Chapter 6 - Ana
The small room behind the altar reeks of dust and dead prayers, a thousand confessions rotting in the walls.
My hands won’t stop shaking as I lift the white lace of my wedding dress, fingers fumbling for the leather strap cutting into my thigh.
Papa’s blade burns against my skin, metal slick with sweat.
I practice the motion again: reach, pull, strike.
My reflection in the tarnished mirror shows a bride about to shatter, not kill.
Four days since I arrived in Chicago, three since I signed my life away, and I'm already falling apart.
The knife pendant burns against my throat, his gift, his mockery. My fingers shake as I practice once more. Reach, pull, strike. The movement feels wrong, clumsy. When did my hands become so unreliable? The exhaustion makes everything heavy, like I'm moving underwater.
My hair is swept up, neck exposed, bait for a monster. Let him think I'm prey.
In the mirror, my trembling fingers move through familiar signs: "For Papa."
The door opens without warning. I spin, hand already reaching for steel, but freeze.
A woman enters, blonde waves framing a face stolen from magazines, but her pale blue eyes hold something sharper.
Like looking at a beautiful knife. She moves with liquid grace, each step deliberate. Predator recognizing predator.
"You must be Ana." Her voice drips honey with razors underneath. "I'm Sofia. Dante's sister."
My chest constricts. This is the sister from my research, the one they all protect. She's smaller than her surveillance photos suggested, delicate in cream silk. But I know what hides beneath designer clothes. We're the same species, she and I. Killers dressed as ladies.
Sofia circles me slowly, adjusting my veil. "You look beautiful. My brother won't know what hit him."
The words land like ice in my veins. She can't know. It's just an expression. American expressions I still don't understand. But my hand trembles as she smooths the lace, and I see her notice.
"Dante needs someone strong," Sofia continues, stepping back to study her work. "Someone who won't break under the weight of what we are. Be good to him."
Bile rises in my throat. In an hour, she'll be crying over the brother I'm about to take from her. My stomach cramps with the weight of this future grief I'm about to cause.
"I will," I lie, the words ash on my tongue.
Sofia's smile sharpens to something lethal. "Good. Because if you hurt him, I'll make you disappear so thoroughly that even God won't remember you existed."
The threat rolls off her tongue like honey, delivered with the same sweetness as everything else. We understand each other, predator to predator. Then she's gone, leaving only French perfume and guaranteed violence.
The organ music swells and the doors open to reveal an aisle that stretches like a death march.
White roses line every pew, funeral flowers, how fitting.
The church smells like lilies and incense.
I walk alone, no father to give me away, no family to witness this unholy union.
My heels catch on my dress, when did I become so clumsy?
Each step carries me toward the man who destroyed everything.
Dante waits at the altar in black, looking like death in an expensive suit.
The high collar hides his scarred throat, but I know the damage lurks beneath.
His dark eyes track my approach, making my skin burn and my pussy clench.
Traitor body, responding to enemy eyes. Is he watching his bride or his assassin?
Can he smell my intentions through the incense?
Marco stands beside him as best man, authority radiating from his stillness like heat from stone. The other brothers form a wall: Nico with military precision, Alex with casual elegance. And Luca. His smile is wrong for a wedding, too knowing, like he can taste my murderous intent in the air.
The priest speaks but the words blur, Latin mixing with English until nothing makes sense.
My exhausted brain catches fragments: "holy union," "blessed by God," "until death.
" The irony makes me want to laugh. Death is exactly what I'm planning.
My white dress whispers against my legs, hiding the leather strap that cuts deeper with each breath.
"Do you, Dante, take this woman…"
He nods while his hands sign "I do" with fluid grace. Those hands that killed my family now promising to honor and protect me. The contradiction makes me dizzy.
"Do you, Ana, take this man…"
The words stick in my throat like broken glass. The priest waits. Everyone waits. Dante's eyes never leave mine, patient as death itself. His cologne mingles with incense, sandalwood and something darker.
"I…" Papa's knife burns against my thigh. The leather strap is cutting off circulation. "I do."
The lie burns my tongue, bitter and choking. I'm lying in God's house, promising love while planning murder.
The rings appear from nowhere. His slides on too easily, like it belongs there. Mine fits perfectly. How did he know? Has he been watching that closely? The metal feels like a shackle.
"You may kiss the bride."
Dante lifts my veil slowly, giving me time to run.
His dark eyes hold mine, seeing everything and revealing nothing.
The kiss barely exists, a whisper of contact that shouldn't affect me.
But his hand cups my neck, thumb pressing against my pulse where it hammers betrayal.
The touch burns possessive, claiming, knowing.
He feels my racing heart, my body's treacherous response to his proximity.
Heat pools between my legs and I hate myself for it.
When he pulls back, that almost-smile plays at his lips. Like he knows exactly what I'm planning and finds it delicious.
The reception line stretches endlessly, a parade of strangers speaking too fast for my exhausted brain to follow. My smile feels painted on, ready to crack.
"Such a beautiful bride," an older woman says, grabbing my face with cold hands. "You'll give him beautiful babies."
The words land hard. Babies. Children. A future that dies today with their father.
"Thank you," I manage, the English thick and wrong on my tongue.
More strangers, more words I don't understand. Something about "happiness" and "blessing" but it all becomes noise. Dante never speaks, of course, but his presence beside me somehow translates my confusion, smooth gestures that communicate what my broken English cannot.
His hand burns on my lower back, steady pressure that feels more like warning than support. Every time I shift toward the blade strapped to my thigh, his fingers press harder. He knows. Of course he knows. Has always known.
Nico approaches, cutting through the crowd. He says something too fast. I catch "car" and "ready" but the rest dissolves into noise. Dante's hand presses harder, he understands my confusion even without words.
Dante signs something I'm too tired to follow, then guides me away from the crowd. His hand never leaves my back as we move through the church toward a door marked 'Sacristy.' Private. Finally.
The room is small, intimate, with stained glass throwing colored shadows like spilled blood across wooden floors. A desk, chairs, a crucifix watching everything.
The door clicks shut. We're alone for the first time as husband and wife.
I don't hesitate. My hand finds the blade, pulls it free, strikes in one motion born from a thousand practices. The steel sings through the air toward his throat.
His hand catches my wrist. Not rough, not violent. Just absolute. Complete control without aggression.
I expect rage. I expect him to break my wrist, throw me against the wall, make me pay. Instead, his eyes are calm, almost sad, like he's disappointed by my technique rather than my intention.
My left hand goes for his face, nails ready to claw, but he catches that too. Now he holds both my wrists, and we're frozen: me in attack position, him in perfect control. There's no anger in his face. Just that devastating patience that makes me want to scream.
With slow, deliberate movements, he adjusts my grip on the blade.
His fingers correct my form, repositioning my hand for better leverage.
The heat from his touch races up my arm, and my body remembers that handshake, that electric connection, even as I try to kill him.
Traitor flesh, responding to enemy hands.
He's teaching me. While I'm actively trying to kill him, he's showing me how to do it properly.
My exhausted mind can't process this. The room spins slightly.
He guides the blade to his own throat, places the edge against his skin where his pulse beats steady and calm. His eyes hold mine with dark promise. Like he's saying: 'Even your violence belongs to me now.'
My hand shakes. From rage? Fear? The impossible intimacy of him teaching me to kill him? The blade trembles against his throat, and a thin line of red appears. Just a scratch, but proof that the edge is sharp enough.
He releases my wrists and steps back. Takes my left hand, the one without the blade, and turns it palm up. Then he places the knife handle firmly in my left hand. His touch lingers, thumb pressing against my palm like he's marking what's his.
His hands move in signs I understand perfectly: "You're left-handed. Use your strength."
How does he know? Have his men been watching me that closely? Heat floods my stomach, wetness gathering between my thighs.
He walks to the door, hand on the handle. Then he turns back, hands moving through one more message: "Next time, mean it."
The door closes with a soft click, leaving me alone with my failure and my body's betrayal.
I stand frozen, knife raised in my left hand, the correct hand, seeing my fractured reflection in the blade. A bride in white lace, face flushed with fury and shameful arousal, holding a weapon with newly corrected form.
What just happened? He taught me. Mid-assassination attempt, while I tried to kill him, he adjusted my grip like a patient instructor. Like he wants me to succeed next time. Like my vengeance matters enough to do properly.
The knife pendant burns heavier at my throat, mocking the real blade in my hand. He gave me jewelry, and now he's taught me to use the real thing. Against him.
My decade of planning, of preparation, of hatred carefully tended like a poison garden, he just redirected it with gentle corrections. Not destroyed. Redirected. Like I'm a child playing at murder who needs proper instruction.
No. Worse. He understands the need but wants me to execute it properly. He's not dismissing my hatred. He's honoring it with education.
"Everything alright in there?" Marco's voice carries through the door, authority mixing with what sounds like amusement.
Two knocks sound against the wood, Dante's response. Quick, efficient. Yes, everything is fine. My husband speaks in violence and silence, and somehow his brother understands perfectly.
I lower the knife finally, my arm trembling from exhaustion and adrenaline.
In the mirror, I see someone I don't recognize.
White dress still pristine, hair still perfectly arranged, looking every inch the virgin bride.
Except for the blade in my left hand and the knowledge in my eyes.
And the wetness between my thighs from my enemy's touch.
I'm married to a man who just gave me permission to kill him properly. Who saw my murderous intent and chose to improve my technique rather than punish my attempt.
My fingers move through the signs almost unconsciously, asking my reflection the question I can't voice: "What kind of monster are you?"
But I know the answer now. He's the kind who teaches his assassin proper form. The kind who signs "I do" while knowing his bride plans murder. The kind who kisses like a whisper but holds like a promise.
And I'm married to him.
The knife feels heavier in my left hand, the correct hand. My body still burns where he touched me, adjusting my grip. Even my violence belongs to him now.
What kind of monster teaches his killer how to kill him properly?
The kind I just married.