Chapter 35 Zara
The doors to St. Bellamy’s sanctuary open like the gates to my own personal hell.
I step forward on shaking legs, the sound of the Bridal March coming from the organ is broken only by the scraping of my heels against polished marble.
My dress fits perfectly, but it’s suffocating me in lace and feigned tradition.
Every stitch feels like a binding. The weight of the veil is nothing compared to the pressure in my chest. I count my steps, not to keep rhythm with the music but to keep from passing out.
When the doors close behind me, sealing my fate with a final, jarring thud, my heart drops.
Rows of strangers in borrowed tuxedos and gaudy jewelry fill the pews, their heads turning like vultures scenting blood.
There’s no warmth here, no joy. Only calculation, alliance, threat disguised as ceremony.
I keep my eyes forward, not because I want to see the man waiting at the altar, but because I can’t bear to see the smug, knowing faces of the crowd around me.
My father waits at the aisle's end. His face is full of pride and power masquerading as paternal love. When I reach him, he doesn’t smile. Just extends his arm, and I place my hand in his like a soldier receiving orders. His fingers clamp down, firm, unyielding.
Then he leans forward and disgust runs through me as he kisses my cheek. It’s a Judas kiss. Hollow, mocking. Meant for the cameras, for the watching eyes.
When he places my hand in Anthony Falco’s, I fight the urge to pull it back and scream. I look up at Anthony’s face, and it takes everything in me not to recoil. His smile is wide, teeth gleaming like he's already won.
He leans down, whispers near my ear, “Be sure to smile, my sweet bride.”
I grip the bouquet tighter, the stems cracking in my hand.
The priest clears his throat.
The gunshots start before he speaks.
Not one or two—a goddamn hailstorm. Screams rip through the pews. Heels clatter against marble. Someone knocks over a floral pedestal. The organist slumps forward onto the keys, letting out one last awful chord.
My veil is yanked back by the sudden gust as the sanctuary doors explode inward, and a black-clad battalion storms in, armed and unflinching. Controlled violence.
Gasps, cries, a woman shrieking somewhere near the back.
I don’t scream.
I don’t move.
I stand frozen in the center aisle, hands still wrapped tight around my bouquet like it’s a weapon.
I’d been prepared to marry a monster.
I’d shoved myself into this lace coffin, let them pin me into place and promise me away, just to keep the peace. Simply to stay alive.
But when the bullets start flying, I realize something I hadn’t been willing to admit, not even to myself.
I’d rather die than give myself to Anthony Falco.
A body drops near me, blood staining a powder-blue tux. Not Anthony. Unfortunately. That coward ran the moment the first shot rang out, vanishing into the vestry like the spineless rat he is.
I turn, twisting on instinct and arms wrap around my shoulders, my bouquet falling to the marble floor.
Hands, rough and strong, yank me back. I twist, kick, my heel connects with someone’s shin. A grunt. I try again, but this time a hand clamps over my mouth, and thick arms hold me tighter.
Then, a voice. Calm. Deep. Almost familiar.
“Don’t fight it, relax. You’re not meant for him.”
A hood drops over my head.
They think I’m scared.
That tying me to a chair, stripping me of my defenses could ever compare to being tied to Anthony Falco.
Maybe it worked for a minute. Maybe when I first arrived in this room—hands bound behind my back, ankles lashed to the legs of the chair, hood still covering my head.
But now as the adrenaline begins to fade, I welcome the escape they provided.
The two men that carried me here begin to walk away. One says to me, “Enzo will be in to see you soon.”
Enzo Marchetti. I should have known this could only be the work of another crime boss. The man that my father hated. The one he called a snake, the one that he vowed to destroy for as long as I can remember.
But I’m not screaming now.
Now, I’m just breathing. Waiting. Thinking.
Because if Enzo Marchetti is really the man behind this, he could be using me the same way my father was.
I twist my wrists against the binding again, the silk cord slipping against my skin, holding tight. I’m not getting out, but it helps to feel like there’s something that could lead to freedom.
Muffled voices drift through the door. I hear boots, laughter. Someone says “she’s ready” in a voice too smug for my liking. Then the door creaks open.
Three sets of footsteps. One heavier, slower. The others are more purposeful. One moves closer—close enough for me to feel the shift in the air beside me.
Then I hear it.
“Angel.”
My breath stalls.
My head tips forward slightly beneath the hood. I know that voice. Every syllable rolls over me like smoke and memory, far too intimate to mistake.
It’s him.
Theo. No, Enzo.
The room shifts and my mind tries to reconcile the fact that the man I haven’t stopped thinking about for two years is my family's rival. The change isn’t in sound or temperature, but in gravity—heavier, thick with revelation. My heart beats once, hard. My hands clench tighter.
I should be furious. Should scream and curse and remind him exactly how I feel about being tied to a chair. But I don’t. Because suddenly I’m not thinking about the restraints, or the blood in my mouth.
I’m thinking about him.
And what it means that he’s here.
There’s a rustle of fabric beside me. Then, a man begins to speak. Latin. Formal, reverent, practiced. Each word echoes off the walls, too surreal to process. When he says the name ‘Christus,’ I realize it’s a fucking priest.
This can’t be happening. “What the fuck are you doing?” I yell through the material.
A hand brushes mine. Not cruel. Not rough. Just steady. I feel the cool slide of a ring down my finger, and something in my chest twists so tight I forget how to breathe. The priest keeps going, unbothered by my question. Or my lack of consent.
And then—finally—the hood lifts. His mouth finds mine. Just the corner. Just enough to seal whatever oath he thinks this is.
I blink hard against the light, vision sharpening one second at a time.
Enzo is towering, dark-eyed, in a perfectly tailored tux that probably cost more than my father’s bribes last year.
That face that I know so well—sharp jaw, mouth like sin, looks down at me.
My stomach flips. Because I know that face.
He looks at me not with triumph, but something quieter. Something almost…protective.
Relief flares in my chest before I can kill it. Because it isn’t Anthony that slid a ring on my finger. I now belong to someone else.
And it’s a man that I know. My mind and my heart are at war inside me. I want to be pissed, but I also want to cry that I’m now protected by a man that I know isn’t going to let anything happen to me.
“You bastard,” I scold him to cover what my heart is screaming. “You had us married against my will?”
His mouth tips in a satisfied grin, eyes are steady on mine. “Correction, Mrs. Marchetti…” His voice drops an octave. “I saved you.”