Page 21 of Twisted Vows

I can’t read his expression but notice how handsome he looks—broad shoulders filling out the sharp lines of his jacket, dark blond hair combed back with just a hint of controlled unruliness.

It’s almost enough to make me forget, just for a heartbeat, why we’re here.

A sliver of hope sneaks in, catching me off guard. Maybe—just maybe—this doesn’t have to be all about power and control.

But as quickly as the thought comes, it disappears.

CHAPTER TEN

Darkly, delicately.

Maxsim

I stand near the altar, the weight of the moment pressing down.

Everything about the wedding has been curated to send the right message—an unshakable alliance, a power move. But beneath the surface, it’s a battlefield, and I’m hyper-aware of every detail.

The wind carries a slight chill as it rustles through the garden, brushing against the white roses lining the aisle. Marble statues of angels stand vigil at the edges, their stone eyes cold and indifferent, as if they can sense the tension in the air.

I quickly survey the crowd, taking in the key players seated in rows. Allies, enemies, and those still undecided. Members of the Cosa Nostra and the Bratva sit side by side, their expressions carefully controlled, with just the right amount of tension rippling beneath the surface.

I can almost hear their minds ticking, analyzing, calculating the implications of this marriage—just as I am.

And then I see him.

Salvatore Santoro is seated near the back, his presence a dark menace. He’s watching everything with cold, calculated eyes, the vendetta he’s intent on pursuing evident in his gaze.

The soft murmur of the crowd quiets as the first note of music is played. All eyes shift, and I hear the rustle of fabric as everyone turns to see her.

Arianna.

My bride.

She stands as still as the statues, and for a moment, I feel a rare spark of uncertainty run through me. The sun catches the lace of her dress, making it shimmer.

It’s not the kind of dress I expected—no soft, bridal nonsense. No, it’s sleek, modern, and powerful. It clings to her curves like armor, the silk and lace somehow both feminine and fierce.

Chin high, shoulders back, she takes her first steps toward me—this isn’t a woman being led to the altar. This is a woman walking straight into battle, ready to face whatever comes next.

Defiant, unyielding, and completely captivating.

For a split second, I forget about the game we’re playing, the power moves and strategies, and see only her. My wife-to-be.

She’s not afraid. I see it in her eyes as she moves closer—no hesitation, no fear. Only determination. The weight of her will and defiance is unmistakable.

I keep my expression neutral, but inside, something shifts. She’s not a pawn in this game. She’s a queen. And damn if that doesn’t make her even more compelling.

She reaches the altar, stopping just inches away, and for a moment, we’re locked in place. Her eyes meet mine—clear, unflinching—and the space between us crackles with unspoken tension.

And the thing we have yet to acknowledge.

Snapping myself back to attention, I see Enzo nod before he steps back and vaguely hear the officiant begin to speak. The words barely register. Ari’s expression is cool and controlled, buther eyes… there’s a wariness that tells me she’s expecting a red wedding.

The officiant’s voice rises slightly, signaling it’s time for the vows. I recite mine first, my voice steady and my words deliberate. Each sentence is carefully crafted, not just for Ari but for the audience.

A carefully arched brow tells me she’s tracking the subtext of the promises of protection. I’m staking my claim, not just to her but to the power the marriage represents.

I slide the wedding band onto her finger, my hand steady. The diamonds gleam and deep satisfaction settles in my chest.

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