Page 83 of The Assassin's Captive
I nod, unable to speak past the tightness in my throat. My dress flows around me in layers of ivory silk, the bodice fitted perfectly to my frame. It's beautiful, expensive, and paid for with blood money. The contradiction doesn't escape me.
The organist begins the processional, and the massive doors swing open. A sea of faces turns toward me—some familiar, others strangers whose names I know from case files and surveillance reports. Rome's elite, both legitimate and otherwise, have gathered to witness this union. The Costa syndicate's attorney marrying their most feared enforcer. A fairy tale written in violence and sealed with vows.
Victor guides me forward, his steps steady and sure. I focus on breathing, on moving one foot in front of the other down the endless aisle. Flowers line the pews—more white roses mixed with deep red dahlias that seem to bleed against the pristine marble. Lorenzo's doing again. He has a poet's soul trapped in a killer's body.
My eyes find him at the altar, and everything else fades. He stands perfectly still in a black tuxedo that transforms him from predator to prince, though the danger never fully leaves his posture. His hazel eyes lock onto mine, and I see the man beneath the myth. The one who chose me over duty, who risked everything to keep me alive when every instinct told him to complete his mission.
The scar down his right cheek catches the cathedral light, a permanent reminder of the violence that shaped him. His hands rest at his sides, no longer adorned with the rings he wore as The Sin Eater. Today, he wears only the simple platinum band I gave him during our private ceremony last month. This public spectacle is for appearances, for politics, for the world that needs to see Emilio Costa's daughter wed his most loyal soldier.
But that quiet exchange of rings in Lorenzo's study, witnessed only by the flames in the fireplace and the weight of our shared truth—that was for us.
Victor places my hand in Lorenzo's, and the contact sends electricity up my arm. Even now, after months of learning each other's rhythms and scars, his touch undoes me. He lifts myfingers to his lips and presses a kiss to my knuckles, a gesture both tender and possessive.
The priest begins the ceremony in Latin, his voice echoing through the vaulted ceiling. I understand every word—my years of legal study included enough ecclesiastical law to follow along. The ancient language feels appropriate for this moment, binding us with words that have survived empires and outlasted kings.
"Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony?"
Lorenzo's voice is steady when he answers. "I will."
The same question comes to me, and I meet his eyes as I respond. "I will."
The words carry more weight than their traditional meaning. I will love you despite what you've done. I will stand beside you despite what I've become. I will choose this life, this love, this beautiful corruption, because the alternative is a world without you in it.
The priest continues through the ritual, but my attention drifts to the congregation. Emilio sits in the front pew, resplendent in a navy suit that costs more than most people's annual salary. His silver hair is perfectly styled, his expression one of paternal satisfaction. To the outside world, he's a successful businessman watching his daughter marry well. Only a select few know the true nature of his empire.
Behind him, I recognize faces from court documents and surveillance photos. Judges who've taken bribes, politicians who've sold their souls, businessmen who launder money through legitimate enterprises. They're all here to pay homage to the union, to show respect to their new princess and her dark prince.
My adoptive parents sit three rows back, looking overwhelmed by the grandeur. Giuseppe wears his one good suit, the navy one he bought for my law school graduation. Mariaclutches her purse in her lap, her eyes wide as she takes in the cathedral's opulence. They know some version of the truth now—that I'm Emilio's biological daughter, that my work has taken a different direction, that Lorenzo is a complicated man with a complicated past. They don't know the full extent of either our crimes or our love, and I pray they never will.
The rings come next, blessed by the priest and exchanged with promises that sound sacred even in this den of sinners. Lorenzo slides the diamond-encrusted band onto my finger, his touch reverent despite the callused roughness of his hands. These are the same fingers that have ended lives, that have pulled triggers and wielded knives in service to the family I now belong to. They're also the hands that cup my face when nightmares wake me, that trace patterns on my skin in the dark hours before dawn.
I place his matching band on his finger, and he closes his eyes briefly as if savoring the moment. When he opens them again, I see the man who told me he'd never wanted anything he wasn't allowed to touch. Now I'm his, and he's mine, sanctified by God and witnessed by devils.
"You may kiss the bride."
Lorenzo's kiss is soft, reverent, nothing like the hungry claiming I expect. He treats me like something precious, breakable, worth protecting. The congregation erupts in applause, but I barely hear them. There's only this moment, this man, this choice I've made to love him despite everything logical in my mind screaming otherwise.
We turn to face our guests as the priest announces us for the first time. "Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Lorenzo Santoro."
The name feels foreign on my tongue, though I've been practicing it for weeks. Serena Santoro, wife of Rome's mostfeared assassin, daughter of its most powerful Don, defender of the undefendable. The irony isn't lost on me.
The recessional begins, and we walk back down the aisle hand in hand. Faces blur past us—some smiling, others calculating, all assessing what this union means for their own positions in Rome's intricate power structure. Flower petals rain down from above, white rose petals mixed with red dahlia petals that look disturbingly similar to blood drops against my dress.
Outside the cathedral, photographers wait to capture images for the society pages. Tomorrow's headlines will read of a fairy tale wedding, of old Roman families joining in matrimony, of tradition upheld in an increasingly modern world. They'll print pictures of my dress, speculate about the guest list, and never mention the guns hidden beneath expensive suits or the crimes that paid for the champagne reception.
The receiving line forms quickly, a parade of well-wishers offering congratulations and calculating glances. Business associates of Emilio's pump Lorenzo's hand and kiss my cheeks, their wives complimenting my dress while their eyes assess my worth. Judges I've argued before nod respectfully, their expressions carefully neutral. They know the game has changed, that the woman who once prosecuted their friends now stands on the other side of the courtroom.
"Beautiful ceremony," says Judge Torretti, the same man who accepted a briefcase full of cash to dismiss charges against three Costa lieutenants last month. "You look radiant, my dear."
I smile and thank him, the words automatic. This is my life now—performing gracious acceptance while my soul wrestles with the compromises I've made. Every freed criminal, every dismissed charge, every victory I win for monsters adds another shadow to my conscience. But when Lorenzo's hand finds mine, when his thumb traces reassuring circles on my palm, I remember why I made this choice.
The crowd parts as Emilio approaches, his presence commanding instant attention. He moves with the confidence of a man accustomed to being the most dangerous person in any room, though today he plays the role of proud father. His smile is genuine as he takes my hands in his, the resemblance between us more apparent now that I know to look for it.
"My beautiful daughter," he says, loud enough for nearby guests to hear. "You honor our family today."
He kisses both my cheeks in a paternal and warm gesture. To the watching crowd, we're the picture of familial devotion. They can't see the steel beneath his affection, the reminder that I belong to this world now whether I chose it or had it chosen for me.
"Thank you, Papa," I reply, the word still foreign after months of practice. But it pleases him, and pleased fathers are generous fathers. Generous fathers keep their daughters' adoptive families safe and their husbands' consciences clear.
