Chapter 4
EVI
The morning of my wedding dawns with an eerie stillness.
No birdsong, no cheerful chatter of maids rushing about—just silence, thick and oppressive, that settles in my bones like a premonition.
Maybe it’s nerves, maybe it’s dread, but I feel like I’m standing at the edge of something I can’t turn back from.
Not that I would if I could. My family needs me. My brothers need me. My nephews need me to ensure they grow up with fathers and the promise of full lives themselves.
So here I am, pretending I’m not already shaking like a leaf just waiting for the ceremony to start.
If things had gone according to tradition, I would be at the grand Chiaroscuro estate right now, a sprawling jewel of Italian architecture cloistered in acres of trees and nature despite its proximity to downtown Chicago.
Though I’ve never seen the estate, my father told me that the weddings they hosted there were legendary, the kind that ripple through Mafia lore for decades.
I had been invited once, when the former heir, Leonardo, got married earlier this year.
But my father refused to let me go, since in his words, it was the wedding I was supposed to be dressed in white for.
He took considerable offense after Don Augusta so casually rejected his proposal that I marry Leonardo when I came of age, and I haven’t heard the end of what a terrible decision the Don made since his effort to form a Yakuza alliance backfired so horribly.
I would have loved to see the Chiaroscuro estate in its former glory, but it’s ash and ruin now, after that same Yakuza family who married their daughter to Leonardo nearly burned it to the ground.
They killed Don Augusta, too, just a few weeks after the wedding, when they stormed through the Chiaroscuros’ front gates, turning what was once an empire into rubble.
So instead of a wedding in their legendary hallowed halls, here we are—at the Novikov Bratva’s headquarters.
It’s not exactly lacking in beauty, but the Novikov estate is all sharp edges and dark stone, fortified gates and thick glass windows that don’t just look decorative—they look bulletproof.
There’s less romance in its bones, more practicality.
Still, someone has managed to soften it for the occasion.
Ribbons of ivory fabric drape the staircases, and fragrant bouquets of pastel flowers bloom in every vase.
It’s as if someone tried to weave tenderness into steel.
And somehow, it works.
I sit at the vanity in the guest suite they gave me, staring at my reflection as my mother fusses with my veil.
My stomach twists in anxious knots, so tight I can hardly breathe, as I study the heart-shaped neckline of my beaded ivory bodice.
The strapless corset cinches tight around my waist, pressing my breasts up into an impressive amount of cleavage.
A decadent pearl-encrusted necklace draws attention down to my chest, not so subtly hinting at the fact that today is the day my parents will no longer concern themselves with my chastity.
“You’re pale,” my mother says in that clipped, no-nonsense tone that’s both a warning and a scolding. “You shouldn’t look like a ghost walking down the aisle. Breathe, Evi.”
“I am breathing,” I whisper, though the breath scrapes at my throat like shards of glass.
With a soft huff, my mother takes my chin, turning my face so she can pinch my cheeks, and I wince as she unapologetically draws my color to the surface.
“There,” she says, releasing me.
The door behind us swings open, and Anika sweeps in, somehow lightening the tension in the room instantly.
She’s radiant in a soft blue gown that matches her eyes and the jeweled comb that holds her platinum blond hair in place.
She smiles, and it isn’t forced. It’s warm, genuine, and understanding.
“You look incredible,” she says, coming straight to my side like we’ve been sisters forever instead of strangers thrust into each other’s lives by a bloody alliance. “Sandro won’t know what hit him.”
I almost laugh. Almost.
Anika has been a godsend. Somehow, in the chaos of organizing this wedding in record time, she’s kept everything together.
Invitations, catering, decorations—all the things I thought would be impossible with so little notice.
She’s handled everything with calm efficiency and a little bit of flair.
But it’s not just her organizational skills. It’s her.
She has a way of speaking that makes me believe her, a way of looking at me like she sees more than just the pawn I’ve been offered up as.
Then again, she would know better than I about the price of being sold off as a mafia bride.
She might be happily married and madly in love with Miko.
But from what little I’ve learned about her past, her current husband saved her from a far uglier marriage.
And I’m slightly terrified that I might be headed for the same fate.
“You’re nervous,” Anika says softly, catching my eye in the mirror.
I nod, because lying feels pointless.
“Don’t be.” She leans in, whispering conspiratorially. “The Chiaroscuros might seem terrifying—trust me, I thought the same thing at first—but deep down, they’re all softies. Even Sandro.”
“Really?” I breathe, half-skeptical, half-desperate to believe her.
“Don’t let the scowl fool you.” Her grin widens, and she squeezes my hand. “He might prefer action to words, but I doubt you could find anyone more loyal.”
My throat aches. I want to believe her. I want to believe that beneath Sandro’s tattoos and brooding silence, there’s something softer waiting for me. Something that won’t destroy me the moment he realizes the truth.
Anika gives my shoulder a squeeze then slips back out of the room to help oversee the guests.
As soon as the door closes, the air shifts once more, the warmth disappearing along with her.
My mother remains behind, fussing with my gown until finally she straightens, her eyes sharp, her voice lowering into a tone that slices.
“Remember,” she says. “Not a word about your condition.”
The reminder stings, even though I knew it was coming. “I know.”
It’s not like I could forget, when my parents have hammered it into my head that all our lives hinge on the Chiaroscuros never discovering our plan for—let’s face it—entrapment.
No doubt Sandro would refuse to marry me if he knew I can’t have children, so if anyone ever found out we already knew about it, no doubt the consequences would be catastrophic, likely even deadly.
Which is why no one can ever know. And why would they, unless I let it slip? After all, I’m a virgin—so why would I even suspect I can’t have children? Right?
“If he asks, you smile. If he wonders, you deflect. Understand?” my mother presses.
I bite my lip, nodding. But her words drag me back to that humiliating chapter of my life I’ve tried so hard to bury.
I was just thirteen then, so I didn’t know any better.
My body had only begun to change, but my cycle was erratic, unpredictable.
Sometimes, it disappeared for months. My nanny noticed and reported it to my parents, whispering that something was wrong.
That’s when their suspicions started. My father didn’t ask gently. He accused.
“Who is he?” he had barked, his face red, his hand slamming down on the table hard enough to rattle the silverware. “Tell us who you spread your legs for!”
I hadn’t even kissed a boy, and I was too young to realize just what he was accusing me of. But it didn’t take me long to find out. The shame of that moment still burns beneath my skin just thinking about it. The disbelief in my father’s eyes, the cold fury in my mother’s.
They marched me to a doctor, forced me through tests I didn’t understand, all to discover who had knocked me up, despite my insistence that I was still a virgin. That’s when the truth came out. I have polycystic ovary syndrome, PCOS. A word I didn’t know then, but one that now defines me.
The doctor’s voice was clinical, detached. “Your ovaries are riddled with cysts. Your hormone levels are imbalanced. Conception, when you do have sex, may be difficult, if not impossible. And even if pregnancy occurs, carrying to term will be unlikely.”
My parents exchanged looks, calculating. They moved straight past the fact that I had been telling them the truth all along and on to the realization that I was no longer their perfect daughter. I was a liability.
And today, that truth hangs over me like a guillotine.
“By the time Sandro realizes you can’t provide him with an heir,” my mother says, her tone hushed but businesslike, “our alliance will be secure. The Chiaroscuros will be bound to us, and your brothers will have proven worthy of the elevated status. So, when he asks for a divorce, we’ll be more than capable of taking you back.
Your brothers will support you until we can find you a widower with children or an older man who’s lonely and doesn’t care about securing an heir. ”
Her words gut me. Because beneath the strategy, beneath the cold practicality, is the unspoken truth. I am damaged goods. Broken. Unlovable.
I force myself to smile at her reflection, even as tears sting my eyes. “Of course, Mother.”
She seems satisfied with my composure and finally leaves me to finish dressing.
When I’m alone, I stare at myself in the mirror, at the gown of ivory silk that drapes over my body like armor. I look like a bride. I look like someone whole, someone wanted. If I smile just right, maybe no one will see the cracks beneath.
It feels like a matter of seconds before my father comes to collect me. Time bends strangely under pressure, stretching and snapping all at once. One moment I’m alone, the next my father is at my side, his arm as stiff as steel where it links with mine.
The Novikov ballroom has been transformed into a cathedral of light. Candles flicker along the aisle, casting a golden glow across marble floors. Chandeliers glitter overhead, and for a moment, I almost forget this place was built for power and defense rather than love.
Guests murmur softly as I pass, but all of it blurs. My gaze locks on one thing. Him.
Sandro waits at the end of the aisle, towering and immovable, as if the earth itself anchors him there.
I haven’t seen him since the night we met, and my stomach flip-flops at the change in his appearance.
Rather than covered in blood, sweat, and bruises, he wears a crisp, perfectly tailored tuxedo, black and severe.
His dark hair has been tamed with product and combed back from his forehead in a stylish, intentional look that masks the chaos within.
Today, he looks more than just presentable—a complete one eighty from the last time I saw him.
He looks handsome.
But no quality fabric or hair product could soften the jagged edges that mark him as distinctly different from his twin.
Even dressed to the nines, Sandro looks lethal.
Tattoos snake up his throat, curling over sun-bronzed skin as they peek out from his white dress shirt.
His square, clean-shaven jaw is set, his expression a scowl so fierce it should frighten me.
But it doesn’t.
Because beneath the darkness, his hazel eyes are locked on mine. And the way he looks at me—it’s unlike anyone has ever looked at me before. It’s not calculation, not strategy. It’s something raw, something that makes my stomach twist and my knees weaken.
He doesn’t just see me. He sees into me.
And a shiver runs down my spine as I get the feeling that, if he wanted to, Sandro could pluck the deepest, darkest secrets from my mind.
My father’s hand is clammy against mine as he leads me forward, a reminder of the stakes and just how dangerous it would be if Sandro could, in fact, read my thoughts.
When we reach the altar, my father passes me over, his grip tightening just slightly before he releases me, as though reminding me of my duty even now.
Then Sandro’s hand closes around mine.
And everything shifts.
His palm is broad, calloused, warm, and steady. The strength in his grip radiates through me, rooting me in place. Where my father’s grip felt like possession, Sandro’s hand feels like an anchor, like safety—even though I know better than to believe in such things.
His touch brings me back to our single meeting before today, and my skin tingles with the memory of his chaste farewell, his lips brushing across my knuckles with a tenderness he looks like he couldn’t possibly possess.
I’ve dreamed about that seemingly innocuous kiss more than I would like to admit.
And now, with Sandro’s eyes burning into my very soul, I feel my cheeks lighting on fire. Because I’m certain he can read it on my face as plain as day—the liquid warmth that floods my body the moment our hands meet.
I glance up at him from beneath my lashes, bracing for his disdain or indifference. Instead, his gaze is steady, unwavering, locked on me like I’m the only one in the room.
My heart stutters.
Maybe Anika was right. Maybe Sandro is a softie—hidden beneath steel and ink and scars.
The vows blur. I barely hear the priest’s words. All I know is the weight of Sandro’s hand, the heat of his body beside mine, the steady drum of my heart threatening to burst free from my chest.
When he slips the ring onto my finger, his thumb grazes my skin, slow and deliberate.
My breath hitches. I’m terrified. I’m captivated.
And I can’t deny it. I am drawn to Sandro—despite the danger, despite the secrets, despite the knowledge that one day, when he learns the truth about me, everything will shatter.