68. CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
Alina
The weeks that followed Dante’s proposal were a slow dissolve into a new kind of reality—one where disaster was no longer lurking on the periphery, and every day emptied itself, hour by hour, into a life Alina had never dared imagine.
The new house became a living thing overnight: boxes stacked like battlements in the foyer, sunlight carving paths through dust motes, the scent of paint and cut wood lingering long after each room was finished.
The kitchen table hosted a kind of sprawling domestic campaign—maps of venues and swatches of silk, florists’ business cards, a single battered notebook where Alina and Dante scribbled lists, doodled possible invitation designs, and occasionally, in moments neither would admit to, noted down the names of people who had died for them to live this quietly.
The wedding was never meant to be grand. In between Sunday mornings in bed, feet tangled under the covers, and sunset walks along the riverbank where the world felt
folded in half, Alina and Dante returned again and again to the same certainty: They wanted safety.
They wanted sincerity. They wanted—finally, after years of violence and vigilance—a day where no one looked over their shoulder.
The guest list stayed small, shrinking each time Dante crossed out a name whose loyalty had been suspect, or Alina whispered that she simply “couldn’t bear that much crowd. ”
Still, the “quiet” preparations took on a life of their own.
Mara came over every other evening, arms full of catalogues and a mischievous glint in her eye, ferrying fresh gossip and home-baked cookies to fortify the planned discussions.
She insisted on helping Alina pick her wedding gown, and the two of them made a ritual of it: trying on silhouettes in front of the enormous third-floor mirror, sipping wine, laughing at the ones that made Alina look like a vengeful swan, and then—once or twice—crying, when Mara would say, “You look like yourself,” and Alina didn’t know what to do with the feeling.
Luca, for his part, was a paradox. He managed to seem both everywhere and nowhere, always near enough to intercept a heavy box or offer a silent hand with the tools, but never intruding.
When Mara asked him for his opinion on table settings or boutonnières, he would feign disinterest, eyes drifting toward the ceiling, but his answers were always immediate and correct.
Once, Alina caught him practicing a toast alone in the garden, the words barely a whisper, and he blushed so hard she thought he might combust.
Elena handled the logistics with terrifying competence, deploying spreadsheets, color-coded task lists, and a voice that brokered no dissent.
She had opinions about everything—from the shade of Alina’s lipstick to the menu for the reception dinner—and, after months spent in the war’s blast radius, everyone found themselves grateful for her orderly, pointed certainty.
Marco, healed enough to walk without his cane, filmed everything: the fittings, the flower trials, the brief but seismic moment when Dante tried on a suit and Alina lost her ability to speak for several seconds. He said,
“Someone has to make a record,” and no one argued.
Rico grumbled through every assigned task, but Alina noticed how he lingered after the others left, asking if she needed help moving furniture or if she’d like a second opinion on the playlist. He was terrible at hiding how much he liked being included in the wedding, even if he claimed he “hated all this sentimental bullshit.”
The night before, the house was weighted with anticipation and the faint, citrusy tang of lemon blossoms from the florist. Dante insisted on a traditional separation: he would not see her until she walked down the aisle.
They joked about it, but he still reached out to touch her wrist, thumb drawing circles over her pulse, as if memorizing the shape of her before she slipped out of sight.
That night, Alina lay awake in the guest room, listening to the hum of quiet voices downstairs—a low, masculine chorus: Dante, Marco, Luca, and, impossibly, Rico.
She heard their laughter, the scrape of chairs on tile, the sound of glasses clinking, and for the first time in years, sleep overran her before anxiety could.
Dawn came wrapped in fog and birdcall. Elena arrived with breakfast and a hair stylist in tow, sweeping through the entryway like a one-woman task force.
Mara appeared moments later, carrying a garment bag and a bottle of champagne, and the three of them turned the living room into a staging area: makeup palettes and scattered pins, shoes lined up for review, a single white rose in a chipped glass vase on the table.
The dress Alina chose was a kind of soft rebellion—creamy ivory, the fabric so fluid it seemed to ripple with every breath, nothing flashy or structured, just a bias-cut slip that blurred the line between old glamour and present-tense comfort.
Mara fastened the tiny row of buttons at the back, fingers trembling slightly.
“Are you nervous?” she asked.
Alina considered this. “No. Which is the most terrifying part.”
Mara grinned. “Then you did it right.”
The ceremony was held outdoors, beneath a canopy of string lights stretched between the trees in the new house’s backyard.
The river glimmered along the edge of the property, reflecting the pale-blue morning and the promise of a hundred silent tomorrows.
Alina’s heart hammered, not with fear but a kind of impossible sweetness, as she stepped out onto the grass.
She saw Dante immediately—dark suit, anemone boutonnière pinned to his lapel, face set in a look she recognized as both battle-readiness and awe.
He didn’t glance away, not once, watching her every step as if the world narrowed to the space between them.
There was no music, only the sound of water and wind.
They’d written their own vows, short and nearly pragmatic: promises to keep each other safe, to always speak the truth, to remember what had been lost so that what they built would matter.
When Alina reached him, Dante leaned close, voice rough and unsteady.
“You’re my home.” The words hit somewhere below her ribs.
She barely managed, “And you’re mine,” before tears blurred the edges of everything.
They exchanged rings—simple gold, no inscription—and the officiant (Marco, deputized for the day) pronounced them “ridiculously, irrevocably married.” Dante kissed her, hands shaking, the crowd roaring and then dissolving into laughter because Luca’s sniffling had become so obvious that even Rico yelled, “Just let it out, man!”
The reception was a study in contrasts: a catered lunch on mismatched plates, laughter echoing through the open doors, glasses raised and clinked until even the most circumspect guests surrendered to the joy.
Elena gave a toast so dryly hilarious it almost eclipsed the sincerity at its core; Marco produced a slideshow of the last year’s worth of photos, which Alina watched with a hand pressed over her mouth, trying not to sob at the sight of her own happiness documented and real. Mara and Luca spent most of the
meal not quite sitting together, but never straying more than an arm’s length apart.
Mara teased him, reaching to straighten his tie or flick a crumb from his sleeve, and Luca accepted it with a deadpan that only made her laugh harder.
By dessert, she had finally coaxed him into a dance—awkward at first, then easy as they found the rhythm, Mara’s hair catching the light as she spun and Luca’s expression open, unguarded, almost boyish.
Alina and Dante watched from the edge of the terrace, his hand resting on the small of her back. “Did you ever think,” he murmured, “that any of this was possible?”
“Not for a second,” Alina said, and felt the truth of it settle like a blessing on her shoulder.
They cut the cake—chocolate, dense, decorated with candied violets—and Dante, despite his best efforts, ended up with a smear of frosting on the tip of his nose.
Alina laughed so hard she nearly choked, and when she kissed it away, the taste of sugar and salt and him was so sweet she wondered how she’d ever lived without it.
The afternoon mellowed into golden hour.
Guests drifted toward the river, skipping stones or sitting quietly on the grass, hands clasped or heads tipped together in conspiratorial conversation.
Rico was teaching Marco how to whistle loud enough to scare birds from the treetops.
Elena had commandeered the sound system and was orchestrating a playlist that alternated between classic jazz and the riotous pop songs Dante pretended to hate.
There were no threats, no perimeter checks, no sudden alarms—just the unfamiliar hush of peace, thick and buoyant, wrapping the house and everyone inside it like a closing door.
As Alina stepped onto the back patio to clear her head, she glimpsed Mara and Luca in silhouette, standing just apart from the rest of the group beneath the archway of fairy
lights. Mara said something, her tone teasing, and Luca’s answering smile—tilted, genuine, utterly defenseless—made Alina’s heart stutter. She recognized it instantly: the beginning of a story, quiet and impossible, coiling into life right in the heart of her own happy ending.