soft, haunting melody that drifts through the vast cathedral, each note reverberating off the ancient stone walls. With my grandfather at my side, I begin the walk down the aisle. The weight of countless eyes settles over me, the pews lined with the most powerful families in the criminal underworld. This isn’t just a wedding, it’s a declaration, a pact forged not between two, but three empires.
The Chicago Outfit.
The Sicilian Mafia.
The Camorra.
The sheer presence of so many ruthless men, their wives beside them, is suffocating. Tensions hidden behind forced smiles and polite nods. Deals made and broken within the span of a glance. A room like this is a ticking bomb, one wrong move, one miscalculation, and it all goes up in flames.
Bodyguards are everywhere, their hands resting near their weapons, their gazes sweeping the room in constant assessment. The air is thick with unspoken power, a fragile balance held in place by mutual necessity, not trust.
And at the end of it all, Dante waits.
He stands tall, dressed in an all-black suit, the sharp lines of his face even more severe under the dim glow of the chandeliers. His presence is commanding, suffocating, a king awaiting his queen, or a wolf waiting for his prey.
Each step forward seals my fate.
The veil drapes over my face, a delicate barrier between me and the dozens of eyes watching, waiting. Step by step, I move toward the inevitable.
When we reach the altar, my grandfather shifts slightly, his imposing presence unwavering as he leans in toward Dante. His voice is quiet but edged with steel.
“She is Ricci by birth, Moretti by blood, and Outfit to the bone. If anything happens to her, we won’t just come for you, we’ll reduce your empire to nothing but ash and regret.”
Dante’s gaze flickers to mine for a brief moment, before he turns back to my grandfather. A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, dangerous and mocking.
“Then let’s hope she doesn’t give me a reason to test that, Moretti.”
The weight of his words lingers, a taunt wrapped in quiet amusement, a challenge neither man is willing to concede. At last, my grandfather releases me.
Dante turns, offering his arm. I place my hand in his, my grip steady. Together, we face forward.
The ceremony begins, the priest’s voice rising in solemn cadence, the Latin verses reverberating through the grand cathedral. Words of devotion, of union, of permanence. They slip past me, drowned out by the pounding of my heartbeat, by the sheer weight of the man beside me.
This is it.
No escape. No turning back.
The moment arrives. Mattia steps forward, carrying a small velvet pillow, upon which rest two bands of gold, deceptively simple yet weighted with irrevocable meaning. His expression remains impassive, but his gaze flickers briefly between me and his father before he steps back, as if absorbing the gravity of what’s unfolding.
Dante takes my hand first. His grip is firm, his skin cool against mine as he slides the ring onto my finger. The band settles like a brand, binding me in a way that feels both ancient and absolute. When I glance up at him, his expression is composed, but beneath the veneer of control, something glimmers. Satisfaction. Possession. As if this moment is not merely an exchange of vows, but a conquest. A claim no one will ever challenge.
Then it’s my turn. I lift his ring, and slide it onto his hand. The instant it settles, the air shifts. A current thrums between us, something deeper than duty, darker than tradition. Finality. Ownership. A contract etched in gold and sealed in blood. The weight of it presses against my chest, sharp as the blade of a knife, cold and inevitable.
Dante moves intentional, reaching for my veil. The lace is light, delicate, but as he lifts it, it feels as though he is peeling away something far greater than fabric.
Our eyes meet.
His gaze darkens, a quiet, consuming possession.
He leans in slightly, his voice a low murmur, intimate enough that only I can hear.
“You look utterly divine.”
He pauses, then adds with finality.
“My name suits you well, Mrs. Salvatore.”
Before I can process his words, his hand slides to the small of my back, pulling me against him with undeniable force, erasing the last breath of space between us.
He crashes his mouth to mine.
The kiss isn’t soft. It’s claiming.
Possessive.
Then, without hesitation, his tongue pushes past my lips, invading, taking. It’s not a question, it’s a demand, one I never agreed to but one he enforces without mercy. A slow, insidious heat coils low in my stomach, tension tightening with every unrelenting stroke of his tongue. My pulse hammers, a dangerous rhythm that echoes between us as he deepens the kiss, his hold unyielding, pressing me closer. Electricity crackles through my veins, sharp, consuming, impossible to ignore.
The church erupts into applause, but I barely hear it.
All I hear is him.
All I feel is the way he’s leaving his mark, searing it into me with every breath, every touch, every unapologetic stroke of his tongue.
Because in this moment, as Dante pulls back, his thumb grazing over my lower lip, I realize something far more dangerous than the man before me. This doesn’t feel like a contract sealed in blood and power.
It feels like a takeover. A war I never saw coming, one I might already be losing.
Dante lingers for a moment, as if savouring the effect he has on me. His eyes flicker with something dangerous. Then, with the same quiet dominance that has marked every step of this day, he turns, offering his arm.
Applause swells around us as we make our way down the aisle, past rows of powerful men and their watchful wives. Outside, the sun is blinding, and the moment we step through the grand doors, confetti rains down, white and gold fluttering through the air like ashes from a fire.
The waiting car gleams under the light, its presence as inevitable as the man beside me. A bodyguard moves ahead, opening the door for us. Dante’s hand finds the small of my back once more, firm, guiding, a silent command.
I step inside. The door shuts behind us with a quiet finality. The air in the car shifts instantly, dense, thick like the moment before a storm. Dante presses a button, and the privacy partition glides up, sealing us in, cutting off the outside world.
I settle into the seat, fingers tightening around my bouquet as I stare ahead, willing to get myself under control.
“Where’s Mattia?”
I ask, breaking the silence first.
Dante’s gaze drags over me, assessing.
“He and Mario will be joining us at the reception.”
His tone is smooth, but there’s something in the way he says it, a quiet amusement, as if he knows I’m grasping at anything to keep this moment from unravelling into something I can’t control.
I nod, exhaling slowly, but the air remains charged, thick with the weight of what just transpired.
Dante shifts beside me, his presence overpowering even in the silence. Then, his voice drops.
“You seem tense, wife.”
My chin tilts upward.
“Should I have a reason to be?”
His smirk is slow, predatory, the kind that sets fire to the space between us.
“That depends.”
His fingers skim the edge of my jaw, trailing slowly before he tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
“Are you afraid of what happens next?”
I don’t flinch, don’t let him see the flicker of unease twisting low in my stomach, not unease, exactly. Something far more dangerous. Something I refuse to acknowledge.
Instead, I meet his gaze with defiance.
“Nothing will happen next. This is an arrangement. Remember?”
His jaw tightens, his fingers grazing my bare shoulder, an infuriatingly light touch against my exposed skin.
“An arrangement, you say?”
His voice is rough.
“How good it will feel to prove you wrong.”
My body betrays me, arousal slicking between my thighs, unwelcome yet undeniable, but I hold my ground.
Dante watches me patiently, like a man who already knows he’s won. Then, with quiet finality, he leans in, lips brushing the shell of my ear, voice a taunting murmur.
“I’ve barely touched you, Harlow.”
He pauses, the air between us crackling.
“But I bet your pussy is clenching with need. Is it dripping wet for me, leonessa?”
Heat floods my veins.
I clench my hands, refusing to react.
But the way he’s looking at me?
I might already be losing this battle.
“No.”
I bite out, jaw tight.
His smirk is pure sin. He knows I’m full of shit.
“No?”
He lifts a brow.
“Should I check?”
His fingers skim the hem of my dress.
“Should I slip my hand under this pretty gown and find out myself?” His voice darkens, laced with wicked intent.
“Push your panties aside and fuck you with my fingers until you can’t deny it anymore?”
My breath stutters.
Before I can shove him away, his hand is already beneath my dress, the rough pads of his fingers sliding against my inner tight. My stomach knots, anticipation coiling tight, my pussy clenches as desire sweeps over me, the space between us suffocating.
He brushes my lace aside with ease, his fingers gliding through my arousal with a possessive touch. I bite my lip, struggling to contain the moan rising in my throat, but Dante’s gaze is fixed there, on the soft flesh trapped between my teeth, his amusement sharpening, darkening. As if he wants to be the one biting it instead.
And then he is.
His other hand curls around the back of my neck. His lips claim mine, his teeth catching my lower lip, biting down just as his fingers push inside me, the sharp sting of pain blending with the sudden, overwhelming pleasure. A gasp slips free, swallowed by his mouth as he deepens the kiss, his fingers moving with devastating precision, unravelling me with every stroke.
A ragged moan slips from my lips, as he kisses me with abandon, his tongue meeting mine in slow, devastating strokes, perfectly in sync with the rhythm of his fingers working me open.
I can’t stop it.
My body clenches around him, pleasure surging like wildfire, and I come undone, trembling, breathless, lost.
Dante pulls back, but not far. Our foreheads touch, his gaze burning through me. Slowly, he withdraws his fingers, fixing my panties back into place.
Then, still holding my gaze, he brings his fingers to his lips and sucks them clean.
“Fucking delicious.”
I swallow hard.
Dante smirks as he pulls a folded handkerchief from his pocket, wiping away the last traces of my arousal with meticulous ease. His gaze lingers on me, dark and indulgent, as if savouring every second of my undoing.
“I nearly came in my fucking pants just from feeling you tighten around my fingers,”
he murmurs, his voice thick with satisfaction.
“I can only imagine how fucking good it’ll be when I finally have you coming on my cock.”
I force myself to breathe, shaking off the post-orgasmic haze clouding my thoughts.
“Keep dreaming,”
I snap, ignoring the warmth still lingering between my legs.
“It will never happen.”
His smirk only deepens.
“Oh, leonessa.”
He tucks the handkerchief away, his eyes gleaming with certainty, dark with promise.
“It won’t be long before you’re on your knees, desperate for my cock, pleading for me to ruin you. And when that moment comes, you’ll know, I don’t just fuck, I own.”
I huff, turning toward the window, willing the heat in my cheeks to fade.
What the hell just happened?
And why can’t I fucking ignore the way he makes me feel?