Dante
Six Months Later
I'm standing at the altar trying not to fidget with my tie when Marco leans over and whispers, "You look like you're about to throw up."
"I'm not going to throw up," I mutter back. "I'm just... processing."
"Processing what?"
"The fact that I'm getting married in the same church where I killed three men during Rina's first wedding attempt."
Marco snorts, trying to cover it with a cough when Father Alessandro shoots us a disapproving look. "Only you would find that romantic, Dante."
He's not wrong. When Sofia suggested we get married at St. Anthony's—the same church where the Rossos have held family celebrations for three generations—I pointed out the obvious irony. Her response was typically Sofia: "Then we're reclaiming it. Making new memories to replace the bad ones."
Can't argue with that logic. Though I still think it's a little twisted that our wedding guests are sitting in the same pews where I once dove for cover during a shootout.
The organ music shifts, and my stomach does this weird flutter thing that has nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with the fact that in about thirty seconds, I'm going to see Sofia in a wedding dress.
A real one this time, chosen because she loves it, not because some psychopath forced her into it.
The side door opens, and Elena appears first, looking elegant in dark blue and shooting me a wink as she takes her place. Behind her comes Rina, radiant in her role as matron of honor, dabbing at her eyes like she's been crying for the past hour. Which, knowing Rina, she probably has been.
Then the music changes again—Wagner's "Bridal Chorus," because Sofia has a sense of humor about tradition—and everyone stands.
And there she is.
Jesus Christ, there she is.
The dress is simple, elegant, nothing like the elaborate nightmare Kieran had picked out. This one is all Sofia—clean lines, delicate lace, the kind of understated beauty that takes your breath away. But it's not the dress that makes my chest tight.
It's her smile. Pure joy, no fear, no doubt, just happiness as she walks down the aisle toward me. Toward us. Toward the life we're choosing together.
Vito is the one walking her down the aisle, which caused some interesting family dynamics when we were planning this thing.
Sofia's wanted someone who had actually been there for her when it mattered.
Vito, for his part, looked terrified when she asked—like she'd just handed him the most precious thing in the world and trusted him not to drop it.
Which, I guess, she had.
They reach the altar, and Vito lifts Sofia's veil with gentle hands before kissing her forehead. Then he turns to me, and for a moment we're not Don and enforcer.
"Take care of her," he says quietly.
"Always," I reply, and mean it with every fiber of my being.
Sofia takes my hands, and immediately some of the surreal quality of this moment fades. This is real. This is happening. This incredible woman is about to become my wife, and somehow I managed not to fuck it up.
Father Alessandro begins the ceremony, and I try to pay attention, but mostly I'm just looking at Sofia.
The way the light from the stained glass windows catches in her hair.
The small scar on her cheek that's faded to a thin silver line—a reminder of what we survived together.
The way she's looking at me like I'm everything she's ever wanted.
"The couple has written their own vows," Father Alessandro announces, and Sofia goes first.
She talks about choosing love over fear, about finding home in a person instead of a place, about how I make her feel brave enough to be herself.
Her voice wavers slightly when she gets to the part about choosing me every day for the rest of her life, and I have to fight the urge to kiss her right there.
Then it's my turn, and suddenly my carefully planned words seem inadequate.
"Sofia," I start, then stop, shaking my head. "Six months ago, you told me I was wrong about something. That you were never my prisoner—I was yours. You were right. You are the most beautiful cage I've ever been trapped in, and I never want to escape."
A few people in the audience chuckle, including Sofia, whose eyes are bright with unshed tears.
"You make me want to be better than I am. You make me believe that someone like me can deserve someone like you. And even though I'm still not sure I do, I'm selfish enough to keep you anyway."
"Dante," she whispers, half laughing, half crying.
"I promise to protect you, to support your crazy decisions—like walking naked into freezing water—to make you laugh when you're sad, and to love you so hard that you never doubt your worth again.
Also, I promise to let you win at least half our arguments, because let's be honest, you're going to win them anyway. "
The laughter from the congregation is louder this time, and even Father Alessandro is trying not to smile.
The rest of the ceremony passes in a blur of rings and promises and the kind of happiness that feels too big for my chest. When Father Alessandro finally says the words—"You may kiss the bride"—I don't wait for him to finish.
Sofia laughs against my mouth as I dip her dramatically, earning applause and a few wolf whistles from Marco and the other soldiers scattered throughout the pews.
"Show off," she murmurs when I pull her upright.
"I'm your show off now, princess."
"Damn right you are."
The reception is held at the Greenhouse, because Vito insisted and because arguing with him on his sister-in-law's wedding day seemed like a bad idea.
The backyard has been transformed into something magical—string lights hanging from every tree, flowers everywhere, tables draped in white linen that somehow manages to look elegant instead of overdone.
I'm sitting at the head table, watching Sofia laugh at something Elena is saying, when Marco drops into the chair beside me.
"So," he says, loosening his tie. "How does it feel to be a married man?"
"Like I got away with something I shouldn't have," I admit, taking a sip of my whiskey.
"You did. Sofia Gallo is way too good for you."
"Sofia Mancini," I correct automatically, then grin. "And yeah, she is."
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the organized chaos of the reception. Elena is regaling the ladies with some story that involves dramatic hand gestures, Rina is crying again while Vito pats her shoulder lovingly, and Sofia is right in the middle of it all, absolutely glowing.
"Speaking of Elena," I say, noticing how Marco's attention keeps drifting toward the head table. "When are you going to do something about that?"
"About what?"
"The massive crush you've had on her since she shot three men in a moving car."
Marco's jaw tightens. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Right. And I don't know what happiness looks like."
Before Marco can respond with what I'm sure would be a creative way to tell me to mind my own business, the music changes and Sofia appears at my elbow.
"Time for our first dance, husband."
The word sends a thrill through me that I'm definitely not admitting to out loud. "Lead the way, wife."
The dance floor clears as we move to the center, and I pull Sofia into my arms for what is technically our first dance as married people but feels like a continuation of something we started months ago.
"No regrets?" I ask as we sway to something slow and romantic that I definitely didn't pick out.
"Only one," she says, and my heart stops for a second until she continues. "I should have demanded a chocolate fountain."
"We can get divorced and do it again with a chocolate fountain."
"Don't even joke about that, Dante Mancini. I went through hell to get you to marry me."
"Pretty sure it was the other way around, princess."
"Agree to disagree."
As the song ends and other couples join us on the dance floor, I catch sight of Vito watching from the edge of the crowd. He raises his glass slightly when our eyes meet—a silent toast to whatever comes next.
Because this isn't really an ending, is it? It's a beginning. The start of whatever Sofia and I are going to build together, in a world that's still dangerous, still complicated, still full of people who might want to hurt us.
But tonight, surrounded by family and friends and the woman who chose to love me despite every reason not to, I'm not worried about tomorrow.
Tonight, I'm just a man dancing with his wife, grateful for every choice that led us here.
"I love you, Mrs. Mancini," I whisper against her ear.
"I love you too, Mr. Mancini. Now and always."
Now and always. I like the sound of that.
After all, we've got the rest of our lives to figure out what comes next.