Chapter 34
CASSIA
I wake to sunlight and the absence of him.
The master bedroom. Our bedroom. He must have carried me here before dawn, because the last thing I remember is the leather couch in the study, his heartbeat against my spine, his arm heavy around my waist.
Tangled sheets that smell like him. His pillow still bearing the indent of his head. The space beside me cooling but not yet cold.
Today I marry him. In front of everyone.
I bury my face in his pillow and breathe deep. Cedar. Something darker underneath, something that’s just him.
A knock at the door. Insistent but not urgent.
“Come in.”
Nonna Rosa enters carrying a tray. Beignets dusted with powdered sugar, fresh fruit, coffee steaming in a porcelain cup. She’s wearing her best dress, silver hair pinned up, eyes bright and brimming.
“Today’s the day, cher.” She sets the tray on the nightstand, then perches on the edge of the bed. “You ready?”
“I think so.”
“You think so?” She swats my arm. “Girl, you supposed to be sure. This ain’t a maybe kind of mornin’.”
I laugh. Sit up against the headboard, reach for the coffee. “I’m sure. I’m just nervous.”
“Mais, of course you nervous. You marryin’ the Don of New Orleans in front of God and everybody.” Nonna Rosa’s voice softens. “But I seen the way that boy looks at you. Like you hung every star in the sky. Like you the only thing keepin’ him breathin’.”
“Nonna Rosa.”
“I’m just sayin’.” She reaches over, tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.
Her fingers are warm and sure and the gentleness of it hollows me out.
“I been in this house a long time, dawlin’.
Watched a lot of people come and go. Some of ’em wanted the name.
Some wanted the money. Some just wanted to survive. ”
She cups my face. Her palm is rough and certain.
“You the first one who wanted him. Just him. And that boy knows it.”
I don’t trust my voice. Just nod.
Nonna Rosa pats my hand, then stands. “Eat somethin’. Giada’s on her way with enough champagne to float a boat, and you gonna need your strength.”
She pauses at the door, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “And don’t let that bath water get cold, cher. Someone went to a lot of trouble givin’ me very specific instructions.”
She’s gone before I can ask what she means.
I finish the coffee. Pick at the beignets. The powdered sugar leaves traces on my fingers, sweet and fleeting.
Don’t let that bath water get cold. Very specific instructions.
I cross the room. Push the bathroom door open.
And stop breathing.
The bathroom has been transformed. Candles line every surface, unlit but waiting, their wicks fresh.
The massive soaking tub is filled with steaming water, the surface scattered with jasmine petals floating like small white stars.
Glass bottles crowd the edge. Oils that smell of honey and vanilla.
Bath salts that shimmer pink. A small dish of what looks like raw honeycomb.
On the marble counter, a bottle of champagne sits in an ice bucket already sweating. One crystal flute. A silk robe I’ve never seen before, the color of cream, draped over the towel warmer.
And a note. Folded once. My name written in his handwriting, the letters sharp and slanted.
I pick it up with fingers that won’t hold still. My pulse drums in my wrists, quick and skittering.
I unfold it.
Tesoro,
I’ve taken a lot of things. Territory. Power. Lives.
You’re the only thing I’ve ever been given.
Today you choose me in front of everyone.
I need you to know: I’d burn this city to the ground before I let anyone take you from me.
Soak. Relax.
The next time I see you, you’ll be walking toward me.
I’ll be the one who can’t breathe.
Yours, D
I read it twice. Three times. My vision blurs on the fourth. My hands tremble against the paper, the tremor running all the way up to my elbows.
I fold the note with care. Tuck it into the drawer where I keep precious things. Then I light the candles, pour the champagne, and sink into water that smells like flowers and jasmine and him, somehow. All of it him.
By the time I emerge, skin flushed and loose-limbed, the candles have burned halfway down. I wrap myself in the cream silk robe he left for me and pad back into the bedroom, still warm from the water.
Giada arrives like a hurricane wrapped in silk.
“Don’t even try to tell me you slept in your own room last night.
” She sweeps in carrying two bottles of Veuve Clicquot, a garment bag over her arm, and a woman I don’t recognize trailing behind with a professional makeup case.
“Nonna Rosa found the study couch rumpled this morning. The whole house knows.”
“We just talked.”
“Mmhmm.” Giada grins, setting the champagne on the dresser. “Dante would never risk bad luck the night before his wedding. He’s a superstitious crime lord, whether he admits it or not.”
She pops the first cork with practiced ease.
“But you broke the ‘no seeing the bride’ rule, which means Nonna Rosa is going to give him an earful later and I, for one, cannot wait to watch.”
My hair is still damp from the bath, skin soft from the oils. I haven’t mentioned the surprise that was waiting for me in the bathroom.
Some things are just for us.
The makeup artist, Trisha, begins setting up by the window where the light is best. Guards pass in the hallway outside, their footsteps measured and professional. Somewhere downstairs, I hear voices, laughter, the sounds of a house preparing for celebration.
“Champagne?” Giada presses a crystal flute into my hand. “It’s ten, which means it’s almost afternoon, which means it’s acceptable.”
I take a sip. The bubbles dance on my tongue, bright and sharp.
“How are you feeling?” Giada settles into the chair beside me as Trisha begins work on my face. “No filter.”
“No filter?” I consider the question. The brushes are soft against my skin, Trisha’s hands sure and practiced. “Like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
“Ah.” Giada refills my glass. “The Santoro curse. Happiness is suspicious when you’ve been in survival mode.”
She leans forward, eyes steady on mine.
“Here’s what I know, Cassia. My brother doesn’t hope. He plans. He calculates. He prepares for every outcome.” She pauses. “But this morning? He asked me three times if the flowers were right. If you’d like the arch. If the string quartet knew the song you mentioned liking.”
Her voice drops.
“He’s not planning today. He’s hoping. That’s new. That’s you.”
My fingers tighten on the champagne flute.
“He’s downstairs driving everyone insane because he can’t see you yet,” Giada continues. “Marco says he’s checked the garden three times. Lorenzo told him to stop pacing before he wears a hole in the floor.”
She squeezes my hand. “Whatever you’re afraid of? He’s afraid of it too. You’re not alone in this.”
The makeup takes shape. Soft gold on my eyelids. Defined brows. Lips stained a deep rose. Trisha works in silence, but I catch her small smile in the mirror.
“Time for the dress,” Giada announces.
My lungs tighten. I press my palm flat against my sternum and breathe through it.
The ivory silk slides over my body. Silk and air and the slow transformation of becoming. Giada zips the back, her fingers steady, and the fabric settles against my curves like it was made for me.
Because it was. Because I chose it.
My pulse taps at my wrists, my throat, the hollow behind my ears. All of it fast. All of it real.
“Turn around,” Giada says, her voice thick.
I do.
The woman in the mirror is luminous. The dress pools around her feet, catching the light with every breath. Her hair is swept up, a few tendrils loose around her face. Her eyes are bright. Her shoulders are back.
She looks like a Donna. She looks like me.
“Well?” Giada appears beside me in the reflection, tears tracking down her face. “What do you think?”
My mouth opens. Closes. I don’t have a word for what’s happening inside my chest. It’s not a thought. It’s not an insight. It’s the mirror showing me someone I spent twenty-four years convincing myself I’d never get to be.
“I think I’m ready.”
The knock comes fifteen minutes later. Heavier than Nonna Rosa’s. More hesitant than Giada’s.
I know who it is before the door opens.
“Cassia?”
My father stands at the threshold. Umberto Neri. He’s wearing a suit I’ve never seen before. Dark gray, tailored sharp. His hair is grayer than I remember. When did that happen?
“Papa.”
He steps into the room. Stops. His eyes travel over me, and his throat works. Once. Twice.
“Cassia.” His voice breaks on my name. “You look like you belong here.”
My hand finds the fabric of the dress. Grips it. I stare at a point past his shoulder until my vision steadies.
“Thank you.”
His eyes shine. He clears his throat, straightens his tie.
“Your mother is downstairs. She’s already crying.”
“She cries at everything.”
“She cries at this.” He steps closer. Hesitates. Then pulls me into a hug.
It’s stiff. Unpracticed. We’ve never been a family that touches.
I let him hold me anyway.
“I should have seen you sooner,” he says, his voice low. “I should have paid attention.”
“Papa.” I pull back. Meet his eyes. “Not today. Today isn’t for the past. Today is for what comes next.”
He nods. Swallows hard.
“You can walk me down the aisle. That’s what matters.”
His face shifts. Not a smile. More fragile than that.
“I’d be honored.”
Giada appears at the threshold, eyes red-rimmed but grinning.
“They’re ready. The garden is gorgeous. And Dante looks like he’s about to fight someone for the privilege of watching you walk toward him.”
My pulse slams against my wrists.
I take my father’s arm.
“Then let’s not keep him waiting.”
The compound is alive. Voices drift up from the garden. Bright, not tense. I hear Nonna Rosa’s laughter, Marco’s voice, conversations layered over each other like music. A string quartet plays something classical and warm.
Through the window at the top of the stairs, I catch a glimpse of the garden. White chairs arranged in rows. Flowers cascading from the iron arch where his parents stood thirty-four years ago. Faces I recognize. Santoro soldiers, family, the people who make up this dangerous world I’ve chosen.
My heartbeat floods my ears, drowning the music, drowning everything.
And at the end of the aisle: a man in a dark suit, standing still as stone, watching the door like his life depends on what walks through it.
Dante.
My counting stutters. Fractures. He’s there and he’s waiting and every number I’ve ever used to hold myself together scatters like the jasmine petals in the bath.
My father squeezes my arm. “Ready?”
The music shifts. The cue.
I don’t count. I don’t need to.
“Ready,” I say.
And I walk toward him.