Page 42 of Shadows of Steel
Elena stands nearby, her dark hair styled into soft waves that frame her delicate features, the length grazing just past her shoulders. Though grumpy as ever, she still carries an innate elegance, grace wrapped in quiet defiance.
Sofia clasps her hands together, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “Oh my god, Harlow, you look so beautiful!”
Elena steps forward, bouquet in hand, deep purple calla lilies, her expression impossible to decipher. “Here,” she says, offering it to me with a touch of dry amusement. “You’re going to need this.”
I take it, fingers tightening around the stems as a strange feeling settles in my chest.
This is real.
I’m about to marry Dante Salvatore.
As we leave the bedroom, the girls move around me, adjusting the last details, fixing a stray curl, smoothing the fabric of my dress. Their presence grounding me, even as my pulse thrums with the weight of what’s to come. Step by step, we descend the grand staircase, the distant murmur of voices rising from below. The atmosphere shifts, the air thick.
At the base of the stairs, my grandfather, Vincenzo, and Michael stand waiting, their presence a steady force amid the whirlwind of the morning. Nearby, bodyguards linger in silent vigilance, as immovable as the walls enclosing us.
Beside them stands another figure, Fabio Moretti, Michael’s younger brother and second-in-command. Taller by a fraction, he bears the same sharp, chiselled features, but where his older brother commands with an unyielding presence, Fabio exudes a quiet intensity. His confidence is no less formidable, tempered by years steeped in the world he was born into.
His gaze sweeps over me, lips pressing into something that nearly resembles approval. “You look stunning.”
Nonno nods in agreement, his expression softer than usual. “You do, piccola. Truly.”
I inhale slowly, steadying myself. The weight of their gazes, settles deep in my bones.
“She looks like a dream.” Sofia adds, still beaming.
Elena, ever the realist, crosses her arms, her sharp eyes assessing. “She looks beautiful, but I don’t think she’s convinced this isn’t a nightmare from which she’ll soon wake up.”
I huff a quiet breath, neither confirming nor denying. Instead, I lift my chin and shift my focus back to the men.
“Has Dante already made his way to the church?” I ask, my voice strong, though beneath the surface, a storm brews, an ache of conflicted emotions.
Michael gives a slight nod. “He left earlier. Mattia accompanied him.”
I nod once, glancing toward the door. “Shall we?” With those words, we move forward, shedding the last remnants of the past and stepping into the inevitable.
Outside, a fleet of sleek black cars awaits, their polished surfaces gleaming beneath the unforgiving sun. The drive to the church is silent, the weight of expectation pressing down like a loaded gun.
This marriage is a pact. A strategic move. Nothing more than an exchange of power. So why does it feel like a noose tightening around my throat, like something I’ll never escape?
When we finally arrive, the car rolls to a stop, and for a moment, I remain still, fingers tightening around the bouquet. Outside, the world is eerily quiet, no onlookers, no interruptions, just the heavy presence of what awaits beyond those doors.
I exhale slowly, then step out of the car. The church looms before me, an imposing masterpiece of stone and stained glass, its towering façade bathed in sunlight. Shadows stretch across the steps in a silent invitation, or a warning.
My grandfather extends his hand. “Ready?”
No.
But I nod nonetheless.
Together, we ascend the steps, crossing the threshold into a world where escape is nothing more than a forgotten dream. The music begins, a soft, haunting melody that drifts through the vast cathedral, each note reverberating off the ancient stone walls. With my grandfather at my side, I begin the walk down the aisle. The weight of countless eyes settles over me, the pews lined with the most powerful families in the criminal underworld. This isn’t just a wedding, it’s a declaration, a pact forged not between two, but three empires.
The Chicago Outfit.
The Sicilian Mafia.
The Camorra.
The sheer presence of so many ruthless men, their wives beside them, is suffocating. Tensions hidden behind forced smiles and polite nods. Deals made and broken within the span of a glance. A room like this is a ticking bomb, one wrong move, one miscalculation, and it all goes up in flames.
