11. Gianna
GIANNA
T he next morning brings out a pale sun, filtered through heavy clouds that threaten rain but never follow through.
A hush seems to hang over the estate, as if even the birds know not to sing too loud today.
From the south wing balcony, I can see the garden being set up with crisp white canopies, gold-rimmed chairs, and an arch of dark red roses climbing up two marble columns like they were born to bloom just for this occasion.
Every detail has been curated by Valentina’s staff, swift and efficient as always, but I can see the mark of her hand in the choice of colors, the restraint in the design.
This is not a Salvatore showpiece.
It is a Salvatore mandate dressed up in dignity.
Seven days have passed since I came to stay here, and today is my wedding day.
The suite feels balmy, but not overwhelming.
Arietta has found a ribbon in the shape of a crown and is now demanding that I pin it into her hair with the seriousness of a royal coronation.
Alessia, meanwhile, is pacing between the closet and the full-length mirror, twirling every few minutes in her ivory dress, the silk catching the light with every motion.
She giggles as she spins, little shoes tapping the floor in a rhythm all her own.
They are excited in the purest way children can be, untouched by the politics lurking in the vows that will be spoken.
Dante has spent more time with them this week than I expected.
He was awkward at first, visibly unsure of how to even speak to them without treating them like delicate artifacts, but children have a way of dragging the truth out of people.
By the third day, they were calling him "Papà" as naturally as if it had always been that way.
I watched them feed him berries from their plates at breakfast, heard their squeals echo across the courtyard when he chased them through the fountain paths, saw the softness enter his eyes when Arietta insisted on brushing his hair and told him he looked like a pirate king.
It was not perfect, but it was something.
Some beginning.
The danger now is not that they will not love him.
The danger is that they will.
I let my fingers run across the bodice of the dress I am meant to wear.
It is a column of pale champagne, heavy with hand-stitched embroidery, the fabric layered in silk and tulle without ever tipping into extravagance.
There is no veil.
No train.
Nothing that would suggest this was a fairytale.
Just elegance, order, and a reminder that I belong to something larger than my own wishes.
The ceremony is to be held under the open sky, between the marble lions that guard the entrance to the estate.
With the hour approaching, guests begin to arrive in waves.
They kiss each other on both cheeks and murmur pleasantries as they take their seats and glance around, gauging who else made the list.
These are not friends.
These are allies.
Business partners.
Rivals pacified by decorum.
The wedding is less about us than what we represent.
The Salvatores and the Rossis, no longer locked in tension but tied together by blood, by the twin daughters giggling behind the curtain, by the woman being walked down the stone path by her brother who still looks like he’s torn between being pleased and wanting to kill someone.
Rafa does not speak as he offers his arm.
He simply stares ahead, jaw set, hands steady.
But when he leans in slightly to whisper, I feel a coldness that has nothing to do with the weather.
"Please him, sister. This will benefit us greatly in the long run."
It is not in me to grace his comment with a reply, so I nod stiffly.
As we begin walking, my eyes travel over some of the guests.
There are many familiar faces here, but my gaze rests for a longer breath on Enzo, the Salvatore hitman.
From what I know, he was given his freedom after fulfilling a long-standing obligation to Luca.
On his arm is Aria Lombardi.
That pulls a little smile from me, and she returns it.
A love story for the ages, after all.
Good for them.
The music begins, stringed instruments playing slow and dignified.
The hush deepens.
The twins are already at the front, Alessia holding a small bouquet, Arietta holding a velvet cushion that carries the rings.
They are both standing on tiptoe to see better, craning their necks toward where Dante waits with Marco on one side and Luca on the other.
I feel the heat of every eye as I walk forward.
But I keep my gaze ahead.
Dante looks good in black.
Not flashy.
Not ostentatious.
It’s just a fine tailored suit that fits him like it was made for no one else, his hair combed back but still stubborn at the edges.
There’s a tightness around his mouth, and something unreadable in his eyes, but he doesn’t look away.
Neither do I.
The officiant speaks words that sound both ancient and binding.
When the moment comes to repeat my vows, I do so clearly, without wavering.
I speak the lines as required, but I don't soften them with my eyes.
When Dante repeats his, his voice is low, steady, and comfortingly calm.
The ring is slipped onto my finger, a simple band made of white gold.
I do the same.
A pair of doves are released, though no one watches them for long.
The kiss is brief.
A brush of mouths that barely touches.
Just enough to seal the contract in the eyes of the people around us.
There is no cheering.
Just polite applause, the scraping of chairs, the rise of music again as the guests begin to flow toward the reception tables.
The girls are in our arms instantly.
Arietta flings herself onto Dante like she has always known him, laughing, calling out how pretty everything is.
Alessia insists I twirl her once in my dress, clapping with delight as the skirts billow.
I do it once, but only once.
I am not in the mood to dance.
Valentina supervises the photographs, ensuring everything is properly documented for both records and appearances.
She kisses my cheek and whispers something in my ear I barely register.
I think it is a wish for peace.
Or strength.
Or both.
We move to the dining area, where a beautiful meal is served beneath a canopy of glass lanterns.
Guests speak softly, analyzing power shifts between bites of filet and spoonfuls of saffron risotto.
Toasts are made, all brief and political, with little warmth.
Later, when the children begin to yawn, I excuse myself and take them back to the suite.
Dante follows behind me, even though I don't ask him to.
And when Arietta stumbles against her own sleepiness, he lifts her before I can bend down.
She wraps her arms around his neck without hesitation.
His eyes meet mine as he holds her.
"I’ll carry her," he says, voice subdued so as to not wake her.
I nod, suppressing the wistful way his voice makes my heart clench.
Alessia trails behind us, clutching the hem of my dress, her eyes already heavy-lidded.
The halls are dim, the estate quieter now that the guests are leaving or retiring to the guest wing.
At the door to our suite, I open it and hold it wide for him to step through.
He does so without speaking.
Gently, he lays Arietta down on the bed in the twin’s bedroom , brushing her curls away from her face.
For a moment, he just stands there, looking at her like he still cannot believe she is real.
"She looks like you," I murmur.
He does not answer, but I can see the shift in his expression.
The awareness.
The slow acknowledgment of something that looks so much like love.
After the girls are settled and the nanny arrives to watch them through the night, I step out onto the private terrace to breathe and sit down on a chair.
I haven't bothered to take off my dress yet.
The night has turned cool, and the sky above is clear. A few stars have pushed past the clouds.
Dante joins me, a glass of amber liquid in his hand.
He sits beside me and just sips once and sets it down on the railing.
"Well," he says, "that was a hell of a day."
I look at him with a lopsided little grin.
"You think?"
Without bothering with formalities, I take his glass and sip the drink, relishing the sweet and surprisingly buttery-rich moreish mouthfeel.
He nods slowly.
"Better than I expected. Worse than I wanted."
That pulls a low laugh from me.
He isn’t wrong.
The alcohol makes everything quieter.
Not in the way that numbs, but in the way that softens the edges.
I take another sip, letting it warm my chest.
The breeze off the terrace smells of night jasmine and the faint smoke of celebratory cigars.
I can still hear laughter trailing from the upper hall.
Some of the older uncles have found the grappa stash.
Luca is likely playing diplomat, and Valentina has probably spirited away the children by now.
In the last hour of the ceremony, a tightness had formed in my throat, a strange ache that pressed at the corners of my heart as I watched my girls cling to a man who once would have vanished rather than be tied down.
But he hasn’t vanished.
And he is still here, sitting next to me in the hush of our wedding night, legs spread, hand cradling a glass he hasn’t touched in minutes.
He shifts slightly, his thigh brushing mine.
Not enough to startle.
Just enough to make me feel it.
"So," I say after a long silence, "this is it. Married."
He lets out a breath that could almost be a laugh.
"I didn’t think you’d let me put a ring on you. Figured you’d sooner run."
I smile despite myself.
"I thought about it."
Our eyes meet.
Something ignites in his, something both warm and unreadable.
His gaze drops to my mouth and lingers.
Then he leans back, exhales slowly, and says nothing else.
The wise thing would be to get up, tell him good night and retreat behind the heavy doors of the south wing suite, shed this dress, and climb into a bed that still feels foreign.
That would end this day with grace. But I stay seated.
The alcohol is nearly gone.
My hand is loose around the stem, and when I set the glass down, it tips slightly against the stone.
"I looked terrible in those pictures," I mutter, glancing toward the shuttered reception room.
He arches a brow.
"You’re kidding."
"The dress was too long."
"You looked like a fucking queen."
My mouth opens, something sardonic ready to escape, but his laugh breaks out first—quiet and sudden, a low rumble in his throat.
I blink at him.
"What?" I ask, half-smiling.
"You’re just…damn." He shakes his head, watching me with that same unreadable look. "I keep waiting for the part where this becomes real."
"It is real."
"Yeah," he says, voice lower now. "I’m starting to figure that out."
I laugh under my breath, my head tilting back just slightly, the tension of the day easing in my shoulders, letting something brighter slip through the cracks.
And when I look back at him, I catch him staring.
There is no warning.
One moment, I’m smiling.
The next, he's pulled me to his lap, and his mouth is on mine.