Wrong Marriage. Right Bride (Wrong Vows #1)

Chapter 1

VINCENZO

Lombardy, Italy

The wind tore across the ridge like a blade dragged slowly over skin, sharp and carrying with it the raw scent of pine and the distant chill of snow that hadn’t yet fallen.

It clawed at my shirt, slipped beneath the fabric, and kissed old scars I no longer bothered to hide.

Up here, there was no warmth. No softness. Just the brutal honesty of the mountains.

Far below, the valleys stretched wide and indifferent—lush green folding into shadow, dotted with stone houses and narrow roads that twisted like veins through the land.

One of those roads led to Bergamo.

To the cathedral where a wedding is being held today—my wedding.

To a bride in white, standing at the altar — waiting for me.

And I will go to her.

I just need to handle something first—something important—right here on this mountain.

My jaw tightened.

Let her wait.

I stood at the edge of the ridge, my hands buried deep in the pockets of my black trousers.

The fabric of my white shirt clung faintly to my skin, damp from the morning mist that hadn’t yet burned away.

No jacket. No tie. No symbol of the role I was supposed to play today—the groom.

In my left hand, the Beretta sat familiar. Steady. Cold.

Then it trembled.

Not fear—I knew fear.

This was older. Something that had never left, just buried deep inside me.

It moved quietly through me, constant... like an old wound that never truly healed.

The wind clawed at my scars again, and suddenly I was nine.

The small door creaked open again.

I knew those footsteps before I even looked up—before I saw his face.

His cane tapped against the floor, slow and certain.

I remember the sound more than anything.

The pause before the door opened.

What followed is something I’ve never been able to put into words.

Only the aftermath remained.

I inhaled slowly, forcing the memory back where it belonged.

Buried.

Before me, Ottavio Orsini knelt in the dirt.

My father.

The name alone should have meant power. Authority. Protection.

Instead, it tasted like rot.

His wrists were bound tightly behind him, plastic biting into flesh. The duct tape across his mouth had begun to peel at the edges, damp from his uneven breathing.

He struggled against it, producing broken, muffled sounds—half-words, half animal panic.

Pathetic.

His eyes flicked up to meet mine. I saw it all there. Fear. Denial.

He still didn’t understand.

Even now.

Even here.

A bitter, humorless smile ghosted across my lips.

Today was meant to be my wedding day. But it was also the day of his reckoning.

Behind me, far down the slope, my men waited.

Engines idling. Radios silent. They knew better than to interrupt this. Some things a man had to finish alone.

In Bergamo, the church would be full by now.

Gold candles flickering against marble walls. Soft music filling the air. Guests whispering behind gloved hands, exchanging knowing glances.

The Orsini heir is finally settling down.

About time.

Power like that needs stability.

I could almost hear it.

The polite lies.

The quiet expectations.

The bride—beautiful, poised, chosen for all the right reasons—would be standing at the altar, her fingers curled around a bouquet she no longer felt.

Waiting. Wondering.

Humiliated.

Let them all wait.

Let them all learn what it meant to tie themselves to a man like me.

A sharp gust of wind swept past, tugging at the thin blanket draped over the figure beside me.

Loretta.

She sat in her wheelchair, unmoving, her small frame almost swallowed by the fabric wrapped around her legs.

The wind played with loose strands of her dark hair, brushing them across a face that had seen far too much for someone her age.

Her skin was pale, almost translucent in the mountain light.

Her cheeks hollowed by years that had taken more than they had given. But her eyes—

Her eyes were still there. Large. Brown. Steady.

They held no confusion. Only certainty.

I turned my head slightly, studying her in silence.

Once, those eyes had been filled with questions. Endless curiosity. Laughter that echoed through long hallways and sunlit gardens.

Now, they held something quieter. Something harder.

Loretta—my only sister, the one person I still count as family—had suffered in ways no one should endure.

She was left broken, reduced to a shadow of herself.

At the hands of the man kneeling in the dirt before us—Ottavio Orsini, my father.

My fingers tightened around the gun, as though the barrel were breathing back at me.

I forced them to loosen.

I took a step closer to her, then crouched—bringing myself down to Loretta’s level.

The world seemed to still around us.

Even the wind fell quiet, as if the mountain itself was holding its breath.

“Do you remember,” I said quietly, my voice rougher than I intended, “when you asked me if the moon followed us home?”

Her gaze shifted to me, and for a moment—just a moment—I saw it.

A flicker.

A ghost of the girl she used to be.

“You were convinced,” I continued, a faint breath of something almost like amusement brushing my words, “that it was chasing you. You cried for an hour because you thought it wanted its cheese back.”

Her lips twitched.

Not quite a smile. But close.

“You told me...” she murmured softly, her voice fragile but steady, “that it followed you because you were special.”

The memory hit harder than I expected.

It was three days before my ninth birthday—Loretta was eight.

We were on a rooftop in Tuscany that day. Warm tiles beneath our backs, melted gelato slipping through our fingers. Her laughter mixed with the hum of cicadas in the dark.

Before everything broke.

“You were,” I said.

The words came out low. “You still are.”

Silence stretched between us, heavy but not uncomfortable.

She held my gaze for a long moment, searching—maybe for doubt, maybe for weakness.

She found neither.

Slowly, deliberately, she nodded.

I straightened, the weight of the moment settling fully into place as I turned toward Ottavio Orsini—still kneeling in the dirt.

The wind returned, colder now.

Ottavio had gone completely still.

As if he could feel it.

The shift.

The end.

I stepped closer, my shoes crunching softly against gravel and frost.

Each step measured.

His breathing picked up again, fast and uneven behind the tape. His shoulders tensed, muscles straining against the restraints as he tried—one last time—to break free.

To speak.

To beg.

I stopped in front of him.

For a second, neither of us moved.

Father.

Son.

The distance between us felt infinite.

I tilted my head slightly, studying him the way I might study a stranger.

Because that’s what he was.

A stranger who had lived too long.

“You should have killed me when you had the chance,” I said quietly.

My voice carried easily in the open air, calm and devoid of emotion in a way that made it far more dangerous than shouting ever could.

His eyes widened as recognition flickered across his face, followed by something deeper—memory.

Good.

The Beretta rose in my hand, smooth, practiced.

The cold barrel pressed against his forehead.

He broke.

His entire body jerked violently, like a wire pulled too tight. Sweat beaded instantly across his brow despite the biting cold, sliding down his temple in uneven streaks.

His eyes widened, pupils blown so large the color nearly disappeared.

For a second, I saw how cornered he was—how terrified, how desperate to live.

He thrashed against the restraints again, as if some desperate miracle might still set him free.

His boots scraped uselessly against the rock, the sound sharp in the silence.

A strangled, panicked sound forced itself through the tape over his mouth, vibrating against the adhesive like something trying to claw its way out.

Begging.

I held the gun there.

Didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Let him feel it.

Let him understand.

Time stretched, thick and suffocating, each second dragging like a blade across exposed nerves.

The wind roared around us, but up close—this close—it felt like silence.

Just his breathing.

Fast. Broken.

Fear had a rhythm.

And I made sure he heard his.

Then, slowly... deliberately...

I lowered the gun.

Not to his chest. Not to his heart.

To his thigh.

His entire body sagged.

Relief hit him so hard it almost folded him in half. His shoulders dropped, a weak, broken exhale forcing its way past the tape as if he’d just been handed back his life.

I watched it happen.

Watched hope crawl back into his eyes like a disease.

A smile touched my lips.

Thin. Sharp. Merciless.

In one smooth motion, I let the Beretta fall from my hand.

It hit the rocks with a metallic crack, bounced once, then spun into the underbrush where it disappeared from sight.

His eyes followed it.

Confusion flickered.

Then something worse. Understanding.

Slowly, I reached behind me, fingers finding the familiar weight at the small of my back.

The dagger slid free with a soft, intimate whisper.

Carbon steel. Balanced. Perfect.

The blade caught the pale mountain light, gleaming with quiet promise. The handle—worn smooth from years of use—fit into my palm like it had been carved for me alone.

This was never meant to be quick.

My thumb nudged the leather sheath loose, letting it fall soundlessly to the ground.

I crouched in front of him.

Close.

Close enough to smell him.

Fear had a scent—sharp, sour, laced with something metallic. It clung to his skin, mixed with the faint ghost of expensive cologne he’d probably worn for the wedding.

How fitting.

With my free hand, I grabbed the edge of the tape sealing his mouth and tore it away in one brutal motion.

The sound tore through the air.

He gasped, a broken hiss escaping his lips as skin came away with the adhesive. His head jerked forward, breath shuddering in his chest like he had forgotten how to use his lungs.

“Vincenzo—”

My name cracked in his mouth.

Weak. Desperate. Wrong.