Chapter 2 #3
Pain tore through my chest like something alive, like a wound that refused to close no matter how much blood had already been spilled.
My mind kept replaying it—the flicker of her hand against the glass, the hollow depth in her eyes, the way she didn’t look back a second time.
Gone.
And I had let her go.
My jaw tightened until it hurt.
“Boss...”
The voice came from behind me.
Renzo, my third in command.
I didn’t turn immediately.
“It’s almost twelve,” he said, his voice steady but carrying a hint of caution. “Everyone has been waiting in the church since eight.”
He paused, deliberately choosing his next words.
“Your bride is still at the altar,” he added more quietly. “She hasn’t sat down once. She’s been standing there the entire time.”
My eyes flickered at that.
“Three hours,” he continued. “She refused to sit, no matter how many times she was asked.”
Three hours.
Standing. Waiting.
For me.
“We promised them you’d be there by noon.”
Silence followed.
Heavy. Expectant.
I exhaled slowly, forcing the remnants of something dangerously close to emotion back into place.
Then I turned.
The movement was unhurried. Every inch of it measured.
My gaze landed on Renzo.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t drop his eyes.
But I saw it.
The tension in his shoulders.
The way his jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Respect.
And something just beneath it.
Awareness.
He knew exactly what kind of day this was.
I swallowed once, pushing down the knot tightening in my throat, and lifted my wrist.
The watch face gleamed faintly in the sunlight.
11:55.
Five minutes.
That was all that stood between this mountain—
And the man I was expected to become in the city below.
I lowered my arm.
Gave a single, sharp flick of my fingers.
The signal.
The response was instant.
Men moved into position like a well-oiled machine, forming a corridor around me without a word.
Boots shifted against gravel. Jackets straightened. Weapons adjusted subtly but deliberately.
I walked forward.
The armored Maybach waited at the center of it all.
Black. Immaculate.
Untouched by the blood still drying on my skin.
The door opened before I reached it.
Handled like it was something sacred.
Like I was something to be protected.
Or feared.
Both worked.
I stepped inside without a word.
The door closed behind me with a soft, airtight whisper.
The world outside vanished.
Inside, the air was cool and sterile.
A stark contrast to the chaos still clinging to me.
I leaned back into the leather seat.
It was smooth and unforgivingly clean against the mess I carried.
Blood had soaked into my shirt, dried in places, still damp in others.
It clung to my skin, sticky and heavy, but I didn’t move to fix it.
Didn’t care.
Let them see.
Let them smell it.
Let them understand exactly what I had been doing while they waited.
Up front, Renzo sat beside the driver.
Straight-backed.
Silent.
The entire vehicle felt like it was holding its breath.
Like even sound itself knew better than to exist without permission.
I let the quiet stretch.
Long enough for discomfort to settle.
Then I spoke. “Is Matteo present?”
Renzo answered immediately, his voice respectful, tight with restraint.
“Yes, boss. He came.”
A beat. “It’s his daughter’s wedding, after all.”
Matteo was one of the Spanish mafia—a spineless, weak man who also happened to be the father of my bride.
I had warned him not to come to this wedding, yet I knew he would ignore the warning and show up anyway.
And he did.
I let my head tilt slightly, resting against the seat as my gaze shifted to the tinted window beside me.
The reflection staring back wasn’t clean.
I didn’t have feelings for my bride—and it wasn’t personal.
A man like me, shaped by damage, doesn’t know how to love.
The idea of it has always felt foreign, unnatural.
She, however, was always there.
A girl who became obsessed with me early on—following me through college, then all the way to university—always calling herself my girlfriend.
At first, I dismissed it.
We were the only ones with ties to Italy in both my high school and university in London, and I assumed it was nothing more than familiarity.
But when I returned to Italy and she was still there, still pursuing me, it became clear—her feelings were real, whatever that meant to others.
And then, once, she saved my life.
After that, I let her into my space.
I owed her something—so I told her to ask for anything, as payment for her loyalty and what she had done.
She asked me to marry her.
Marriage was never part of my plans.
I had erased the idea long ago.
My only purpose was justice—for those who destroyed me, and for my sister.
But I honored my word.
That is how she became my bride today.
As for what this marriage will look like after the exchange of rings—once we stand at that altar—I don’t know.
The car was already moving fast, as if racing against time—we had less than five minutes until the twelve noon we had promised to arrive.
The convoy followed behind us, maintaining formation and matching our speed, providing cover.
My hands rested on my thighs.
Still. Unmoving.
I flexed my fingers once.
Slowly. Testing.
They didn’t shake.
They never did. Not anymore.
The city came into view gradually—stone replacing trees, noise replacing silence, life replacing the controlled emptiness of the mountains.
Soon, we arrived at the cathedral and descended into the private garage beneath it.
The transition was immediate.
Light gave way to shadow.
The sound of the outside world dulled, replaced by the controlled acoustics of enclosed space.
Tires whispered over polished concrete, smooth and quiet, the convoy gliding into position with precise coordination.
The car hadn’t even come to a full stop before the door was opened.
I stepped out.
The air was cooler down here.
A line of armed officers stood waiting.
Not mine.
Italian military.
Uniforms pressed to perfection, medals catching the artificial light in sharp glints of gold and silver.
Boots polished. Posture rigid.
The moment my foot touched the ground—
They snapped to attention.
Salutes came sharp.
Synchronized. Perfect.
I didn’t return it.
Didn’t need to.
I held no rank. No official title.
No position within their structure.
And yet—
They stood like I commanded them.
Because in many ways—
I did.
They had seen me too often beside the president.
Too often in rooms where decisions were made behind closed doors.
Too often standing where men like me were never supposed to stand.
Influence spoke louder than rank.
Power louder than law.
When I had requested additional security—
To ensure the Spanish factions didn’t turn my wedding into a bloodbath...
They had delivered.
Without hesitation. Without question.
Because they understood what would happen if they didn’t.
Even with that—
I had limited who entered the cathedral.
The bride’s bloodline was Spanish.
A complication.
A risk.
Only a handful of her relatives had been allowed inside.
Carefully chosen. Carefully vetted.
Matteo—her father—was not among them. He had earned that exclusion, yet somehow, he still managed to be present.
I stepped forward, leaving the garage behind me.
The weight of the day settled across my shoulders as I moved.
Like armor.
This wedding would happen.
No matter what stood in its way.
The promise would be kept.
Not for love. Not for tradition.
But because I had said it would be done.
And when I said something—
It was done.
The side entrance of the cathedral loomed ahead.
Heavy oak doors.
Old. Solid.
I pushed one open.
It groaned on its iron hinges, the sound deep and resonant, echoing faintly into the vast interior beyond.
Cool air met me first.
Then silence.
Renzo stepped in at my left without a word.
Broad. Tense.
Every inch of him coiled like a weapon waiting to be used.
On my right—
General Marco Rossi.
Italy’s most decorated active commander.
His presence alone carried weight.
His uniform was immaculate, every line sharp, every medal precisely placed.
Neither man spoke. They didn’t need to.
The three of us walking together said everything.
The effect was immediate.
Whispers spread through the nave like dry leaves caught in a sudden wind. Heads turned. Conversations died mid-sentence. Eyes followed.
Wide. Curious. Uneasy.
The organ faltered.
Just for a second.
A single broken note hanging awkwardly in the air before the musician corrected, lowering the volume instinctively.
Respect.
Or fear.
Sometimes they looked the same.
We didn’t head toward the altar.
Not yet.
Instead, Renzo guided the path toward a narrow corridor off to the side—shadowed, quieter, away from the crowd and the spectacle.
The sacristy.
Converted into something more useful.
The door closed behind us with a soft, final click—sealing in privacy, as close as I ever allowed myself to get.
I crossed the stone floor without hesitation, each step echoing faintly, until I reached the wardrobe standing against the far wall, framed in dark walnut.
I stopped in front of it, opened it, and stared at the suit I would be wearing before stepping to the altar.
I glanced over my shoulder.
Renzo and General Rossi stood by the door, their backs turned but their attention fixed on it—guarding the space, giving me privacy without ever truly stepping away.
Half-privacy.
Enough.
I reached for the hem of my shirt and pulled it off.
The fabric resisted slightly, sticking to dried blood along my chest before peeling away.
I dropped it without care.
Then the trousers.
Discarded.
The new suit waited.
Perfect. Untouched.
Midnight-black wool, tailored with precision sharp enough to cut through perception itself.
Milan craftsmanship.
I stepped into the trousers first.
The silk lining brushed against my skin, cool and clean, a stark contrast to the heat still lingering beneath it.
The shirt came next. Crisp white cotton.
Each button fastened slowly.