Page 80 of His Savage Ruin
Matteo's hand at the small of my back is warm, steady. He guides me forward, and I focus on putting one foot in front of the other, on breathing through the tightness in my chest, on not stumbling in the heels Isabella insisted I wear despite my protests.
When we reach the priest, Matteo turns to face me. He takes both my hands in his. His palms are warm, slightly rough, and I feel the tremor in them—barely perceptible, but there. He's nervous. The realization steadies me somehow.
The priest clears his throat, opens his prayer book. "In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti."
We cross ourselves together, and the gesture is so automatic it takes me by surprise—muscle memory from years of Sunday mass with my parents, from the Catholic schools they sent me to where the nuns made sure we knew every prayer, every ritual, every sacred gesture by heart.
Then he switches to Italian, his voice carrying through the candlelit room. "Matteo Romano, prendi tu, Alessia Moretti, come tua legittima sposa, secondo il rito della Santa Madre Chiesa?"
Do you take Alessia Moretti as your lawful wife, according to the rite of Holy Mother Church?
Matteo's eyes lock on mine. His grip on my hands tightens fractionally. "Sì."
The single word reverberates through me. Simple. Final. Binding.
The priest turns to me. "Alessia Moretti, prendi tu, Matteo Romano, come tuo legittimo sposo, secondo il rito della Santa Madre Chiesa?"
Do I take Matteo Romano as my lawful husband?
My throat is dry. The word sticks for a moment, caught somewhere between my chest and my mouth. Then it breaks free.
"Sì."
The priest nods, satisfied. He continues with the blessing, words washing over me in a cadence that's both familiar and foreign. When he pauses, Matteo reaches into his pocket.
He pulls out a ring—platinum band with a single diamond that catches the candlelight. It's simple, elegant, exactly what I would have chosen if anyone had asked.
He slides it onto my finger with hands that are steadier now. "Con questo anello, io ti sposo," he says quietly. "E con tutto me stesso ti onoro."
With this ring, I marry you. And with all that I am, I honor you.
The cool metal settles against my skin. A claim. A permanent mark that says I belong to him.
"Quello che Dio ha unito, l'uomo non separi," the priest intones.What God has joined, let no man separate.
"You may kiss your bride."
Matteo's hands frame my face, thumbs brushing along my jaw. He leans in slowly, giving me time to pull away, to change my mind, to run. I don't.
When his lips meet mine, the kiss is gentle. Reverent, almost. So different from the desperate hunger of the pool, the possessive claiming of every other time he's touched me. This kiss tastes like promise and permanence and something dangerously close to tenderness.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine. "SignoraRomano," he murmurs, and the name sends electricity down my spine.
Around us, glasses lift—whiskey appearing from somewhere, already poured. Rafael's voice cuts through first, carrying that irreverent edge that makes Enzo roll his eyes.
"To the bride who actually survived long enough to get Matteo to an altar. We had bets going that it wouldn't happen."
Scattered laughter follows and even Luca's mouth twitches.
Dante raises his glass higher, always the smooth one. "To theSignoraRomano. May she bring some civilization to this family. God knows we need it."
There's more laughter, though with an edge. Because they all know what being part of this family means. The violence. The danger. The weight of loyalty and blood.
Enzo's voice cuts through, quieter but carrying more weight. "To family. Blood and chosen both."
"To family," they echo, and the words echo through the candlelit room.
They drink, then come forward. Enzo first, shaking Matteo's hand with a grip that looks like it might hurt. He turns to me, and for a moment I think he'll just nod. Instead, he takes my hand, bows slightly over it. "Welcome,Signora. You have my loyalty."
