Chapter 34
Soon after we arrived in Italy, we took a week for ourselves while the rest of the mansion buzzed with preparations.
It felt unreal like the world had finally decided to give us a pause. No schedules. No chaos. Just quiet mornings and stolen afternoons.
This morning, I wake up tucked into Lorenzo’s chest, his arm heavy and warm around my waist.
His heartbeat is steady beneath my cheek, grounding me in a way I never knew I needed.
The curtains are half-drawn, sunlight painting soft gold across the room.
For a moment, I let myself believe this is all life will ever be slow breaths, shared warmth, and the comfort of being held like I belong here.
I shift slightly, careful not to wake him, but he tightens his hold anyway, half-asleep, as if his body knows when I try to slip away.
“Where do you think you’re going, piccola?” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
“Nowhere,” I whisper, smiling into his chest. “Just breathing.”
He hums, presses a lazy kiss to the top of my head, and tucks me closer. My fingers trace idle circles over his shoulder, the simple intimacy of it making my chest feel too full.
Then—
“LORENZOOOO!”
The shout echoes from downstairs, loud enough to rattle the quiet right out of the room.
I flinch. Lorenzo groans.
“Your grandfather?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Alexander,” he mutters, burying his face in my hair. “He wakes up every morning choosing violence.”
“LORENZO! IF YOU’RE STILL IN BED, I’M TELLING EVERYONE THE GREAT MAFIA KING IS AFRAID OF HIS OWN WEDDING!”
I bite my lip to stop a laugh. Lorenzo lifts his head, eyes narrowing toward the ceiling like he can see straight through the floors.
“I am not afraid,” he calls back. “I am prioritizing my wife.”
There’s a pause. Then Alexander’s voice returns, smug and delighted.
“Your wife will be late to her fittings if you keep prioritizing like that!”
Heat creeps into my cheeks. Lorenzo smirks down at me, clearly enjoying my embarrassment.
“See?” he murmurs. “Even my family knows I have excellent priorities.”
I swat his chest lightly. “Get up before he comes up here himself.”
He laughs, soft and warm, pressing one last kiss to my forehead before finally loosening his hold.
But for a second longer, he keeps me close like he’s memorizing this quiet before the madness begins.
By the time I leave the bedroom, the mansion has fully woken up.
Footsteps echo in the halls, soft voices drift from distant rooms, and somewhere below, someone is already arguing about flowers. The calm we had upstairs feels like a fragile bubble I’ve just stepped out of.
The fitting room is at the far end of the east wing, where sunlight spills in through tall windows and turns the marble floor into pale gold.
Two women I’ve met only briefly greet me with gentle smiles, already bustling around a large mirror draped with white fabric.
The air smells faintly of roses and something sweet I can’t name.
When they unveil the dress, my breath stutters.
It’s nothing like the lehenga I wore in India. This one is all soft ivory and delicate lace, the fabric flowing like it’s made of light itself.
Tiny details are stitched into the bodice, subtle and intricate, catching the glow from the windows with every movement.
It looks… unreal. Like something meant for a different version of me.
They help me step into it, careful, reverent, as if the dress is fragile. The fabric settles against my skin, cool at first, then warming with my body heat.
As they lace me in, I watch my reflection slowly change layer by layer, the girl I recognize fading into someone who looks like she belongs in fairy tales and old promises.
When they finally step back and let me look properly, my chest tightens.
The mirror shows a woman I barely recognize. Not because she looks different but because she looks certain.
Soft, yes, but steady. Beautiful, not in a way that demands attention, but in a way that feels… chosen.
I lift the hem slightly, turning from side to side, the skirt whispering around my legs. Tomorrow, I’ll walk toward Lorenzo in this.
Tomorrow, this won’t just be fabric and lace.it will be a promise made in front of his world.
The thought makes my stomach flutter with nerves and something warmer beneath it.
I press my palm lightly to my chest, grounding myself, and breathe. Whatever tomorrow brings, I won’t be walking into it alone.
Morning arrives too fast. The room is filled with soft light and quiet movement as they get me ready, hands gentle, voices low, as if the day itself is fragile. My heart doesn’t race. It thuds slow and heavy, aware of every second passing.
The dress feels different today. Not new anymore. Real. The fabric rests against my skin like a promise I can’t take back, and strangely, I don’t want to.
When the doors open, the world beyond them blurs. I hear music, distant murmurs, the hush of people waiting. My breath catches, but a familiar presence steadies me.
Alexander stands beside me.
He doesn’t say much. He just offers his arm, a quiet, grounding strength in his posture. I take it, fingers curling around his sleeve, and in that simple touch, I feel less alone.
The first step forward makes everything real.
The aisle stretches ahead of me, long and bright, lined with faces I barely register. My focus narrows to the man waiting at the other end.
Lorenzo.
He’s standing there like the world has paused for him alone, eyes fixed on me as if nothing else exists. And in that moment, every doubt fades into the background.
I walk.
Not rushed. Not hesitant.
Just steady.
The music softens as I take the final steps toward him. The world feels distant now, like I’m walking through a dream I’ve been holding in my chest for too long.
Lorenzo’s gaze doesn’t waver. There’s no cold calculation in his eyes today, no mafia king, no ruthless power.
Just a man standing at the edge of forever, looking at me like I’m the only thing that matters.
When Alexander places my hand into Lorenzo’s, something unspoken passes between them. A quiet understanding. A surrender.
Then Alexander steps back, leaving us alone in the middle of a world that holds its breath.
Lorenzo’s fingers tighten around mine, grounding and warm. His thumb brushes over my knuckles in a small, unconscious gesture that tells me he’s nervous too.
“You look…” he begins, then stops, jaw tightening slightly. “You look like every prayer I never believed in.”
The words steal the air from my lungs. I smile, because if I speak, I might break.
The officiant’s voice flows around us in Italian, soft and formal, weaving tradition and promise into the warm air.
I don’t catch every word, but I don’t need to. The meaning is in the way Lorenzo leans closer, in the way his presence shields me from everything else.
When it’s time for vows, the silence grows heavier. Lorenzo exhales slowly, as if steadying himself before stepping into something irreversible.
“I don’t promise you a gentle life,” he says quietly. “I promise you truth. I promise you loyalty that doesn’t bend. I promise that no matter how dark my world gets, you will never stand in it alone.”
My throat tightens, emotion pressing sharp behind my eyes.
“I promise to stay,” I whisper. “Not because I’m fearless, but because loving you is worth every fear. I promise to choose you on the days it’s easy… and especially on the days it isn’t.”
The ring slides onto my finger, cool at first, then warming to my skin. It feels heavier than jewelry. It feels like belonging.
When Lorenzo places the ring on my hand, his touch lingers, as if he’s making sure this is real. As if he’s afraid the moment might disappear if he doesn’t hold onto it long enough.
The kiss is soft. Not the kind meant to prove anything. The kind that feels like coming home after a long, dangerous journey.
The world exhales. Applause ripples through the courtyard, laughter and cheers mixing with the music that swells again, brighter now.
The air smells of roses and citrus, the sunlight catching in the glass and gold around us. Somewhere, bells ring. Somewhere, someone cries. Somewhere, someone laughs too loudly.
Lorenzo leans his forehead against mine, his voice meant only for me. “You’re mine,” he murmurs.
I smile up at him. “And you’re stuck with me.”
The reception blurs into warm chaos. Long tables dressed in white and gold. Plates filled with pasta and roasted meats. Crystal glasses clinking as laughter spills into the open air.
Italian voices rise and fall around us, fast and musical, punctuated by teasing remarks and dramatic gestures.
Someone pulls Lorenzo away to congratulate him. Someone hugs me too tightly. Someone tells me I look like I belong here.
Music fills the courtyard again, this time louder, livelier. Traditional melodies blend into modern rhythms, and soon the space is alive with movement and joy.
When Lorenzo finds me again, he doesn’t ask. He just takes my hand and pulls me into the dance, spinning me once before drawing me back into his arms.
The world becomes smaller. Just us. The warmth of his palm at my waist. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my cheek.
For a moment, I forget everything else. The danger. The shadows of his world. The weight of what his name carries.
All I know is that I am here.
Chosen.
And choosing him back.