20. Valerio
VALERIO
She’s beautiful, I can’t help but think.
Dressed in a cream satin, with Alessio beside her and Savannah fixing the edge of her veil. She looks calm. Too calm. Her eyes find mine, and I feel the distance between us pull tight.
She isn’t angry today.
That should ease something in me, but it doesn’t. I can handle her anger, because that, I understand anger. But I have no idea what to do with the look on her face because I have never seen her worried since she moved into my home.
“Let’s go get married,” I tell her, keeping my feelings away from my voice.
The room is full. Society guests, capi, allies, and friends. Everyone is wearing a smile, except my bride.
Still, I try to convince myself that this protects her.
Rafael’s warning has been living under my skin for three days.
Never let Mateo see what you love.
I have done the opposite. I put her in satin, gave her my ring, and invited half the city to witness it.
I could have protected her financially without marriage. I could have paid Camillo’s debts, ruined anyone who threatened her, and kept my hands clean enough to leave her alone.
But I took advantage of the situation, because I wanted her. I always have. I never stopped.
“Dearly beloved…”
The officiant begins. Standard vows, no embellishment. Federica’s parents sit in the front row, preening with the importance of the day. I remember Elena’s voice at dinner, her little cuts, Federica’s hand trembling in mine afterward, and distaste turns my mouth bitter.
To their credit, they haven’t made a scene today, and that fits the terms of their invite. One wrong move, and I’ll have security escort them out.
Federica steps closer.
“Don’t look so thrilled,” she murmurs, barely moving her lips. “You might pull a muscle.”
I look down at her.
There she is. Sharp and witty and funny enough to save me from myself.
“That’s on you,” I murmur back. “You overdressed for this hostage situation.”
Her mouth curves. It nearly undoes me.
The officiant clears his throat, and Federica lowers her gaze, but her hand brushes mine once. A soft warning. Or a promise. With her, I can never tell until it’s too late.
“We’ll begin with the vows,” the officiant says. “Repeat after me.”
I take her right hand in mine.
“I, Valerio, take you, Federica, to be my wife. To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to honor until death do us part.”
I feel every lie and every truth in it. I have no right to have her. I already do, in every way that matters to me.
When it’s her turn, she looks at me.
“I, Federica, take you, Valerio, to be my husband. To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to honor until death do us part.”
The truth on her face nearly breaks me. Because, despite all I did to her, she seems to care about me. It’s more than I ever deserved.
The officiant gives me the ring. “With this ring, I thee wed.”
Her fingers are cold when I slide the band on. I want to close both hands around hers and warm them. I want to put my mouth to her palm. I want to ask if she meant what I overheard in the hallway, if she truly knows I would never hurt her.
Instead, I hold still.
She takes my ring next. Her fingertips graze my knuckle. My pulse answers hard.
This woman is going to ruin me, and the worst part is I invited it.
“With this ring, I thee wed,” she repeats, as she pushes the ring into place.
It’s scripted, ceremonial. It should mean nothing but it does to me.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
The room seems to inhale.
Federica lifts her chin.
I bend toward her.
The kiss is supposed to be brief. Chaste. Public. A seal on a contract.
My mouth touches hers, and every clean intention I have ever had disappears.
I keep it restrained. I have to. Still, we linger a fraction too long. Her breath catches against my lips, and her hand tightens around mine.
That hand squeeze saves me.
I pull back.
Applause breaks around us.
Federica keeps her gaze on me for a beat, and I see color high on her cheeks. Not anger. Not exactly.
Then I look past her.
Camillo stands where my best man should stand. His smile is present for the guests, but his eyes are fixed on our joined hands. Then on Federica’s mouth.
For one unguarded second, his face darkens.