If soone had told a week ago that I would be marrying the most dangerous man in this city, I would’ve laughed—no, choked—on the absurdity of it.
But tonight, beneath the cold glow of the moon, standing inside a cathedral that reeked more of power than of God, I wasn’t laughing.
I was trembling.
A midnight wedding.
Secret. Silent. Binding.
Not a soul beyond those Luciano DeLuca deed trustworthy knew it was happening. No flowers. No music. No family. No guests. No love.
Just .
Him.
And a contract signed with more fear than faith.
The limousine rolled to a stop outside the chapel gates. Black wrought iron curled like thorns, towering under the cloudy sky, guarding the secrets of the n who ruled this city’s underworld.
I stared out the tinted window, fingers curling into the satin of the simple white dress that had been chosen for —elegant, modest, suffocating. Not a wedding gown. Not really. Just... armor made of silk.
The driver opened my door. My legs felt numb as I stepped onto the cobblestone path.
The chapel itself was old. Stone walls stained by ti. Tall, arched windows reflected nothing but shadow. Above the heavy oak doors was an inscription in Latin I couldn’t translate but sohow understood.
What’s done within, is never undone.
A shiver rippled down my spine.
"Ready?" a voice asked.
I spun to find Luca standing there. Not in his usual sharp, black tailored suit—but in a tuxedo so dark it seed to swallow the moonlight. Black shirt. Black tie. Black pocket square. Only the silver cufflinks reflected anything at all—just like him. All shadows, with a glint of steel underneath.
His gaze swept over .
Not lecherous.
Not possessive.
But assessing.
Like a man weighing the final checkmate on a board he never intended to play.
"You clean up nice," he said finally.
I swallowed. "You don’t look so bad yourself."
His lips twitched—whether amusent or annoyance, I couldn’t tell.
"Let’s get this over with," I muttered, stepping past him toward the chapel doors.
But his hand shot out, fingers circling my wrist, pulling back until I was chest to chest with him. My breath hitched.
His eyes darkened. "This isn’t just business anymore, Aria. After tonight... you wear my na. My ring. You stand under my protection."
"And my cage," I whispered.
A shadow of sothing flickered across his features. Guilt? Annoyance? I couldn’t read him.
"This is survival," he said quietly, releasing . "Not a cage."
I wasn’t sure which one of us believed that less.
The doors creaked open.
Inside, the chapel was empty except for three n seated like silent witnesses in the back pew—his inner circle. His consiglieres. No doubt here to confirm that the Don was no longer an eligible bachelor, but a married man.
At the altar stood a priest.
Old. Thin. Hollow-cheeked.
And judging by the tremor in his hands as he adjusted his glasses, either terrified of Luca... or fully on his payroll.
Maybe both.
Luciano offered his arm.
For a second, I stared at it, tempted to reject it. To pretend I had any real power in this.
But refusing would only make look weaker. And in this world, weakness was a death sentence.
So I slipped my hand into the crook of his elbow, letting him guide down the aisle.
My heels clicked against the marble floor in rhythm with the echo of my own heartbeat.
There was no music.
No vows written from love.
No father to walk down the aisle. No veil to lift. No bouquet to toss.
Just obligation.
The priest’s voice quivered as he opened the leather-bound book.
"We are gathered here tonight in the presence of God... and witnesses... to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony."
My throat tightened.
Holy.
Nothing about this was holy.
The priest’s gaze flicked nervously between us, likely wondering how much of the ceremony he could skip without offending the Don.
Luca must have caught it because his voice cut in, smooth and commanding. "Skip to the vows."
The priest paled but nodded. "Yes, of course."
He cleared his throat. "Luciano DeLuca, do you take Aria Valencia... to be your lawfully wedded wife... in sickness and in health... for as long as you both shall live?"
Luca’s gaze held mine.
His silver eyes weren’t cold.
Not tonight.
They were unreadable. Deep. As though even he wasn’t sure what he saw when he looked at .
"I do," he said. Firm. Unwavering.
A chill wrapped around , sinking into my bones.
The priest turned to . "Aria Valencia... do you take—"
"I do," I interrupted, voice barely more than a whisper. But it was steady. Sohow.
The priest let out a breath of relief as though expecting to bolt.
"Then by the power vested in ... I now pronounce you husband and wife."
No one clapped.
No one smiled.
The silence was suffocating.
"You may..." The priest hesitated. "Kiss the bride."
My eyes snapped to Luca.
He stepped closer. His hands didn’t reach for my waist or my face. Instead, he cupped my chin, tilting it up. His thumb brushed once—softly—along my jaw, then stopped at the edge of my lips.
For one heartbeat, I thought... maybe...
But no.
His lips brushed my cheek. Not my mouth. Not really a kiss. Just... a mark. A statent.
She’s mine.
Not affection.
Possession.
A murmur rose from the three n in the back—approval, maybe. Or simply acknowledgnt.
The priest stepped aside, closing his book. "The paperwork," he mumbled.
Luciano turned, releasing but keeping one hand possessively on the small of my back as if he sensed I might run even now.
The contract waited on the marble altar. Thick. Legal. Binding.
Luca signed first. His signature was sharp, practiced, unhesitating. As though he’d signed deals with the devil before—and maybe he had.
Then he handed the pen.
My fingers trembled as I took it.
The black ink bled into the cream paper as I signed my na.
Aria Valencia.
But for the first ti in my life... the na felt wrong.
Because the next line was already filled.
Aria DeLuca.
My throat closed.
It was done.
The priest stamped it with an official seal.
"Congratulations," he whispered, though his voice carried none of the usual warmth.
Luca turned to . His expression unreadable. His hand slid from my back to my fingers, lacing them together.
"You’re mine now," he said, voice like silk wrapped around steel. "For better or worse."
"Mostly worse," I shot back, but it lacked bite.
He smirked, pulling gently toward the doors. "Co, moglie mia. Let’s go ho."
Ho.
The word felt hollow. Foreign.
Yet when we stepped into the cool night air, sothing inside shifted. Irreversible. Final.
The gates closed behind us with a deep tallic groan.
And with that sound... my old life was buried Forever.
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