Page 43 of Shadows of Steel
Bodyguards are everywhere, their hands resting near their weapons, their gazes sweeping the room in constant assessment. The air is thick with unspoken power, a fragile balance held in place by mutual necessity, not trust.
And at the end of it all, Dante waits.
He stands tall, dressed in an all-black suit, the sharp lines of his face even more severe under the dim glow of the chandeliers. His presence is commanding, suffocating, a king awaiting his queen, or a wolf waiting for his prey.
Each step forward seals my fate.
The veil drapes over my face, a delicate barrier between me and the dozens of eyes watching, waiting. Step by step, I move toward the inevitable.
When we reach the altar, my grandfather shifts slightly, his imposing presence unwavering as he leans in toward Dante. His voice is quiet but edged with steel.“She is Ricci by birth, Moretti by blood, and Outfit to the bone. If anything happens to her, we won’t just come for you, we’ll reduce your empire to nothing but ash and regret.”
Dante’s gaze flickers to mine for a brief moment, before he turns back to my grandfather. A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, dangerous and mocking. “Then let’s hope she doesn’t give me a reason to test that, Moretti.”
The weight of his words lingers, a taunt wrapped in quiet amusement, a challenge neither man is willing to concede. At last, my grandfather releases me.
Dante turns, offering his arm. I place my hand in his, my grip steady. Together, we face forward.
The ceremony begins, the priest’s voice rising in solemn cadence, the Latin verses reverberating through the grand cathedral. Words of devotion, of union, of permanence. They slip past me, drowned out by the pounding of my heartbeat, by the sheer weight of the man beside me.
This is it.
No escape. No turning back.
The moment arrives. Mattia steps forward, carrying a small velvet pillow, upon which rest two bands of gold, deceptively simple yet weighted with irrevocable meaning. His expression remains impassive, but his gaze flickers briefly between me and his father before he steps back, as if absorbing the gravity of what’s unfolding.
Dante takes my hand first. His grip is firm, his skin cool against mine as he slides the ring onto my finger. The band settles like a brand, binding me in a way that feels both ancient and absolute. When I glance up at him, his expression is composed, but beneath the veneer of control, something glimmers. Satisfaction. Possession. As if this moment is not merely an exchange of vows, but a conquest. A claim no one will ever challenge.
Then it’s my turn. I lift his ring, and slide it onto his hand. The instant it settles, the air shifts. A current thrums between us, something deeper than duty, darker than tradition. Finality. Ownership. A contract etched in gold and sealed in blood. The weight of it presses against my chest, sharp as the blade of a knife, cold and inevitable.
Dante moves intentional, reaching for my veil. The lace is light, delicate, but as he lifts it, it feels as though he is peeling away something far greater than fabric.
Our eyes meet.
His gaze darkens, a quiet, consuming possession.
He leans in slightly, his voice a low murmur, intimate enough that only I can hear. “You look utterly divine.” He pauses, then adds with finality. “My name suits you well, Mrs. Salvatore.”
Before I can process his words, his hand slides to the small of my back, pulling me against him with undeniable force, erasing the last breath of space between us.
He crashes his mouth to mine.
The kiss isn’t soft. It’s claiming.
Possessive.
Then, without hesitation, his tongue pushes past my lips, invading, taking. It’s not a question, it’s a demand, one I never agreed to but one he enforces without mercy. A slow, insidious heat coils low in my stomach, tension tightening withevery unrelenting stroke of his tongue. My pulse hammers, a dangerous rhythm that echoes between us as he deepens the kiss, his hold unyielding, pressing me closer. Electricity crackles through my veins, sharp, consuming, impossible to ignore.
The church erupts into applause, but I barely hear it.
All I hear is him.
All I feel is the way he’s leaving his mark, searing it into me with every breath, every touch, every unapologetic stroke of his tongue.
Because in this moment, as Dante pulls back, his thumb grazing over my lower lip, I realize something far more dangerous than the man before me. This doesn’t feel like a contract sealed in blood and power.
It feels like a takeover. A war I never saw coming, one I might already be losing.
Dante lingers for a moment, as if savouring the effect he has on me. His eyes flicker with something dangerous. Then, with the same quiet dominance that has marked every step of this day, he turns, offering his arm.
