Chapter 35
DANTE
The garden looks like my mother’s photographs.
Nonna Rosa outdid herself. Jasmine climbs the iron arch where my parents stood three decades ago, white roses cascading down the sides like frozen waterfalls.
The chairs are arranged in the same spot where my father promised my mother forever, where she said yes without knowing how short forever would be.
But today isn’t about grief. Today is about beginnings.
Renzo stands beside me, solid as stone, silent as always. His hand found my shoulder ten minutes ago, squeezed once, then dropped. For him, that’s a speech.
Across the aisle, Marco fidgets with his cufflinks, unable to stand still. I catch his eye. Hold it. Nod. The tension drains from my youngest brother’s shoulders. A small acknowledgment. Not much. But more than I’ve given him in years, and we both know it.
Nico is in the second row, watching everything with those assessing eyes that never turn off. He showed up. After everything, after the distance he keeps, he showed up. That’s his gift. His presence is the only promise he knows how to make.
Gia is in the front row, already crying. She’s got tissues clutched in one hand, her other hand linked with Mrs. Neri’s. The two of them are a mess, and the ceremony hasn’t even started.
Nonna Rosa sits beside them, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief embroidered with magnolias. She’s wearing the dress she wore to my parents’ wedding. She told me this morning, voice thick. “Lucia would’ve wanted me to.”
The music shifts.
Every nerve in my body fires at once.
She appears at the end of the aisle.
Cristo.
The dress catches the afternoon light and holds it, turns her luminous.
I’ve never seen her like this. The fabric moves when she moves, liquid and alive, pooling around her feet with each step.
Beading catches the sun, scattering tiny fragments of light across her collarbone, her throat, the soft curve of her shoulders.
Her hair is swept up, a few dark tendrils escaping to frame her face.
Her face.
Dio.
She’s looking at me like I’m the only thing in the garden. Like the fifty people gathered to witness this have disappeared. Like the world has narrowed to just us, just this, just now.
My lungs lock. I don’t fight it.
Umberto walks beside her, his arm linked through hers, and I should be watching the formal approach, should be aware of protocol and tradition and ceremony.
But I can’t look away from her eyes. Dark and steady and certain.
Cazzo.
She’s not nervous. She’s not trembling. She’s walking toward me like she’s been walking toward me her whole life.
Each step brings her closer. The jasmine scent thickens. Somewhere, the string quartet plays, but I’ve stopped hearing music. All I hear is my own pulse. Thundering. Waiting.
Ten steps away. Then five. Her lips curve. A fraction. A secret smile meant for me alone.
My hands ache to reach for her. I keep them at my sides. Fists. White-knuckled.
Three steps. Two.
Umberto stops at the altar. No one moves.
Then he turns to me, and there’s something in his eyes I’ve never seen before. Respect, maybe. Or recognition.
“Take care of her,” he says, voice low.
“With my life.”
He nods. Places her hand in mine. And she’s here. At last, she’s here.
Standing in front of me. Her fingers warm in my palm. Her eyes holding mine like an anchor.
“Hi,” she whispers.
“Hi.”
The officiant begins speaking. I don’t hear a word.
“The couple has prepared their own vows.”
I’ve written mine down. Practiced them in the study last night, after she fell asleep. But the paper is in my pocket and I’m not reaching for it. The words I memorized feel wrong now, looking at her. Too careful. Too composed.
I take both her hands in mine.
“I didn’t know I was waiting for you.”
My voice comes out rougher than I intended. Raw at the edges. I don’t try to smooth it.
“I had everything planned. Everything controlled.” My teeth grind. I force the next words out. “Then you walked through my door and looked at me like you could see straight through every wall I’d ever built.”
Her eyes are bright. Wet. She doesn’t look away.
“You hum when you’re concentrating. Did you know that?” The words spill out, unplanned, honest. “Old songs. The first time I heard you, I stood in the hallway for ten minutes. Just listening. Just breathing. You didn’t even know I was there.”
A tear slips down her cheek. I catch it with my thumb. My hand isn’t steady.
Fuck.
“Before you, I didn’t know what quiet felt like.” My voice cracks. I let it. The muscles in my throat seize, and I have to stop. Just stop. Breathe. Fifty people watching the Don of New Orleans unable to finish a goddamn sentence.
I swallow hard. Try again.
“I didn’t know I could want something without being afraid of losing it.”
Another pause. Longer. My hands are shaking where they hold hers and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.
“I promise you my worst days. The mornings where I’m difficult, where I haven’t slept, where I don’t deserve you.” My voice drops to something that scrapes the bottom of my chest. “I promise you my midnights. Every part of me I thought I had to hide.”
She’s crying now, tears falling unchecked. I don’t care who sees. I don’t care about anything except her.
I cup her face in my hands.
“You’re my home, Cassia.” The words scrape out of me. “And I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure you never doubt that.”
She squeezes my hands. Steadies herself. I watch her fingers press tight around mine, watch her lips move. Counting. One, two, three. I know this about her now. The numbers that ground her when the world tips sideways.
“I spent my whole life being the one who stayed. The one who was safe. Steady. Forgettable.” Her voice is quiet but clear. “I thought that was all I’d ever be.”
She steps closer. Our bodies near touching.
“Then you looked at me like I was dangerous.”
A nervous laugh escapes her. My chest aches.
“Me. Dangerous. The invisible sister in the secondhand dress.” Her thumb traces my knuckles. “But you looked at me like I could wreck you. Like I already had.”
Her eyes lift to mine. Burning.
“I want to wreck you, Dante. I want to be the thing you can’t control. The variable you didn’t plan for.” Her voice drops. “Let me be the reason you stop bracing for loss and start believing you get to keep something.”
Her hands slide up my chest.
“I’m not promising you easy. I’m not promising I won’t fight you on everything.” A smile breaks through her tears. “But I’m promising you me. All of me. The parts I used to hide. The parts I didn’t know existed until I met you.”
Her voice cracks. Softens.
“I love you. Not the Don. Not the danger. You. The man underneath all of it.” Her fingers hook into my jacket. “And I will spend the rest of my life making sure you believe you deserve this. Deserve us.”
Dio. My vision blurs. I blink it back. Fail.
Her forehead tips against mine.
“You’re my choice, Dante. My only choice. And I’m never going to let you forget it.”
The officiant says something. I don’t hear it. All I hear is the blood rushing in my ears, the catch of her breath, the hammering in my own chest.
“You may kiss the bride.”
I don’t rush.
I cup her face, tilting her chin up. Her eyes flutter half-closed. My thumb traces the line of her jaw, feeling her pulse jump beneath my touch.
“Mia moglie,” I murmur. My wife.
Her lips part on a sharp inhale.
I close the distance between us. Soft at first. A brush of lips, testing. Then her hands fist in my jacket and pull me closer, and something inside me gives way. Just collapses.
Fuck.
I kiss her like no one is watching. Like she’s the only thing that exists and the only thing that matters.
Her lips part beneath mine and I taste salt from her tears, champagne from this morning, something underneath that’s just her. My fingers slide into her hair, scattering pins. She sighs against my mouth and I swallow the sound, keep it for myself.
Her body presses into mine, warm and real and here. I could stay in this moment for the rest of my life. I need to.
When we break apart, her eyes are bright and her cheeks are flushed and she’s looking at me like I’ve given her the world.
The garden erupts.
Nonna Rosa is sobbing outright now, clutching her magnolia handkerchief to her face. Gia is crying into Mrs. Neri’s shoulder. Marco is clapping too loud, grinning wider than I’ve ever seen. Cristo, even Nico raises his glass in a silent toast, a rare smile at his lips.
And Renzo. Renzo gives me one slow nod.
I pull Cassia against my side, her warmth fitting against me like it was always meant to, and we turn to face our family. All of them. Hers and mine, woven together now in a way that can’t be undone.
She looks up at me. Radiant. Present. Mine.
“We’re married,” she says, like she’s testing the words. “We’re married.”
“For real this time.” I press a kiss to her temple. Let myself breathe. “Damn right we are.”
The music starts again. Bright and joyful, nothing like the solemn formality from before. Nonna Rosa is already heading toward us, arms outstretched, tears still streaming. Gia is right behind her. Even Umberto looks less uncomfortable, a softness in his expression as he watches his daughter smile.
I take Cassia’s hand.
“Ready?” I ask.
She squeezes my fingers. Her ring catches the light.
“Ready.”
We walk back down the aisle together, rice showering around us, the family cheering, the jasmine perfuming the air. She’s laughing. I’m smiling. Smiling in a way I haven’t in years, and meaning every second of it.
La mia moglie.
And God help anyone who tries to take this from me.