11. Polina
Polina
The church is small. Old stone, stained glass, the smell of incense clinging to everything.
My hands shake as I smooth the skirt of a cream silk dress that someone—Dante's assistant, I assume—delivered an hour ago.
This is happening. This is actually happening.
I'm getting married.
To a man I met two days ago.
The priest stands at the altar, his expression kind but impersonal. He's done this a thousand times. For him, this is just another Tuesday.
For me, it's everything.
Dante stands at the altar in a black suit that makes him look like sin incarnate.
The only other people in the church are three men—Dante's inner circle.
He introduced me to them when we arrived.
Luca, his underboss, with sharp cheekbones and calculating eyes, stands beside Dante, watching me with interest.
Another man, Mattia, who is broader, with scars visible even from this distance, stands at the doors like a security guard.
The third man is Dante’s brother, Dario. He’s handsome. Not as handsome as Dante, but no one is. Not to me.
Three very dangerous mafia men.
And I'm about to marry their Don.
Dante’s eyes find mine, and everything else falls away.
I can't breathe.
The priest begins speaking in Italian, and I only catch a few phrases. Doesn't matter. I know what I'm agreeing to.
I repeat the vows when prompted, and I mean every single word—to have and to hold, for better or worse—even though I know he doesn't feel the same.
He speaks his vows like a man signing a treaty. Clear. Concise. Binding but emotionless.
I try not to mind.
This is business for him. A strategic move to keep the peace and protect an asset.
The priest says something about rings. Dante produces two simple gold bands—when did he have time to get these?—and slides one onto my finger.
It fits perfectly.
Of course it does.
Then it's my turn. I take his large hand and slip the ring onto his finger. I’m trembling so badly I almost drop it, but he steadies me with a slight squeeze.
"Per il potere conferitomi," the priest intones, "vi dichiaro marito e moglie."
Husband and wife.
"Puoi baciare la sposa."
You may kiss the bride.
My heart stops.
Dante turns to me, his expression unreadable. This is just a formality. A brief press of lips to seal the deal. Nothing more.
He cups my face in both hands, his thumbs brushing my cheekbones, and lowers his mouth to mine.
The moment our lips touch, something inside me ignites.
My first kiss.
It's soft at first. Gentle. A question.
But then his mouth moves against mine, coaxing, and my lips part without permission. His tongue sweeps inside, and oh—
Oh.
This is what kissing is supposed to feel like.
Heat floods through me, soaking my panties. My hands fist in his jacket, pulling him closer, and I hear myself make a sound—a needy, desperate sound.
I lean into him, forgetting where we are, forgetting the witnesses, forgetting everything except the taste of him and the way his hands hold my face like he's afraid I'll disappear.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes are blazing. His chest rises and falls.
I'm panting too, like I just ran a marathon. My lips feel swollen, my body electric.
"Congratulations," the priest says mildly, like he didn't just witness me come apart at the seams.
Dante's thumb traces my bottom lip once, his gaze locked on mine.
Then he takes my hand and leads me back down the aisle.
I'm married.
To a man I've known two days. A Don of the Chicago Mafia.
A man who rescued me. Cared for me. Held me when I cried. Even married me to keep me safe.
I know he’s a dangerous, powerful, deadly man.
But not to me.
To me, he's the best man I've ever known.
I hear his voice in my head. "I won't fuck you.”
And then the disclaimer. “Not until you tell me—clearly, without any doubt—that it's what you want."
I bite my lip and stare up at my handsome husband.
It's what I want.
It's most definitely what I want.