17 | Runaway Bride
FIORELLA
The noise hits before I even open the doors—laughter, the clink of crystal, a string quartet playing something swoony and romantic for a marriage that absolutely is not that.
I pause at the top of the stairs and smooth my hands down the skirt of my reception dress. Sleek white fabric skims mid-thigh, the lace sleeves slipping low off my shoulders, brushing past my palms.
Say what you want about Santo—dangerous, controlling, unhinged—but the man’s got taste.
Every head turns when I appear. For a second, I pretend the hush is for me as a bride—just a girl in love on her wedding night. Not “the Butcher’s” purchased new wife.
I give them my soft model smile—pretty and polished—even though it feels like it’s pinned on with needles dipped in acid.
Beate catches my eye across the room, squealing into her hands, muttering something breathless in Italian. Matteo raises his glass in a subtle salute near the bar, calm and composed.
I scan the crowd behind him instinctively, searching for the devil disguised as a god.
Santo.
He’s nowhere to be found.
I keep smiling as I weave through the guests paid to adore me, but each step makes my pulse climb a little higher. I check near the bar, the terrace doors, the shadowy corners.
Nothing.
He’s gone. On our wedding night.
I should be relieved—no Santo means no demands, no expectations—but something tightens under my ribs, sharp enough to make breathing painful.
A dozen terrible explanations flicker through my mind, rapid-fire and every one worse than the last. I push past a group of women near the piano, nearly choking on their perfume haze, and slip toward the back of the villa.
The kitchen is empty except for catering debris—half-covered trays, abandoned plates, scattered silverware.
Quiet. Blessed, aching quiet.
I shut the door behind me, kick off my heels, and open the freezer. I find a pint of pistachio gelato—perfect. The fridge yields a bottle of champagne—even more perfect.
I twist off the muselet and use what little strength my bruised hands have left to pop the cork.
I lean back against the counter and take a long swig straight from the bottle. The bubbles sting my throat, but the cold helps. I eat a spoonful of gelato. Then another.
It melts past my stomach and straight into the pit of something raw and hurting.
The dress slips lower on my shoulders as I push off the counter, tucking champagne under one arm and gelato under the other. Barefoot, I pad out of the kitchen in search of somewhere—anywhere—to be alone on my wedding night.
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My hands are slick, the copper scent of blood hanging thick in the air. I wipe them on a rag, roll my shoulders, and force a breath through my nose.
I don’t want to be here.
Don’t want to deal with this scum when Ella is out there in that little white dress I picked for her, pretending not to look for me.
The thought settles somewhere unfamiliar—heavy. Dangerous.
I never wanted someone waiting for me. I don’t like variables. I don’t keep softness where I keep weapons.
My father used to say all men in power need a wife. “Empty balls make for clear minds.” His words, not mine.
You don’t need a wife to keep your balls empty—I’ve proven that well enough before I met Ella. And yet—now that I have one—she’s all I can think about.
Fucking contract. Ella better come around soon.
A heavy pounding rattles the door. I turn, already irritated. “What.”
“It’s Fiorella,” Enzo calls through the wood.
My blood goes cold. “What about her?”
“They… lost her.”
“They—” The room goes red.
I kick Jacopo’s discarded chair so hard it skids across the floor and slams into the wall. Then I’m at the door, yanking it open. “Keep him alive—I’m not done with him yet.”
I don’t wait for an answer. I push past Enzo and head straight for the house.
By the time I reach the ballroom doors, I’m already picturing the way I’ll tear the heart out of whoever put their hands on my wife.
Inside—nothing.
No golden legs that could make a saint sin. No hazel eyes I could find in a blackout.
Just noise. Laughter and music. Too many strangers in fancy clothes.
Marco appears at my side, pale. “We’re still looking. Annabelle said she followed her downstairs after changing—she has to be here somewhere.”
My jaw locks.
“Lock down the property,” I snap. “Nobody in, nobody out.”
Jacopo’s words clamp around my skull like a vise. It’d be a damn shame if someone else got their hands on her before you had a chance to.
It’s not the idea of losing that makes my vision go dark. I don’t fear being beaten to anything. But the thought of Ella—my wife—being touched without her consent makes something irreversible click into place.
For that, there would be no mercy. No limits. Only fire and blood.
I move through the room like a bullet shot from a gun, ignoring the greetings, the questions, the curious looks at my battered knuckles.
By the time I circle back to the entrance, my throat is bone-dry and my hands itch for a weapon.
Every person becomes a threat.
Then my phone buzzes. It’s Marco.
“Found her, boss.”
I freeze. “Where?”
He exhales, caught between a laugh and a scoff. “Guest bathroom upstairs. You… should probably see for yourself.”
I’m already moving, taking the stairs two at a time, fresh blood drying on my knuckles, fury building fast and ugly in my chest.
Not because she ran—because, for one brutal moment, I thought someone had taken her from me.
And she’s supposed to be untouchable now.
Marco stands guard outside the bathroom, blocking the door. I don’t know if he’s keeping others out or keeping her in. Doesn’t matter—he did his job.
He steps aside when he sees me, and I push past him, into the room. Relief hits me like a truck.
There she is.
Reclined in an empty bathtub, nursing a bottle of champagne. Her perfect legs are propped up, bare feet crossed on the porcelain edge. A tub of gelato sits near her head, spoon sticking out like a flag.
“Ah,” she says, unimpressed. “My husband.”
For a moment, I just stand there, taking her in.
I nod at the bottle. “Are you drunk?”
She shakes her head and takes another swig. “Nope. Just tipsy enough to stop caring.”
I sit on the edge of the tub, my voice dropping. “You look pretty, piccola fiore.”
Her brows lift. “Not pretty enough to keep my husband from running off on our wedding night.” She points the bottle at me. “What were you doing, Santo? Blackmailing the DJ? Threatening the florist? Starting a kitchen fire?”
I take the bottle from her hand and drink. “None of the above.”
Her gaze drops to my knuckles, and her eyes narrow. “Is that—blood?!”
“Don’t worry, amore.” I flex my hand. “I took off my ring.”
She sits up, leaning closer to inspect. “You went and beat someone up on our wedding day?”
I nod once.
She scoffs. “So nothing’s holy to you.”
“You are.”
Her eyes flick to mine—wide enough to betray what she feels before she hides it. She looks away.
“Holy enough to leave alone so you can run off and commit a felony,” she mutters.
“Per proteggerti.” To protect you.
She turns fully toward me again, fire sparking under those lashes.
“So this is my life now? Smiling for strangers while my Butcher husband is out doing… whatever this is? I don’t know how to do that, Santo.”
I lean my head back against the porcelain, taking another slow swig of champagne. “You don’t have to figure it out tonight.”
She lets out a brittle laugh. “Right. I have the rest of my life to do it.” She scoops another bite of gelato just to give herself something to do.
My hand drops, settling warm and heavy at her knee. The porcelain is cold; she’s not.
She shivers—barely—but she doesn’t shove me off. She just shoots me that glare she thinks hides how much she feels me. “You’re gonna get blood on my dress.”
I tap my finger once against her skin. “Plan on wearing it again? Maybe at your second wedding—after you get rid of me?”
Her gaze doesn’t waver. “Will I ever get rid of you?”
I shake my head, slow enough to make the air between us thicken. “You’re mine ’til kingdom come, Ella.”
Her breath stutters. “Kingdom won’t come for you, marito.” Husband. The word feels like a caress.
I grin—slow, dangerous, every inch the man she would’ve steered clear from, if she’d had a choice. “Then I’d better make my time here worthwhile.”
She jerks her chin toward my hand trying to ignore the goosebumps crawling over her skin. “You probably won’t have much time at all if you keep living like that. Did you even wash your hands?”
I glance at my knuckles. They’re split in places, swollen in others. Nothing new. “I wiped them.”
“Ew!” She kicks my hand off her leg.
I let it fall, palm up between us. A quiet dare.
“Wash them.” Ella jerks her chin at the sink, and I obey.
I don’t take orders from anyone—I never used to, at least. Guess I’ll make an exception for my wife.
I wash my hands, pink swirling down the drain, and dry them quickly before holding them up for her.
She examines my knuckles, the torn skin under the ink.
Her throat works. The champagne flush on her cheeks deepens—not fear, not really. More like she suddenly sees the man who did this for her.
“You’re going to get an infection,” she mutters reluctantly. “You should clean them properly. Do you have a first aid kit anywhere?”
I tilt my head, studying her. “You offering to take care of me, piccola?”
Her jaw tenses. “I’m offering to not let you drip blood all over this bathroom.”
“Mhm.” I drag the sound out as I pull open the cabinet and grab the kit off the shelf, setting it on the counter. “Come clean me up then.”
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OOOOH we're closing the distance, guys! How do we feel about that? ?? hurting yet? Should we finally bring in the tiniest hint of spice into the next one? ????