Chapter 43
Bruno
The veil hides her face.
White lace and silk, draped over blonde hair. I can see the shape of her—the outline of features I can't quite make out—but not her expression. Not her eyes.
I saw enough when she first walked through those doors. The moment her gaze found me. Found the wheelchair.
She froze. Just for a heartbeat. Just long enough for me to recognize the look I've seen a hundred times since I woke up.
Shock. Confusion. The rapid calculation of what this means.
Now she stands in front of me, and I can't read her face through the veil. Can't tell if she's horrified or relieved or something in between.
Doesn't matter. I know what she's thinking.
The priest begins speaking. Latin words that wash over me without registering. I've heard them before. At my first almost wedding. The one that ended with bullets and blood and two years of darkness.
My hands rest on the armrests of my wheelchair. Steady. Controlled.
But my eyes won't stay on the priest.
They keep drifting to her.
The dress is simple. White silk that skims her body without clinging. Modest neckline. Long sleeves. Nothing provocative about it.
Except.
Except the way the fabric moves when she breathes. The way it hints at curves underneath—the swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips. She's not trying to be seductive. The dress wasn't designed for that. But her body...
Fuck.
Her body could make an angel turn to devil.
I shift in my chair. Subtle. Just enough to adjust.
My legs might not work. Not completely. Not yet. But everything else functions just fine. And right now, my cock is straining against my pants like I'm a goddamn teenager who's never seen a woman before.
Two years.
Two years since I've let anyone touch me. Since I've wanted anyone to touch me. The nurses who help me in and out of bed—I tolerate them because I have no choice. But women? Sex? I shut that door the moment I woke up and realized what I'd become.
I release myself when I need to. Quick. Efficient. No fantasy. No longing. Just a physical function, like eating or breathing.
But now.
Now I'm staring at the curve of my future wife's neck, visible just above the collar of her dress, and my mind is going places it hasn't gone in years.
What does her skin taste like?
What sound would she make if I put my mouth there?
Would she arch into me or pull away?
Stop.
I force my gaze back to the priest. Force my hands to stay relaxed on the armrests.
She's trembling.
I notice it now. The slight shake in her shoulders. The way her fingers clutch the small bouquet of white roses like it's the only thing keeping her upright.
She's scared.
Of course she is. She just walked into a church expecting one thing and got something else entirely. She's standing in front of a man she's never met, about to bind herself to him for life, and she has no idea what kind of husband I'll be.
Does she think I'll hurt her?
Does she think I'll demand things from her? Use her? Take what I want because she has no power to stop me?
My jaw tightens.
She has no reason to be afraid. Not of that. Not of me.
I'm not going to touch her.
The thought settles in my chest like a stone. Cold. Final.
I made that decision before I ever saw her face. Before I knew she was blonde or beautiful or that her body would make my blood run hot for the first time in two years.
This marriage is a transaction. A test. Pietro's way of proving I can be stable. Responsible. Worthy of the position I was born for.
It's not real.
She's not mine. Not in any way that matters.
I'll protect her. Provide for her. Give her whatever she needs to live comfortably under my roof. But I won't touch her. Won't burden her with a husband who can't stand, can't walk, can't be the man she deserves.
She volunteered for this marriage to protect her family.
Brave.
Stupid.
Both.
The priest continues. More words. More ritual.
I keep my eyes forward. Keep my hands still. Keep my expression carved from the same stone as the church walls.
But I'm aware of her. Every breath she takes. Every small shift of her weight. The faint scent of something floral drifting through the incense-heavy air.
Jasmine.
She smells like jasmine.
My cock twitches again.
Fuck.
This is going to be harder than I thought.
Antonella
"Do you, Antonella Romano, take Bruno Sartori to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
The priest's voice echoes through the church. Latin and English blending together in a ceremony that feels more like a business contract than a wedding.
I look at Bruno through my veil.
He hasn't moved since I reached the altar.
"I do."
The words come out steady. Stronger than I feel.
Bruno's jaw tightens. Just slightly. Just enough for me to notice.
The priest continues. More words about holy matrimony and sacred bonds. I barely hear them. My heart pounds so loud it drowns out everything else.
This is real.
This is happening.
I'm married to a man I met five minutes ago. A man in a wheelchair. A man whose family bought me to pay off my father's debts.
"You may now kiss the bride."
The priest's words hang in the air.
I wait.
Bruno doesn't move.
No. That's not right. He does move. But not toward me.
He wheels backward. One smooth push of his hands against the wheels, and he's a foot farther away. Then two.
He's not going to kiss me.
Heat floods my cheeks. I stand frozen at the altar, bouquet clutched in my hands, veil still covering my face. The silence stretches. I can feel eyes on us. My family. His family. Everyone watching this disaster unfold.
What am I supposed to do?
Do I step forward? Do I wait? Do I pretend this isn't the most humiliating moment of my life?
Bruno's expression gives nothing away. Stone. Ice. A wall I can't see past.
He doesn't want me.
The thought hits like a slap. Of course he doesn't. Why would he? I'm a transaction. A debt payment. A stranger forced on him by circumstances neither of us chose.
But he could have at least pretended.
Movement catches my eye. A woman approaches from the front pew. Dark hair. Sharp features.
She stops in front of me.
"You're still wearing your veil," she says softly.
I blink. My hands move automatically, reaching up to push the lace back from my face. The church comes into sharper focus. The candles. The flowers. The faces watching us.
The woman smiles. It's warm. Genuine. Nothing like the cold reception I expected.
"I'm Vittoria Sartori. Bruno's sister."
I nod. My voice seems to have abandoned me.
"Welcome to the family." She takes my hand and squeezes it. Her grip is firm. Reassuring. "I know this isn't... traditional. But you're one of us now."
One of us.
People start moving. The ceremony is over. My family rises from their pew. The Sartoris do the same. Bodies converge around us in a blur of dark suits and expensive perfume.
Someone hugs me. I think it's Gianna. Her arms wrap around my waist and she whispers something I can't quite hear. Then Claudio is there, his hand on my shoulder, his expression tight with worry.
Papa hangs back. He won't meet my eyes.
Good.
I don't want to look at him either.
"Pietro."
Bruno's voice cuts through the noise. I turn.
He's already near the side door. The man who stood beside him during the ceremony—tall, dark-haired, built like a soldier—waits with one hand on the door handle.
"I need to get back to the compound." Bruno's tone is flat. Businesslike.
That's it.
He doesn't want to be here.
Neither do I.
This whole thing is ridiculous. A farce dressed up in white silk and church candles. We're strangers bound by paper and debt, and he can't even stand to be in the same room with me for more than twenty minutes.
Bruno wheels through the door. The heavy oak closes behind him with a sound like a coffin lid.
I'm alone.
Surrounded by people, but alone.
Vittoria appears at my side again. "Don't take it personally. Bruno is..." She pauses. Searches for the right word. "Adjusting."
Adjusting.
Is that what we're calling it?
I force a smile. "Of course."
Vittoria studies me for a moment. "Come on," she says. "Let me introduce you to everyone properly. The car can wait."
She takes my arm and guides me toward the cluster of Sartoris. I go because I don't know what else to do.
My husband just left me at the altar.
And somehow, I'm supposed to pretend that's normal.
Bruno
The side door closes behind me.
Stone walls. Dim lighting. The smell of old incense and candle wax.
I wheel down the narrow corridor toward the back exit. My hands grip the wheels hard enough to make my knuckles ache.
Footsteps behind me.
Valentino.
"That wasn't necessary."
I don't slow down. "Didn't ask."
"Bruno." His voice carries that tone. The one that says he's about to lecture me. "She's your wife now. You could have—"
"Could have what?" I stop. Spin the chair around to face him. "Kissed her? Pretended this is some fairy tale romance?"
Valentino stands with his arms crossed. Calm. Unruffled. Like he's watching a child throw a tantrum.
It makes me want to put my fist through the wall.
"You could have waited," he says. "We would have all left together. Like a family."
"I don't need your opinion." The words come out sharp. Jagged. "So shut the fuck up."
Valentino laughs.
My jaw clenches. "What's so funny?"
"You." He shakes his head. Still smiling. "You're actually very funny, Bruno."
"I'm hilarious."
"You are." He takes a step closer. "It's like you have curses waiting to come out of your mouth. Loaded and ready. For no reason at all, actually."
I stare at him.
He stares back.
"You could have just waited," he continues. "Sat there for another ten minutes. Let everyone say their goodbyes. Then we all leave together, and nobody thinks twice about it."
"And instead?"
"Instead, you look like an asshole." Valentino shrugs. "In front of her. In front of both families. In front of God, if you believe in that sort of thing."
The corridor feels smaller suddenly. The walls pressing in.
I think about her face. The way she stood there at the altar, veil still covering her features, waiting for a kiss that never came. The way her shoulders stiffened when I wheeled backward instead of forward.
I humiliated her.
I know I did.
"I don't give a damn."
The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.
Valentino's expression shifts. Just slightly. The amusement fades, replaced by something sharper. Something that sees too much.
"You sure about that?"
"Positive."
He doesn't believe me. I can see it in the way he tilts his head. The way his eyes narrow.
But he doesn't push.
That's the thing about Valentino. He knows when to stop. When to let silence do the work instead of words.
I turn the chair back around. Start wheeling toward the exit again.
"The car's waiting," I say over my shoulder. "Let's go."
His footsteps follow. Steady. Patient.
Like he's got all the time in the world.
Like he knows something I don't.