16 | Heritage
SANTO
The double doors swing open and a wash of watery autumn light spills across the threshold. Fiorella’s hand tightens around mine—small, tense and warm—as we step out.
People line the church steps. Half family, half hired bodies pretending to be hers. Matteo, Marco, and Enzo stand at the bottom, my other men posted in the crowd, invisible unless you know how to look.
No one touches her unless I say so. Nobody gets close enough to try.
My bride.
Something I shouldn’t feel curls low in my chest at the thought. I lift my free hand to shield her face as the guests rain wheat over us—no rice. Wheat is a Sicilian tradition. I figured Fiorella might appreciate a hint of home today. The kernels skim over her veil, catching in the lace.
Her eyes flick down, then up to me, like she knows exactly what I’m doing—like she sees straight through the performance to the part I’m not saying out loud. I keep my expression neutral and guide her down the steps toward the stranger waiting to embrace her, playing her part immaculately.
Something in me pulls tight when she offers that polite, aching little smile to a woman she’s never met before today.
Her mother should be here. Her friends. Her people. Not actors with fake names and made-up memories.
But this is the hand she’s been dealt—and one day we’ll redo this the way it should’ve been. Smaller. Private.
Intimate.
She’ll come around. I felt it on her mouth—she kissed me like she forgot she was supposed to hate me.
Matteo opens the car door as we approach. Fiorella hesitates, then turns to my mother.
Beate’s hands are already lifted, expectant—not for a hug, but for something else. Something traditional.
Fiorella steps closer, slipping her bouquet into my mother’s waiting palms. “Per te,” she murmurs softly. For you.
My mother beams, eyes going glassy. “Grazie, figlia mia.” Thank you, my daughter.
The actresses behind Fiorella nod approvingly, exactly on cue. Fiorella’s throat bobs; she’s trying not to show what that moment took out of her.
I rest a hand at the small of her back. “Andiamo, amore.” Let’s go, love.
She slides into the car. I follow, the door shutting us into a cocoon of leather and quiet.
Matteo glances at us through the rearview mirror. “Villa’s ready, boss. Caterers are finishing the last course.”
“Good,” I say.
Fiorella turns her face toward the window, fingertips grazing the lace edge of her mantilla. “Zagara and wheat,” she says softly, almost like she’s talking to herself. “You did your research.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
I lean back, watching the way the light catches on her cheekbone. “Your heritage matters,” I say simply. “And today… you’re mine. I honor what made you.”
A breath shudders out of her—so faint she probably thinks I didn’t hear it.
The villa rises through the trees like something out of a Sicilian fever dream, lit gold for the reception. Long tables dressed in candles, white linens, strings of lights suspended overhead. A feast fit for royalty—or for a woman who still thinks she’s only here because she was cornered.
She has no idea how much power she’s holding right now.
Over me. Over this life.
Over the future she keeps telling herself she doesn’t want.
“Ready?” I murmur.
She swallows. “For the second round of pretending?”
“Fiorella,” I breathe, leaning in just enough that my breath skims the edge of her jaw, “the pretending ends when you decide it does.”
She turns to me with fire in her eyes. “Don’t hold your breath, Santo.”
My name rolls off her tongue like it belongs there—like it was designed to be moaned into a pillow.
God, what I wouldn’t give to hear just that.
I walk her straight to the door and call for Annabelle. She appears seconds later.
“Help Fiorella change into her reception dress.”
“Ella.”
I blink, turning to face her fully. She straightens her shoulders, chin lifting.
“Ella,” she repeats. “No one calls me Fiorella.”
There she is—my wife.
“Ella,” I echo, letting the name settle on my tongue. “Now go with Annabelle, amore.”
Annabelle leads her away, and I watch my wife vanish down the hallway—hips swaying, silk gown hugging her perfect ass, every inch of her made to tempt a man straight into sin.
I’m still staring at the place where Ella disappeared when a shadow cuts across the doorway.
Marco.
He moves toward me with that too-careful gait that means something’s fucked.
“Don’t,” I warn him quietly. “It’s my wedding day. Handle it yourself.”
He shakes his head once. “Can’t. It’s… Santo, it’s him.”
A cold thread coils down my spine.
“... You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
Fuck. Of all days, of course he’d crawl out of whatever sewer he’s been hiding in the same day I put a ring on my wife.
I grit my teeth. “I don’t have time for this.”
“You don’t have a choice.”
No. I don’t. Not if I want to keep shit from hitting the fucking fan.
I look back at the hallway where she disappeared.
Her reception dress—God, she’s going to be stunning, and now I don’t even get to be the first one to see her in it.
She’ll walk out expecting her husband, and she’ll get empty air.
My jaw flexes. “Talk,” I say.
“We tracked him to the storage house down by the old vineyard, trying to tap into the generator lines, maybe set up a blackout mid-reception. Could’ve been worse if Enzo didn’t catch the signal spike.”
I nod once. “Alive?”
Marco hesitates. “Enzo didn’t know what you wanted, so he kept him contained. But he’s got a stab wound—he’s bleeding out fast.”
Good. Bleeding men talk faster.
I unbutton my tux jacket. “You stay here. Get the men to guard the perimeter. I’ll handle him. If Ella asks—”
“Boss—” Marco starts, already knowing where this is going.
“If she asks,” I growl, “you tell her I stepped away for a moment. And you make sure she doesn’t go looking.”
Marco swallows hard. “Santo… you’re in a tux.”
I shrug off my jacket and hand it to him, then roll my cuffs up methodically. “Guess I’m gonna have to be careful not to get blood on it.”
I leave without a backward glance, cursing under my breath.
By the time I reach the vineyard, Enzo is waiting outside the storage house, face grim. “He’s inside. He was screaming a minute ago—quiet now.”
“Good,” I mutter. “Open it.”
He slides the door aside.
Jacopo is in a chair, tied to a support beam, slumped forward. Blood leaks down his ribs—the fucker’s soul is trying to escape him before I get the chance to get my hands on him.
He lifts his head when he hears me step inside, and the smile he gives me is a mistake he won’t get to repeat.
“Well, well,” he rasps. “The groom. Shouldn’t you be off dancing with your pretty little wife?”
I shut the door behind me and lock it.
Then I walk toward him, slow and lethal, rolling my neck as I let him take over—The Butcher.
“You had one chance,” I say, cracking my knuckles. “One chance to disappear. Instead you tried to touch my home.” I tilt my head. “On my wedding night.”
He spits blood at my feet. “Just came to get a look at the whore you got to marry you—what’d you do, pay her? I’d keep a close eye on her if I were you—it’d be a damn shame if someone else got their hands on her before you got the chance.”
I kick his chair out from under him and his scream rips through the air.
Enzo flinches outside the window. I don’t.
I crouch down, voice low. “You like sending warnings. I don’t.”
I grab his jaw. “I end things.”
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Ooooh a glimpse of his dark side? Did we like that? ???????