The heat of his palm bleeds through my silk glove, a steady, heavy weight that anchors me to the marble floor. Dante doesn't look away from the priest, but his grip tightens by a fraction of an inch, just enough to let me know he feels me shaking.
I stare straight ahead, my vision blurred by the white lattice of the veil. The priest’s voice bounces off the high stone arches of the cathedral, a monotonous drone about honor, duty, and holy matrimony.
None of it applies here. This isn’t holy. It’s a transaction. My father traded a daughter to clear a debt, and Dante Marchetti bought himself peace on the western docks.
Just keep standing, I tell myself. Just breathe.
But the satin corset is laced so tightly my lungs can only take short, shallow sips of air.
The scent of incense grows heavier, mixing with the sharp, clean scent of Dante’s expensive cologne—something like cedar and black pepper.
It is overwhelmingly masculine, entirely dominant. It fills my senses until I can't think about my sister, or my father, or the small bakery with the blue awning that I might never see again.
To my right, I hear a faint rustle of fabric. Leo Marchetti, Dante’s younger brother and underboss, stands as the best man. Even without looking directly at him, I can feel the tension radiating off his large frame.
His hand rests casually near the button of his suit jacket, right where his holster sits. The Marchetti family doesn’t lower their guard, not even in front of God.
"Do you, Dante Giovanni Marchetti, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?" the priest asks, his old voice cracking slightly under the weight of the silence that follows.
The silence stretches. It hangs over the hundreds of guests in the pews like a suffocating blanket. My heart thumps frantically against my ribs, a trapped bird trying to break free.
Why isn't he speaking? Does he know already? Can he smell the scent of vanilla and sugar on my skin instead of the expensive French perfume Camilla always wore?
I risk a glance sideways. Dante’s jaw is a hard, rigid line. A small muscle ticks beneath his tanned skin. He looks down at me, his dark eyes hooded, unreadable, and terrifyingly calm.
"I do," Dante finally says.
His voice is a deep, gravelly baritone that vibrates right through the stone floor and into the soles of my shoes.
It carries the absolute authority of a man who commands an empire of shadows. There is no hesitation in it, only a cold, binding acceptance of his fate.
The priest turns his eyes to me. Even through the veil, I can feel the weight of his gaze. "And do you, Camilla Francesca Romano, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
My real name screams in my throat. Gianna. My name is Gianna.
I feel my father’s glare boring into the back of my neck from the front pew. If I speak the truth, if I tell this holy man that the real bride ran away hours ago, the peace treaty shatters.
The men in the pews will draw their weapons before I can even take off the dress. My father will die. My bakery will burn. And I will be the first body left on the altar.
Dante’s fingers squeeze mine. It isn't a comforting gesture. It is a command.
"I do," I whisper. My voice sounds small, hollow, and fragile compared to his.
"By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife." The priest makes the sign of the cross in the air between us. "You may seal your vows."
The moment freezes. This is the part of the script where the groom lifts the veil. This is the moment where the illusion faces its first real test. Camilla and I are identical twins, yes, but we are not the same. She has a tiny mole just below her left ear.
She wears her hair parted to the side, while I always keep mine down the middle. She smiles with a sharp, arrogant tilt to her lips. I don't.
Dante lets go of my hand. The sudden loss of his warmth leaves me feeling exposed and cold in the massive church.
He steps closer, closing the small distance between us until the toes of his polished leather shoes touch the hem of my white gown.
He is so tall I have to tilt my chin up just to look at his chest. He raises his large hands, his movements slow and deliberate, and catches the edge of the lace veil.
Slowly, carefully, he lifts the fabric.
The gray, blurry world snaps into sharp, terrifying focus. The bright lights of the altar hit my face, making my eyes blink. The cool air of the cathedral touches my bare skin.
Dante raises the veil over my head and drops it behind my shoulders.
I hold my breath, my eyes locking directly onto his. His face is inches from mine. Up close, I can see the faint amber flecks in his dark brown eyes.
I can see the tiny, pale scar that cuts through his left eyebrow. His gaze sweeps over my forehead, my eyes, my nose, and finally settles on my trembling lips.
The air leaves my lungs entirely. His expression doesn't change, but his eyes darken, narrowing into two lethal slits as he stares at my face.
He doesn't lean down to kiss me. He just stares, his chest rising and falling against mine, a sudden, dangerous stillness settling over his entire body.
He knows.
Before I can take a step back, before I can run from the altar, Dante's heavy hand shoots forward. His long, calloused fingers wrap firmly around the back of my neck, his thumb pressing hard against my jawline, locking me in place so I can't move an inch.
He leans down, his lips brushing against my ear, his breath hot and dangerous against my skin.
"Marry me," he whispers, his voice dropping to a deadly, razor-sharp murmur that only I can hear. "That was the deal. But you aren't Camilla.”