15 | White Silk
FIORELLA
I fold my hands in my lap, hiding the way hues of violet and blue have started blooming between my knuckles. Santo told me to ice them for as long as I could, but Mariangela and Beate showed up barely thirty minutes after I made it back to my room.
I showered—again—and slipped into the garments Annabelle delivered.
A white, unlined balconette made of whisper-thin Italian lace.
A barely-there thong cut so high it’s practically comical, the V-front dipping so low I may as well go commando, actually.
Nothing is left to the imagination, and I can’t help thinking that nightmare-made-flesh man I’m about to marry savored every second of choosing it.
Still, I’d smiled pleasantly as I pulled each piece on—my own quiet rebellion. I’ll stand under his cathedral ceiling looking like purity incarnate, but underneath? Sin wrapped in lace he’ll never get to touch. A reminder. A boundary.
A promise that the idea of me is the closest he’s going to get.
I tug the sash of my dressing gown tighter, the white silk sliding against my skin as my stylist sculpts each lock into place with practised precision. My reflection stares back at me—lips glossed, cheeks pinked, my mother’s earrings glittering where they catch the light.
Something borrowed, something blue.
The sharp ache behind my ribs makes my breath hitch, and I drown it with a sip of sparkling water.
Beate rests a hand on my shoulder, giving it a warm squeeze. “Così bella,” she murmurs. So beautiful.
I smile at her through the mirror, then at the actress playing my mother. She’s good—soft around the edges, fussing in a gentle, familiar way. Exactly how my mother would’ve been… if she were here.
But she isn’t. She’s probably in the restaurant right now, taking orders like her daughter isn’t about to sell her soul to a man who seems a whole lot like the devil himself.
I swallow the burn in my throat and try to focus on the chatter behind me as the women talk quietly about veils and pins and garters.
“è ora,” Mariangela announces, as subtle as a gunshot. It’s time.
The room shifts. Beate pulls the gown from its protective sheath—sleek, structured, and impossibly expensive—and the actresses gather around me, granting me a false sense of privacy as I let my dressing gown slip to the floor.
My as-good-as-invisible underwear doesn’t necessarily throw me in front of other women, but I’m not exactly keen on my new in-laws seeing me in something more scandalous than my bare skin itself.
They guide me into my dress with careful hands, tugging fabric, smoothing seams, fastening tiny buttons down my spine.
The silk settles over me like a second skin—pure, simple, breathtaking in its restraint.
Santo’s taste is everywhere. His signature weighs heavy on me—even in a dress as pristine as this.
His exact opposite, and still, it’s like his essence is woven into the very threads of this fabric.
I’m wearing him.
When the last loop slips around the silk-covered button, they step back, collective breaths soft and admiring.
“You look perfect,” one of the actresses playing my friend whispers, and I almost believe her.
A knock sounds. Light. Friendly. Very non-demonic.
Not my betrothed, then.
Beate opens the door and Matteo leans in, grinning like he’s walked into a movie set.
“Signorina,” he says, hand over his heart in an exaggerated gentlemanly bow. “You look phenomenal. Ten out of ten. Eleven, even.”
The actresses laugh; even my chest loosens a little.
Matteo gives me a once-over—fast, respectful, not even a hint of anything inappropriate in his eyes.
Just pure big-brother energy, and he has no idea how much I need that right now.
“When Santo sees you,” he adds, lowering his voice conspiratorially.
“You’re about to make that man lose a religion he doesn’t even practice.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
“Dai.” He offers me his arm with flourish. Come on. “Your chariot awaits.”
The women beam as I take his arm, my gown whispering around my legs as we step out into the corridor.
“Deep breaths, principessa,” Matteo murmurs. “You got this.”
I’m not sure I do, but I nod anyway—because the car is waiting, the cathedral is waiting, and Santo is waiting.
And I’m walking straight into the jaws of the beast.
----
The doors open.
My breath catches—not because of the crowd, or the incense, or the gold-drenched arches—but because every head turns at once, and the whole cathedral goes impossibly still.
The mantilla veil trails behind me in a spill of delicate lace, making me look awfully soft and holy as I slowly walk down the aisle on the arm of a man I’ve never met before.
Not my father.
Not even my brother.
A perfect stranger—kind and gentle, yes, but wrong.
Sicilian flowers line the aisle—zagare flowers, tiny orange blossoms. I wonder if he did that on purpose.
To mock me, perhaps.
Or maybe to honor my heritage.
And then—there he is.
My groom stands at the altar in a perfectly tailored black suit, a thing of darkness in the extravagance of the cathedral.
He doesn’t blink—doesn’t breathe.
His jaw tightens—once—and I swear I see his throat work like he’s swallowing down something violent.
Lust. Awe. Possession.
I don’t know which one hits me harder.
Matteo was right. He looks like I just cut whatever was tethering him to anything holy.
Each step I take toward him feels like walking into the flames of the inferno behind his eyes. My heart should be racing—I should be trembling—but the closer I get to him, the steadier I feel. Like there’s something right about this very, very wrong thing.
When I reach him, he takes my hand, eyes locking to mine, and we both go still.
The ceremony is a blur of ritual and language. ‘Love is patient, love is kind’ is recited. There’s a Sicilian blessing added—old, melodic, spoken by the oldest priest they could dig up. I bet Santo had to fight the archdiocese to approve it.
I catch his eye when it starts, and he gives the smallest nod.
I pretend it doesn’t undo me.
Santo’s thumbs skim just beside the bruises blooming across my knuckles—never touching them, but close enough that I know he saw.
And in that moment, with the priest murmuring Italian and the whole church watching like this is some perfect fairytale, it feels like it’s just us.
Like he’s looking straight through the makeup and the performance and seeing me.
The rings come next.
He takes mine first, sliding the band onto my finger carefully. He doesn’t flinch at the bruises, doesn’t pretend they aren’t there. His eyes lift to mine, dark and unblinking, and something warm sinks low in my stomach.
Then it’s my turn. His ring is heavier than I expect it to be. When I slide it onto his finger, he lets his thumb graze the inside of my wrist—light but intentional. It’s the most innocent move, yet it feels entirely inappropriate in a church full of people and a priest ten inches away.
Then the Nuptial Blessing rolls over us, the priest raising his hands as he calls God down upon this… union. I bow my head, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. Santo doesn’t move. He keeps his gaze locked on me, like he’s making a promise that has nothing to do with scripture.
And maybe I’m imagining it—maybe it’s nerves or the silk tightening around my ribs or the sheer insanity of today—but something inside me pulls toward him like a tide.
Then—
“Può baciare la sposa.”
He may kiss his bride.
All oxygen leaves the room.
Santo moves slowly. One hand slides to my jaw, thumb brushing just under my ear like he’s reacquainting himself with my pulse. He leans in, eyes fixed on my mouth, close enough for me to feel his breath. He waits—giving me one last second to pull away.
I don’t.
The kiss hits me like a shock—harder, deeper, hungrier than any groom in a Catholic cathedral has any right to do. His other hand curls around my waist, pulling me into him in a way that’s not polite, not performative, and not for the crowd.
It’s for us—for whatever the hell this is turning into.
Heat rushes through me, sharp and undeniable, and my knees nearly give. Santo’s hold tightens, subtle but firm, like he loves that I wavered. Like he’s been waiting for this—for me to cave.
When he finally pulls back, barely, his forehead rests against mine. Just long enough for me to feel his breath shudder—just once.
I’m not supposed to notice—I bet he’d rather die than let me know it shook him too.
The crowd erupts in applause, but I barely register it.
All I can feel is my own pulse, and the deep, sharp sense of betrayal behind my ribs.
Because I just felt something I was not supposed to feel.
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OOOOFFF!! FEELINGS!!! ??