19. Allie
Allie
The double white doors leading to the chapel stare me down like they know something I don’t.
All filigree and stained glass, framed by enough freshly cut flowers to make a florist retire early.
The air reeks of roses. Or is that my impending doom?
My dress, once light and floaty—like a whimsical, ethereal dream—now feels like it's made of lead.
In front of me stand my bridesmaids, all dressed in lilac. They’re smiling, but it’s the smile you give someone about to bungee jump without checking the cord. And every single one of them keeps scanning at the exit behind me.
Yeah, same, ladies. Same.
I’ve side-eyed that door at least five times.
How hard would it be to pull a full-on Runaway Bride?
Dash out, barefoot, veil flying, straight into the limo I know is parked outside.
But Julia Roberts had somewhere to run. I don’t.
The last time Violet checked, my parents weren’t even here and I have nowhere to go. That’s my reality.
I snort, the sound so loud and unladylike that all five heads whip toward me. I can’t help it. Laughter bubbles up and spills out, wild and lawless. The wedding planner looks like she’s seconds away from hitting me with a tranquilizer dart. Honestly? I’d welcome it.
I’m crazy. That’s the only explanation. Certifiably deranged. I’m about to marry a man who treats conversation like a hostage negotiation and offers touches like they’re tax deductible. All for the grand prize of not being shackled to the mafia.
Violet, scribbling notes into her phone like my breakdown is prime content for her next bestseller, wasn’t wrong.
This is a great story. A genuine mafia princess escapes one prison only to chain herself to the world's grumpiest human in the name of freedom. Someone get Hollywood on the line and I sure as hell better see a royalty check. I’m taking one for the team here.
“I’m sorry,” I wheeze, wiping away tears while trying to breathe through the laughter. “I’m fine. It’s fine.”
“How much champagne did you give her?” Violet hisses at Valeria as if I’m a toddler who got into the liquor cabinet.
“Not enough,” I groan, still half-laughing. I should’ve polished off the entire bottle. Hindsight is a bitch. Liquid courage might be cliché, but clichés exist for a reason. Insert my current situation.
Sienna leans in, eyes wide. “Did someone slip her a happy pill?”
The wedding planner clears her throat, clipboard clutched tight, and she’s two seconds from snapping it with tension. “They’re… uh… about to start.”
Right. Showtime. I suck in a breath, straighten my spine, and face the firing squad.
“Well,” I say, flashing the girls a grin that probably borders on unhinged, “let’s get this circus on the road.”
The music starts, and I step to the side, waiting for the double doors to swing open like I’m a contestant on The Price Is Right. Except, instead of running toward a brand-new car, I’m strutting into a marriage with a man who views me like I’m as valuable as an expired coupon.
I glance to my left, to the spot where Papa should be standing. His arm should be out, solid and secure, ready to walk me down the aisle. Instead? Empty. Just me, a fistful of nerves, and the realization that my family officially RSVP’d hell no to my wedding.
It’s not amusing anymore.
The sarcastic little giggle I’d been holding onto dies a quick death, replaced by the cold slap of reality. This is it. My only trip down the aisle, and I’m doing it solo. No Papa. No Mama. Not even a rogue second cousin who only shows up for free booze and Instagram photo ops.
The pews are packed with Bennettis, all smiling like this isn’t a sham stitched together with forced vows and mutual indifference.
They’re whispering behind programs printed with Enrico & Alessandra, like we’re some fairytale couple and not two strangers playing house because life backed us into a corner.
And my family? Nowhere. The people who raised me to be the perfect mafia princess bride couldn’t be bothered. No handbook, no pep talk, no “Here’s how to fake a smile while legally binding yourself to a cyborg.” Just radio silence and a gaping hole where familial encouragement should be.
Violet, ever the opportunist, is standing near the front, not-so-discreetly jotting notes on her phone with that stupid little iPen.
I see you, Violet. Don’t think I’ve missed the way your eyes flick from me to Rico, like we’re live-streaming the plot of your next bestseller.
If the title ends up being Married to Mr. Miserable, I want a cut of the profits.
A knot forms in my throat, but I swallow it down. Tears won’t change anything. The doors creak open, and the music swells. But the dream I had as a little girl—the one where my Papa kissed my cheek and told me how proud he was? Gone.
So, I do what De Lucas do. I straighten my spine, lift my chin, and step forward. Alone.
Because if my family won’t show up for me, I sure as hell will.
Violet goes first, smile glued on like she’s trying to assure herself this isn’t a slow-motion train wreck. She peeks back one last time like she expects me to yank up my skirts and bolt. Can’t blame her. I’d place that bet, too.
Then a deep voice rumbles beside me. “May I?”
I blink, because I’ve clearly lost my mind. Ricardo Bennetti, the Ricardo, stands there in a tuxedo, hand outstretched. My almost-father-in-law. The man I’ve exchanged maybe a dozen words with since signing my life away.
My throat closes up again, but this time, it’s not bitterness clawing its way up. It’s something delicate. Warmer. My Papa isn’t here, but this man—this almost stranger—is offering to walk me down the aisle.
“You’re walking me down?” I manage, voice splintering. I really can’t afford to burst into full-out waterworks — not with how long this makeup took.
His smile is soft but sure. “No woman should walk down the aisle alone.”
And just like that, my vision blurs. Because if my real father won’t stand beside me, maybe the man giving me away should be the one whose name I’ll be stuck with. The one whose son I’m about to marry. For better, for worse, and presumably in silence.
I clear my throat, swallowing down the bile creeping up my esophagus like it’s late to the party, but determined to make a debut.
Best not to dwell on the future. A future where I’m legally bound to a man who treats conversation like it’s a finite resource, and I’ve already maxed out the monthly allowance.
I slide my hand through Papa’s arm, and the music shifts to the wedding waltz. Romantic. Sweeping. Like I’m about to step into the happily ever after part of my life, not an arranged marriage with a human version of airplane mode.
Just as I’m about to take that first, life-altering step, Papa tightens his grip, snapping me back. The wedding planner—poor thing—goes pale. She looks one deep breath away from hyperventilating into the floral arrangement beside her.
Papa turns me to face him, brows squeezed in doubt, mouth set in a grim line. “Do you want to do this?”
I blink up at him, confused. “I…uh…bit late for that question, don’t you think?” My laugh comes out sharp, brittle like glass cracking under pressure. Seriously, what is wrong with me? Stress-induced hysteria? Is the champagne hitting faster than expected?
Papa doesn’t budge. “Do you?”
His voice stays soft, but his eyes? Stone cold serious. Like he might actually lug me out of here if I so much as wavered. Meanwhile, the wedding planner looks like she’s mentally updating her resume. Expert crisis manager. Can corral brides with minimal casualties.
“Why does it matter?” I ignore the tension in my throat that makes it come out like a croak.
It’s a logical question. This man helped orchestrate the arrangement. He’s the reason Rico’s even wearing a tux instead of sitting in his soundproof office, happily ignoring the existence of humanity. Why the sudden concern for the lamb about to marry the emotionally suppressed wolf?
Not that Papa’s an evil man. Quite the contrary.
He’s been nothing but kind, accommodating, and oddly chill about the fact that I have a get-out-of-marriage-free card if I’m miserable.
Divorce him if you want, he’d said, like it was that simple.
As if the Big Man Upstairs would just shrug and let me walk away from it all.
But we both know the truth. Vows aren’t poetry. They’re shackles. In sickness and in health. For better, for worse. Til death do us part. And death? In this world? It’s not a metaphor.
I lift my chin, swallowing around the knot in my throat. “I’m not walking down that aisle unless I’m sure.”
“And are you?” He combs my face like he’s trying to read between the lines of a contract. “Because I will not be able to live with myself if you’re doing this out of obligation.”
Obligation. That word tastes bitter.
I’ve always wanted marriage. Kids. A home with laughter, disorder, and the occasional sock stuffed between couch cushions. Did I picture getting there through an arranged marriage with a man who stares at me like I’m background noise? Absolutely not.
But life doesn’t care about plans. If anyone knows how quickly dreams can sour, it’s a woman raised in the Cosa Nostra. We adapt. We survive. We smile while the world burns and pretend we don’t smell the smoke.
“I’m fine,” I say, squeezing his arm. “I want Rico to be my husband.”
The words hang there, massive and hollow. They don’t suffocate me like I thought. Don’t delight me, either. I feel…nothing. A dull, numbing acceptance. Great. Rico’s indifference must be contagious. Can apathy spread through prolonged exposure?
Papa studies me a moment longer, while the wedding planner shifts from foot to foot like she’s two seconds from throwing herself between us, shrieking Think of the timeline!
I pat his hand. “We’re ready,” I announce, more for her benefit than his. Papa clears his throat, visibly resigned, and together we step toward the double doors.
The chapel is packed. Not just oh, it’s a big wedding packed, but Coachella headliner packed. Bodies stuffed into pews like sardines, all decked out in designer clothing. Hundreds of faces turn to look at me like I’m the halftime show they didn’t know they signed up for.
Holy hell. I knew it was going to be a big wedding—family, business associates, friends of the Bennetti empire—but standing here under the glare of crystal chandeliers and judgmental side-eyes? It’s suffocating. Like someone wrapped me in a cashmere blanket, only it’s on fire.
My stomach twists into a sailor’s knot, the kind you’d need a YouTube tutorial to untangle. Four hundred pairs of eyes, all dissecting my dress, my hair, my entire existence. I can practically hear the whispers. Is she nervous? Is that the girl Rico’s marrying? Do you think she’s being blackmailed?
I keep my chin up, pretending I don’t want to turn around and sprint out the door. Focus, Allie. Eyes forward. One foot in front of the other.
Father Alberti comes into view first, standing at the altar like he’s about to preside over the social event of the season, his smile a little too enthusiastic for a wedding that has all the warmth of a business merger.
He beams at me like I’m the embodiment of true love and not a woman speed running her way to freedom.
My gaze shifts to Rico.
Stone-faced. Hands clasped in front of him, ready for his trial and not waiting for his bride.
His dark hair is swept back, not a strand out of place, and his jaw—freshly shaved, sharp enough to slice through my last shred of sanity—locks into its default setting: brooding.
He stands tall, broad, and impeccably tailored, the black suit hugging every inch of his gym-earned muscles.
Italian James Bond, minus the charm and martini.
And damn it, my stomach flutters. Actually flutters. Like a lovesick teenager spotting her crush in the cafeteria. What the hell is wrong with me?
But there’s no ignoring the fact he’s infuriatingly, sinfully hot.
From the powerful lines of his shoulders to those cold, unwavering amber eyes, he’s the man romance novels warn you about.
The “don’t fall for the emotionally unavailable billionaire” type.
Only plot twist—I’m not falling. I’m marrying him.
And that scowl? Should be off-putting. Should make me want to moonwalk out of this chapel and into witness protection. Instead, it’s a turn-on. Full-blown, heart-racing, why-do-I-hate-myself level attraction.
I walk forward, bouquet clutched like a lifeline, and for a split second, I swear his jaw twitches.
A smile? No. Couldn’t be. Gone faster than a decent man on a dating app.
His eyes sweep down my body, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorizing every inch of the dress I obsessed over for weeks. Like he approves.
Every nerve in my body screams run, but his gaze pins me in place. I don’t hear the music. Don’t notice the hundreds of eyes watching. It’s just us, locked in a silent standoff that feels more intimate than it should.
Never thought I’d buy into that whole “eyes are the windows to the soul” nonsense, but Rico?
His exterior might be carved from ice, but those eyes…
they burn. Golden flecks glint in the sunlight streaming through the stained glass, like embers refusing to die.
There’s heat there, buried deep, under layers of indifference and avoidance.
I’m used to men looking at me—usually with an expression that spells out their intentions in neon lights. Rico doesn’t need an expression. He could wear a ski mask, and I’d still feel it.
He wants me.