Page 8 of Luca
Two of my men stand at the back in tailored suits that hide their weapons, eyes moving over the crowd for trouble. If someone’s stupid enough to cause it today, I’ll let my guys handle it. Bloodstains on the aisle runner would ruin my stepmother’s day.
My cufflinks catch the afternoon light, steady as my breathing. I've done worse shit than this under pressure. Sat across from guys while they begged for their lives. Negotiated deals with guns pointed at my head. This is just ceremony. A contract signing with flowers and music.
The string quartet stops whatever tune they were butchering and shifts to the wedding march. Heads turn.Cameras flash. The photographer's getting every angle for the society pages.
My bride appears at the end of the aisle.
Sofia.
The dress is white and expensive, flowing when she walks. She’s on her father’s arm, and he’s strutting like he just sold me a masterpiece instead of his daughter. I know exactly what this alliance is worth to his business, and so does he.
She walks slow, head high, the perfect image of a bride. The quiet, docile woman I’ve met four times. Once for lunch, twice for dinner, once in her father’s gallery. Soft voice. Downcast eyes.
When she reaches me, her father kisses her cheek and places her hand in mine. Warm. Steady. Not what I expected.
Father Benedetti starts in Latin. The words echo off the stone, heavy with history, but they’re background noise to me. I’ve heard them at other weddings in our world. Promises meant to sound eternal and binding, when in truth they’re just another clause in a contract.
She answers perfectly, every cue hit, voice clear. She’s done her rehearsal. She’s playing the part.
The priest tells us to face each other for the exchange of vows.
This is the part I've been dreading. Not because of emotion, but because of the cameras. Every major newspaper in Italy has photographers here. Tomorrow the society pages will dissect every word, every gesture.
I look at Sofia, ready to recite the same tired lines about love, honor, and fidelity that everyone in the room knows are worth less than the paper my lawyer will file tomorrow.
But then she looks up directly at me.
Sofia never looks me in the eye. Not like this. Not ever. In our four dinners, she barely glanced at me. Always staring at her hands, her plate, somewhere over my shoulder. I figured it was because she was shy, or scared, or just smart enough to know what I am.
But now she's looking right at me. Dark brown eyes, almost black in this light. No flinching. No looking away. Just steady focus that makes me forget what I'm supposed to say.
For a second, she smiles. Only a little. Like she knows something I don't.
I pull it together and get through my vows without screwing up. She says hers back, never breaking eye contact.
When Father Benedetti says we're married, the whole place explodes in applause. Cameras going off like machine gun fire. My stepmother's actually crying, though I can't tell if it's from joy or relief.
"You may kiss the bride."
It’s supposed to be quick. Enough for the photos. But when my mouth touches hers, she doesn’t retreat. She leans in, barely enough. Her lips are soft, warm, tasting faintly of cherry lip gloss. And something in the way she breathes against my lips makes me want to forget there’s an audience.
Then it's over, and she's smiling at me. Not the timid, scared smile I'm used to, but something completely different. Something that looks almost like a challenge.
Her hand rests lightly on my arm as we turn to face our guests. She waves gracefully, every inch the perfect bride. But I swear I can still feel the warmth of her lips, the brief moment when she kissed me back.
The reception is held in the gardens with tables covered in cream silk, white roses everywhere, lights strung through century-old olive trees. The sun's setting behind us.
Sofia plays her part exactly as expected. She greets family members, thanks people for gifts, keeps that smile where it needs to be. She dances gracefully, eats what's served, makes polite conversation. Everything's going according to plan.
She's being the perfect Romano wife.
It's almost midnight when I see her slip away from the main crowd. She excuses herself from a conversation with the mayor's wife and moves toward the edge of the tent where the catering staff is cleaning up. Most of the older guests have headed home, and the younger ones are settling in for some serious drinking at the open bar.
I follow at a distance, not sure why.
She stops behind one of the catering tables, partially hidden by the tent walls. For a split-second, she stands there, shoulders dropping like she's finally letting herself breathe.
Then I see something that shocks me.
