Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Lorenzo
This isn’t a wedding. It’s a fucking performance. One big golden theatrical dick-measuring blowjob to legacy. And every smug bastard in a suit knows it.
A bridesmaid walks down the aisle, all satin, her tits bouncing with the desperation of a girl who thinks this gig might land her a husband. Blush pink dress so tight it might’ve been painted on. Her heels wobble with every step as if she was chosen for her legs instead of her brain.
That’s ten now. Maybe eleven. I’ve lost track.
What the fuck is this? A wedding or a casting call for desperate housewhores?
I glance at Arturo. Smug motherfucker in the front row, smiling like he just took power out back and fucked it.
Surrounded by men who smile while figuring out how quickly they could gut each other.
He’s loving this. Every second of it. Every eye in the room fixed on the procession, the spectacle, his daughter being paraded, polished, and handed over like a shiny fucking trophy to the last De Luca still standing.
The next four bridesmaids are no better.
All tits, teeth, and mascara applied so thick it flakes when they blink. Smiles stretched too wide. Steps rehearsed. They look thrilled to be here, thrilled to be seen.
The last bridesmaid takes her place among the others.
The music continues playing.
One beat.
Two.
Three bars too long. It doesn’t switch to the next track. It doesn’t fade out. It just loops.
And still, no one walks in.
Whispers snake through the rows, soft at first but then louder. Nervous laughs that don’t last. Others check their phones, maybe thinking they missed a memo.
One of the ushers mutters something to a Serrano soldier, who shrugs. Two bridesmaids whisper furiously behind their palms. And still… no Isabella.
Arturo Serrano leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, teeth grinding behind that perfect power smile. His eyes are fixed on the archway where his daughter should have appeared by now, as if he can will her to show up by staring hard enough.
But she doesn’t.
There’s no rustling of fabric, no sharp click of heels on the stone. Only a stretch of silence wrapped in the steady thrum of expectation.
Has she really done it? Said “fuck everything” and actually walked?
Arturo’s jaw twitches. His unclenched hand on the chair jerks slightly. One of his soldiers approaches, leans in close, gives a nod, before the soldier melts into the crowd, slipping away.
The guests shift, heads turning.
Someone to the left mutters something about tradition, about disgrace. But no one moves. They’re waiting for the spectacle. For the fall.
And today, I see it for the first time.
Arturo… that motherfucker is cracking.
A hairline fracture in Arturo Serrano’s carefully crafted kingdom. The absence of his daughter has done what bullets couldn’t… it’s shaken him.
One of the bridesmaids wipes her palms down her dress, eyes wide.
Another whispers something frantic to the girl next to her.
An usher breaks formation to speak with Arturo. People glance back at the arch again, and again.
A few heads turn my way. Suspicion. Accusation. Pure desperation.
I just smirk, let them wonder what the hell’s going on.
And then—the music stops. Cuts off mid-note, like someone slashed the throat of the quartet with a piano wire.
Chairs squeak. Someone coughs. A baby emits a single, confused wail before its mother hushes it.
The soldiers at the back adjust their stance, prepared for orders.
Arturo rises halfway out of his seat, then pauses, hovering as if moving will make this real.
Gasps spill from the front row. Panic builds like a storm front. Mothers clutch pearls. Someone stands up. Someone else curses under their breath.
And that’s when it hits them.
The bride’s gone and nobody knows what the fuck to do.
Seconds drain away, stretching the silence until it feels suffocating.
People fidget and whisper.
Someone clears their throat.
The soldier at the door shifts his weight, hand brushing the holster at his side.
And then—
Arturo’s daughter appears.
In the damn doorway, framed in the warm light spilling through the glass window. Backlit like a fucking omen.
She’s not wearing white.
She’s wearing black.
Funeral black. Vengeance black. A dress made of silk and rebellion, cut to the bone with a neckline that says “fuck your purity.” Every inch of it screams that centuries of expectation can go to fucking hell.
Her hair is loose. Her spine is steel. And there is an intake of air as if the room stops breathing.
I hear someone in the third row whisper, “She’s wearing black.”
No shit.
The room freezes.
My cock stirs.
Because fuck me, she’s magnificent.
There’s panic on some of the older faces, the kind who care about tradition, reputation, and Serrano family optics. Someone mutters that this is disrespectful. Another says it’s disgraceful. Arturo’s jaw tightens. Fury flickers behind his cold stare, held back only by decades of control.
And Isabella Serrano stands there as if this whole bloodstained circus was made for her.
She owns it. In every pair of eyes that can’t stop staring. Every breath caught in their throats.
The music starts up again.
Isabella Serrano walks toward me like a fucking reckoning.
Her eyes lock onto mine, sparks of anger flashing like lightning in a storm.
She moves with a fierce elegance that should be outlawed—chin up, shoulders sharp, spine straighter than the morals in this room.
And fuck, I’d marry her twice. Hell, I’d marry her a hundred times if it meant I got to watch her burn tradition down every single time.
My cock throbs beneath my zipper, aching with every step she takes. She is in control.
The older Serrano women turn to stone, clutching their pearls and their opinions. The men sit there, all rotting ego and tradition, glare down their crooked noses like her defiance might infect them. They see her as a problem. A scandal. An insult to their bloodlines and carefully built dynasties.
But all I see is a fucking queen.
She doesn’t smile when she gets to me.
Up close, she’s even more threatening.
I lean in, my voice soft. “You clean up nice.”
Her lips barely shift. “Go fuck yourself.”
And I smile because this is the woman I’m marrying. Not some obedient bride dressed in white and paraded through tradition.
Everyone here expected a girl they could shape. Something gentle. Obedient.
Instead, they got this.
And now she’s fucking mine.
The priest fumbles his lines as if he’s afraid the room might collapse if he breathes wrong. His voice wavers, hands trembling just enough to make the holy book shake.
Arturo Serrano’s jaw is clenched so tightly that it’s a miracle he hasn’t broken his teeth. He’s sporting that smile—the polished, public one—but his left eye twitches every time Isabella refuses to perform.
Isabella doesn’t smile at all.
Not during the priest’s mumbling of the vows or when I slide the ring onto her finger, its gold cold against her skin. And especially not when the words “you may now kiss the bride” fall into the silence.
I lean in, and the entire damn room holds its breath.
Isabella tilts her head just enough to allow the kiss if she wants it. Just enough to play her part.
But at the last second, she turns.
My lips brush her cheek instead of her mouth.
Gasps echo through the room. A man mutters a prayer.
“Isabella,” her father snaps.
But she doesn’t so much as blink.
Her chin lifts, her shoulders square, and then she turns to face the crowd. Five hundred people are packed into this overdone palace of gold and crystal, all watching, waiting for the little obedient bride to fall in line.
She doesn’t.
Her gaze sweeps over them. It’s a message without words. She is not an obedient bride. She is not a girl who will bow, smile, or behave for the comfort of men who think they own her. And anyone who tries to break her can go fuck themselves.
And shit, if I didn’t want her before… I damn sure want her more now.
Arturo Serrano quickly rises from his chair, the legs screeching against the marble. The noise pierces the silence. Everyone’s heads snap toward him. No one speaks or even breathes.
He stalks forward, his face furious, the smile he wore for the cameras now gone, exposing the tyrant beneath the tailored suit. His shoes hit the floor with deliberate, thunderous steps, each one a threat in leather soles.
His men shift behind him, tense, alert.
And then he grabs her.
Fingers grip Isabella’s arm tightly. He doesn’t shout because he doesn’t have to. His fury shows through the lines of his face. His grip speaks volumes: control, punishment, possession.
“This isn’t a game,” he growls softly. “You’re a Serrano. Now act like it.”
I step forward.
“Get your fucking hands off my wife.”
The words land like a bomb.
Gasps echo.
Eyes widen.
Every Serrano soldier stiffens. Each man loyal to me instinctively reaches for his weapon, hands hovering at the edge of suits too expensive to hide the violence beneath.
Half the room leans forward—watching, waiting for someone to make the first move. Even the priest looks ready to duck for cover.
Everyone knows what I could do with just a nod. This wedding could turn into a massacre. Blood on the marble. Screams swallowed by the vaulted ceilings.
Arturo’s head turns toward me. He’s not used to being told what to do, especially not in his own fucking house.
His eyes burn into mine, dark and cold, the kind of stare that starts wars.
I stare right back. Unblinking. Because I didn’t marry his daughter to play diplomat.
I married her to keep the empire, and I’ll drown this room in blood before I let him treat her like property.
I don’t blink or back down.
Instead, I move closer.
He doesn’t release her immediately, just keeps his grip on her to make a point.
Isabella pulls her arm away suddenly, as if she’s peeling a parasite off her skin.
Arturo’s gaze darkens. That cold Serrano glare flickers for a split second before he remembers the audience. He turns with practiced ease, slipping the venom back beneath his skin as he plasters on his politician’s smile.
Fucking snake.
“I don’t need you to defend me.”
“I wasn’t,” I bite out, my gaze still locked on Arturo. “I was reminding him who the fuck I am.”
She laughs. Not the gentle kind. It’s cruel. The kind that cuts you open and leaves you bleeding.
“It must be so fucking exhausting,” she says, voice dipped in venom, “having to remind people that you actually matter.”
That one fucking lands.
I step in, close enough to smell the defiance on her breath.
“You’d know,” I say softly. “You’ve been begging your father to see you for twenty years, wearing the Serrano name like it might finally make him give a fuck about you.”
She flinches, barely, but I see it.
“That dress?” I say. “It’s a performance. Just so he’d finally call you daughter.”
Her lips curl. “Fuck you.”
I don’t blink.
“Don’t worry, I plan to. Because whether you like it or not...” My voice dips. “You’re mine now.” I smirk at her, letting her know she belongs to me now and no one else.
Isabella steps forward, chin raised, her blue eyes cold enough to freeze the fucking sun.
“Get it through your thick fucking skull… I do not belong to him. And I sure as shit do not belong to you.”
I tilt my head, letting my gaze flick down to her mouth then back up to meet her eyes. “Is that so? Then what do you call that ring on your finger, Princess?”
Her nostrils flare. Her chest rises with a fury that doesn’t fade; it festers. “A collar,” she snaps, eyes burning. “One I let you clasp around my throat. But don’t mistake it for obedience. Because I hold the fucking leash, Lorenzo. Not you.”
My mouth quirks into a smirk.
Fuck. She’s gorgeous when she’s brutal. Christ, she might be the most dangerous thing in this empire, and Arturo never fucking saw it.