Chapter 7
Cathedrals are designed to make you feel small. The Gothic vaults vanishing into darkness, the stained glass transforming sunlight into narratives of suffering and glory, the smell of incense that has seeped into the stone for centuries—everything is calculated to inspire divine submission.
But as I stood at the white marble altar, waiting, I didn't feel small. And I certainly had no intention of submitting.
I adjusted my onyx cufflinks. My heart rate held steady at forty-eight beats per minute.
The same rhythm I maintained before a hostile negotiation or before pulling a trigger.
Because that's exactly what this was: a corporate merger disguised as a sacrament, with God as a legally irrelevant witness.
I scanned the nave. The church was packed. Five hundred people. The elite of Chicago's organized crime and beyond.
On the left, the Capos of the D'Angelo Family. Moretti sat in the second row, wearing his poorly cut gray suit, ambition leaking from every pore. He looked at me with barely concealed hatred. He wanted to be standing here, receiving the keys to the kingdom. But Moretti was a butcher, not a king.
On the right, the “allies” and diplomatic guests. My gaze landed on the third row. Nikolai Kovacs.
Technically, the head of the Russian mafia shouldn't be here.
We'd been in a cold war since the limousine incident.
But in our world, wedding invitations are summonses.
To refuse is to declare open war; to attend is a power play.
Nikolai smiled at me—gold teeth and scorn.
He was here to watch Vittorio's daughter be sold off. He was here to see if I'd falter.
I looked away. He didn't matter now. He was a problem for Chapter 8.
The pipe organ struck a low note, a rumble that vibrated through the floor beneath my Italian shoes. The crowd's murmur ceased. The massive oak doors at the cathedral entrance swung open slowly, creaking under the weight of history.
Midday light flooded the church's gloom, creating a corridor of golden dust dancing in the air. And there she was.
I expected to see the spoiled girl. The one who stomped her foot in the atelier, who cried in the car, who tried to seduce me in a sheer robe. I expected to see fear or reluctance in every step.
What I saw made my breath catch for a millisecond. A system failure.
Solaia D'Angelo stood alone at the head of the aisle. No father to give her away. No bridesmaids to hold her veil. Just her and the void Vittorio left behind.
She wore my choice. The ivory silk dress, high collar, long sleeves.
But on her body, what should have been modest became regal.
The heavy silk flowed like liquid metal, tracing her silhouette without revealing an inch of skin.
The row of buttons down her back forced her posture upright—rigid, proud.
She looked like a marble statue come to life only to haunt sinners. She looked untouchable. She looked... mine.
The thought was involuntary and primitive. I crushed it immediately, filing it under “irrelevant instincts.”
Solaia began to walk. The organ swelled, triumphant and melancholic. She didn't glance to either side. Not at Moretti, not at the curious whispers, not at the Kovacs undressing her with their eyes. Her gaze was fixed on me.
Through the thin lace veil, I could see her dark eyes. They weren't brimming with tears. They were cold. Good, I thought. Hatred burns better than sadness.
She reached the altar. I extended my hand. There was a microscopic hesitation—a second where she stared at my open palm as if it were a bear trap. Then she placed her hand in mine. Her fingers were frozen. So cold they might have been made of dry ice. But they didn't tremble.
“You're thirty seconds late,” I whispered, pulling her to my side to face the priest.
“Traffic in hell was terrible,” she whispered back without moving her lips.
One corner of my mouth threatened to lift. I suppressed it. We turned to face the altar. The priest—an old man who had baptized Solaia and buried her father in the same week—opened the holy book.
“We are gathered here today...” His voice echoed, tremulous.
I tuned out the liturgical words. “Love.” “Honor.” “Respect.” Empty words meant for civilians.
What was happening here was a transfer of property and authority.
I felt the weight of stares on my back. I knew what they saw: the usurper Consigliere claiming the crown.
They expected to see weakness in Solaia.
They expected to find a crack in our forced union where they could slip in a knife.
I squeezed her hand tighter. Don't you dare stumble now, Solaia.
“Cassian Varro.” The priest's voice pulled me back. “Do you take Solaia D'Angelo as your lawful wife? Do you promise to be faithful, to love and respect her, in joy and in sorrow, in sickness and in health, all the days of your life, until death do you part?”
I looked at Solaia. The veil softened her features, but I could see the tension in her jaw. “Until death do you part.” In our world, death wasn't some distant possibility reserved for old age. It was a constant promise, lurking around every corner, in every ignition turned, in every sip of wine.
“I do.” My voice came out low and deep, carrying to the last pew of the cathedral. It wasn’t a promise to God. It was a warning to the men present. I accept the burden. I accept the war.
“Solaia D’Angelo...” The Father turned to her.
She hesitated. One, two, three seconds. The silence in the church thickened, suffocating. I saw Moretti lean forward in his pew. I saw Nikolai Kovacs stop smiling. If she said no... If she ran... The chaos that would follow would stain this marble red before sunset.
Solaia raised her chin. “I do.”
The air left the congregation’s lungs.
“The rings.”
Franco, my best man and head of security, handed me the ring.
A simple platinum band studded with black diamonds.
Discreet. Unbreakable. I took Solaia’s left hand.
Silk glove removed. Her skin was pale against my black suit.
I slid the cold metal onto her finger. “With this ring,” I murmured, looking into her eyes, “I protect you.”
She took my ring. White gold, heavy. Her hands, finally, trembled. Just a little. Enough for the metal to tap against my nail before sliding to the base of my finger. Strange, feeling the weight there. A golden shackle.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the Father announced, looking relieved that no one had shot anyone yet. “You may kiss the bride.”
This was the moment. The theater. I raised my hands and took hold of her veil. Slowly, I swept the lace back. Solaia’s face was exposed. Her makeup was impeccable, but there was real panic in the depths of her eyes. Was she expecting a chaste kiss on the forehead? A quick brush of the lips?
No. That wouldn’t convince anyone.
I glanced sideways at the audience. Nikolai was watching, analyzing the chemistry, searching for the lie. I needed to claim her.
I placed one hand on the nape of her neck, my fingers threading into the base of her elaborate bun, holding her firmly. With the other hand, I circled her waist, pulling her body hard against mine, crushing the silk of her dress against the wool of my suit. I heard her small gasp of surprise.
I leaned in. I didn’t close my eyes immediately. I wanted to see her surrender. I pressed my mouth to hers.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t romantic. It was possessive. A kiss that said: You are mine. Your body, your name, your future. All mine.
Her lips were rigid at first, but I pressed on, invading, demanding a response. My tongue traced her lower lip, a silent command for her to open. Solaia parted her lips. And her taste... Sweet. Sacramental wine and mint.
Something happened then. Something that wasn’t in my tactical report. The heat. Her body, pressed against mine, no longer felt like a logistical burden. It felt... right. Her curves fit against my edges. Her hand rose hesitantly and gripped my lapel, pulling me closer instead of pushing me away.
The kiss deepened. I forgot the Father. I forgot Kovacs. For three insane seconds, I forgot this was a contract. I felt her pulse against my hand on her nape. I felt the hunger—hers or mine?—surge like a spark in dry straw.
I pulled away before I lost control. The separation was abrupt. Solaia was panting slightly. Her lips were red, swollen from the pressure of my mouth. Her pupils were dilated, her gaze glazed and confused.
The silence in the cathedral was absolute. No one coughed. No one moved. They had seen it. They had witnessed the possession.
I turned to the congregation, keeping my arm firmly around her waist, transforming us into a single, solid unit. I met Nikolai Kovacs’s gaze in the third row. His smile had vanished. He looked... calculating. Worried. Good.
The organ exploded into the recessional, breaking the spell.
We walked down the aisle. Camera flashes fired, blinding us momentarily. White rose petals rained down on our path—they looked like pale drops of blood.
I felt Solaia falter beside me. Her legs must have been shaking. The adrenaline was fading, letting fear creep in. I tightened my grip on her waist, my fingers digging into the silk, pressing hard enough to bruise, to bring her back to reality.
I tilted my head toward her, never breaking stride, never dropping my marble expression as I faced the crowd.
“Smile, Solaia,” I ordered in a whisper sharp as glass, pitched for her ears alone. “They’re looking for weaknesses. Don’t give them the satisfaction.”
She swallowed hard. And then she smiled. It wasn’t a happy smile. It was sharp, bright and fake as a synthetic diamond. But to anyone fifteen feet away, it looked like triumph.
She squeezed my hand. Her nails dug into my palm, piercing the skin, almost drawing blood. It wasn’t an affectionate squeeze. It was the grip of a drowning woman who’d found the only rock in the middle of the ocean.
I was the rock. I was the monster who had imprisoned her, but now I was the only thing keeping her from being devoured.
We stepped out of the cathedral into Chicago’s gray daylight. The cold wind hit us. The limousine waited. The wedding was over. The war—and the real marriage—had just begun.