The lace veil scratches my face. It is heavy, thick, and smells like old cedar from the trunk my mother kept it in before she died. Through the white mesh, the world looks blurry and gray.
My hands shake against the silk fabric of the wedding dress. The dress doesn’t fit right. It was tailored for Camilla, pinched at the waist for her curves, not mine. The satin digs into my ribs, a constant, sharp reminder that I am a ghost standing in a living woman's shoes.
"Stop moving, Gianna," my father whispers. His voice is a low, gravelly rasp right against my ear.
His hand clamps down on my forearm. His fingers dig deep into my flesh, right through the expensive lace sleeve. I know it will leave a bruise by tomorrow morning. A row of dark purple marks to match the ones already hiding beneath the high collar of the gown.
"I can't breathe, Papa," I mutter, keeping my lips barely moving. I don’t want the bridesmaids behind us to see. I don’t want the heavy oak doors of the church to open and find me gasping for air before the show even starts.
"You don't need to breathe. You just need to walk," he snaps. His breath smells like cheap whiskey and tobacco, a sour mix that makes my stomach turn. "You look just like her. Keep your mouth shut, keep that veil down, and do not let him see you tremble. If you ruin this, the Marchetti family will slide our throats before the sun sets."
"Camilla shouldn't have run," I say, the bitterness tasting like copper on my tongue.
"Camilla is gone. She took the money and left. You are here." He squeezes my arm harder, until my fingers go numb. "You want to save your bakery? You want to keep your little shop on the corner? Then you walk down that aisle and you take the ring. You belong to Dante Marchetti now."
The heavy wooden doors of the cathedral groan as two guards in sharp black suits pull them open.
The sound echoes through the massive stone church like a clap of thunder. Instantly, the organ music swells. The deep, rumbling chords shake the floorboards beneath my satin shoes.
The scent of white roses and expensive incense hits me like a wall.
I look down the long, red carpeted aisle.
The church is packed. Hundreds of people sit in the wooden pews, every single one of them dressed in black.
The men have their jackets buttoned tightly, hiding the bulk of the leather holsters beneath their arms. The women wear diamonds that catch the light like shards of ice. Nobody is smiling.
This isn't a wedding; it's a treaty signed in silk and blood.
At the very end of the aisle, standing before the altar, is the Don.
Dante Marchetti.
He stands like a statue carved from midnight marble. His black suit is perfectly tailored, his broad shoulders filling out the jacket without a single wrinkle. His dark hair is cropped short, his jawline sharp enough to cut.
He doesn't look like a groom waiting for his bride. He looks like a judge waiting to pass a death sentence.
My father pulls me forward. My legs feel like lead, but I force one foot in front of the other. Step. Step. Step.
Every eye in the room shifts to me. The whispers start, a low hiss like a nest of snakes.
They think I am Camilla. They think the wild, spoiled daughter of the Romano family has finally been tamed. They don't know the real Camilla is halfway to Mexico with a suitcase full of stolen cash.
They don't know that the girl under the veil spends her mornings covered in flour, baking bread, trying to ignore the blood that runs through her family's veins.
Dante doesn't move as I get closer. He doesn't smile. His hands are clasped behind his back, his posture perfectly rigid.
We reach the foot of the altar. The air here feels colder, heavy with the scent of the burning candles. My father takes my hand from his arm and presses it into Dante’s open palm.
The moment our skin meets, a jolt goes straight up my spine. His hand is massive, calloused, and hot enough to burn. He doesn't hold my hand gently. His fingers wrap around mine in a grip that feels like a handcuff. Strong. Unyielding.
My father takes a step backward, leaving me alone at the altar with the most feared man in Chicago.
I force myself to look up through the thick mesh of the veil. Dante is staring straight ahead at the priest, his expression completely blank. But as I stand beside him, his head shifts just a fraction of an inch.
His dark, lethal eyes pierce right through the white lace, locking directly onto mine.