Chapter Six #2
Papa turned from the window to face me. “Because Antonio convinced me the alliance was valuable. And because you’re right -- Dante’s reach is greater than Marco’s.
The De Luca connection strengthens our position.
” He paused, his expression hardening. “But don’t mistake strategic acceptance for approval of your methods.
You went behind my back, undermined my authority.
You made it clear that you value your own desires over family loyalty. ”
“My own survival, you mean.”
“Your own will.” He straightened his tie with sharp movements. “The same stubborn will that’s about to discover what happens when it meets someone stronger.”
The door opened again. One of Papa’s men appeared, nodding once. “They’re ready, Don Lombardi.”
Papa held out his arm to me, the gesture formal and impersonal. “Shall we?”
I stared at his offered arm for a long moment. This was it. The point of no return. Once I took his arm and walked down that aisle, there would be no backing out. No changing my mind. No escape.
My hand trembled as I placed it on his sleeve.
We moved into the hallway, my heels clicking against the floor in a rhythm that felt funereal rather than celebratory.
Security personnel lined the corridor, their expressions blank, their presence a reminder that this wasn’t a normal wedding.
This was a transaction between criminal families, sealed with vows and witnessed by people who kill for a living.
We reached the double doors that led to the ballroom. Through the crack between them, I caught a glimpse of the ceremony space. Hundreds of white flowers, guests in expensive attire, enough wealth and power concentrated in one room to topple governments.
And at the end of the aisle, waiting at an altar that had been erected for this occasion, stood Dante De Luca.
Even from this distance, even through the narrow opening between the doors, I felt the impact of his presence.
He wore a black tuxedo that looked like it had been painted onto his frame, every line perfect, every detail precise.
His posture was absolutely still, predatory in its patience.
But it was his gaze that made my breath catch.
He was staring at the doors. At me, even though he couldn’t fully see me yet.
Waiting.
The way a hunter waits for prey to step into the trap.
“Last chance,” Papa murmured. “Say the word and we’ll call this off. Face the embarrassment. Deal with the political fallout. But you’ll be free of him.”
“But the alliance…”
He stared at me. “I’ll still get a good deal with Marco. I know he’d still accept you.”
For one desperate second, I considered it. Considered running. Calling everything off and facing whatever consequences came from backing out at the literal altar.
Then I thought of Marco. Of Papa’s original plan. Of three months instead of three weeks, and a wedding that would have ended with me trapped in something far worse.
“No,” I said, my voice steadier than my hands. “Open the doors.”
Papa signaled. The doors swung wide.
And Dante’s gaze locked on mine with an intensity that made everything else fade away.
The music started. Some classical piece that Mama had probably chosen, elegant and appropriate and utterly meaningless compared to the pounding of my heart in my ears.
Papa and I started forward.
Every step took me closer to Dante. Every step made his expression clearer. Not happy, not nervous, not any of the emotions a groom was supposed to show. Just focused. Intent. Absolutely certain.
Like a man about to claim exactly what he’d bargained for.
My pulse kicked up until it felt like it might burst through my skin. My breathing went shallow again, air catching in my throat.
Papa’s grip on my arm tightened. Warning or support, I couldn’t tell.
We reached the altar. Dante stood there in all his dark glory, his gaze never leaving my face. Up close, I could see the sharp line of his jaw, the predatory stillness of his posture, the barely leashed violence in every line of his body despite the civilized clothing.
Papa placed my hand in Dante’s.
The contact sent a shock through my system -- his skin warm against mine, his fingers curling around my hand with unmistakable possession. Not holding. Claiming.
“Don’t make me regret this,” Papa said quietly, the words meant for both of us.
Dante’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “No promises.”
Then Papa stepped back, and I was left standing next to my future husband with no barriers between us and whatever came next.
Dante’s thumb stroked once across my knuckles. The gesture was small, almost tender. But the look in his eyes when I finally met them was anything but.
“Hello, princess,” he murmured, low enough that only I could hear. “Ready to become mine?”
My throat went dry. I opened my mouth to respond, to say something sharp and defiant that would remind him of our contract terms.
But no words came out.
Because Mama had been right. Papa had been right.
I’d thought I was negotiating freedom. But all I’d done was choose my cage.
The priest started talking. I heard words -- something about love and commitment and holy matrimony -- but they barely registered.
All I could focus on was Dante’s hand at the small of my back, his fingers spread wide against the bare skin exposed by the dress’s low cut.
Not resting there. Pressing. Claiming. Making it clear to everyone watching exactly who I belonged to now.
I tried to shift slightly, to ease the intensity of the contact. His hand pressed against my back. Not painfully, but firmly enough that I got the message: Don’t move.
I stopped trying.
The ballroom stretched out behind us. As I’d walked down the aisle, I’d noticed faces I knew and some I didn’t. The Lombardis occupied the left side -- Papa in the front row with Mama beside him. Antonio Rossi sat behind them. Luca was there too, three rows back, his face tight with concern.
The right side belonged to the De Lucas.
I’d met some of them briefly during the rushed engagement period, but most were strangers to me.
They sat with the confidence of people who expected violence and weren’t particularly bothered by it.
Hard faces and harder eyes, men and women who’d built their power through brutality rather than political maneuvering.
Francesca De Luca sat in the front row. She wore burgundy Armani, and I could swear I felt her staring me down. Next to her was an older man I recognized as Dante’s uncle -- one of the family’s senior members, his scarred hands resting on a cane that probably concealed a weapon.
The families watched each other as much as they watched us. Calculating. Assessing. Looking for signs of weakness or advantage in this new alliance.
The priest cleared his throat, drawing my attention back to him. “We are gathered here today to witness the union of Dante De Luca and Caterina Lombardi.”
Dante’s thumb started tracing small circles against my back. The gesture would have looked affectionate to anyone watching. But I could feel the possession in it, the reminder that he could touch me however he wanted now. That I’d given him that right.
My breathing wanted to go shallow again. I forced it steady, forced my expression into something that might pass for bridal happiness if you didn’t look too closely.
“Marriage is a sacred bond,” the priest continued, his voice carrying across the silent ballroom. “A promise made before God and witnesses, to love and honor --”
“To possess and protect,” Dante murmured, so quietly only I could hear. His breath was warm against my ear, his body close enough that I could feel the heat of him through the layers of silk and wool between us. “That’s what I’m promising you, Caterina. Complete possession. Total protection.”
My pulse jumped. I kept my eyes forward, on the priest, but every nerve ending I had was focused on the man beside me. On his hand at my back. On his words that rewrote the ceremony happening around us into something else entirely.
“In sickness and in health,” the priest said.
“In pleasure and in pain,” Dante whispered.
My fingers curled into fists, the bouquet mama had handed me earlier crushed in my grip. White roses and stephanotis, their heavy scent suddenly cloying.
“For richer or poorer.”
“For your obedience or punishment.”
I turned my head slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. Found them already on me. This wasn’t nerves or last-minute doubts. This was a man who knew exactly what he’d negotiated for and intended to collect every piece of it.
“You’re rewriting the vows,” I said, keeping my voice low enough that the microphone wouldn’t catch it.
“I’m clarifying them.” His hand slid up slightly, fingers tracing the curve of my spine in a way that made me shiver despite myself. “The priest is talking about some sanitized version of marriage. I’m telling you what ours will actually be.”
“The contract --”
“Ends where my bedroom door closes.” His fingers found a particularly sensitive spot just below my shoulder blade and pressed. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to make his point. “You agreed to this, princess. Complete submission behind closed doors. Those were my terms.”
“I thought --” I cut myself off, realizing that finishing that sentence would admit weakness.
“You thought you’d have more control.” His lips curved slightly. “You thought the contract gave you power. But all it did was make our arrangement legal. The actual terms? Those are mine to enforce.”
The priest was asking us to face each other now.
Dante shifted, turning me with hands that were simultaneously gentle and inflexible, until I stood looking up at him fully.
This close, I could see the faint scar along his jaw, the slight shadow of stubble despite his otherwise immaculate grooming, the absolute focus in his eyes.
“Repeat after me,” the priest said. “I, Dante De Luca…”