Chapter 11
I heard his voice.
It didn't just break the silence; it shattered it.
It sounded desperate. Broken.
Elena!
My heart didn't race. My palms didn't sweat. My pulse remained steady, a slow, rhythmic drum against my ribs.
It was strange. For five years, my world had orbited around Dante Moretti. His moods were my weather. His approval was my sunlight.
Now, his scream felt like static, like noise from a television in another room that I could simply turn off.
I looked up at Matteo.
He hadn't flinched when Dante burst in. He hadn't looked worried. He just watched me, his dark eyes searching for a crack in my porcelain mask.
"Do you want to stop?" Matteo asked softly. The microphone didn't pick it up. It was just for us.
I looked past him at the altar, at the crucifix hanging in the shadows.
"No," I said.
Matteo nodded. He signaled the guards with a sharp flick of his finger.
I heard the scuffle behind me. I heard Dante's father hissing at him.
I didn't turn. Lot's wife turned back and turned to salt. I was walking through fire; I wouldn't turn to ash.
The priest cleared his throat, his hands trembling slightly as he adjusted his grip on the bible. "Do you, Matteo Moretti, take this woman..."
"I do." Matteo cut him off. He didn't look at the priest. He looked at me. "I take her. Now and forever."
The possession in his voice made my skin prickle. It wasn't the frantic, guilty possession of Dante. It was the calm certainty of a predator who has finally cornered his prey.
"And do you, Elena Vitiello..."
I looked at Matteo's chest. At the black silk tie resting against his white shirt.
"I do," I said. My voice was clear. It rang off the stone walls, final and absolute.
Matteo took my hand. His fingers were rough, calloused from guns and violence. He slid the ring onto my finger.
It was a heavy, thick band of platinum encrusted with black diamonds. It felt like a shackle. But it also felt like armor.
"You may kiss the bride."
Matteo didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, his hand sliding around my waist, pulling me flush against his hard body. His other hand came up to cup the back of my neck.
His thumb brushed the fresh tattoo. The M inked over the burn.
He leaned down.
"Mine," he whispered against my lips, a dark vow. "Only mine."
He kissed me.
It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a claiming. He devoured my breath, his tongue sweeping into my mouth, demanding submission.
I gave it to him. I melted into him, gripping his lapels to anchor myself.
Behind us, a sound of pure agony erupted.
"No!"
I broke the kiss and finally turned.
Dante had broken free from his father. He lunged toward the altar, his eyes wild, his face wet with tears.
"Elena!" he reached for me, his fingers clawing at the empty air.
My father-in-law stepped in. He didn't hold back. He swung his hand in a wide, vicious arc.
Crack.
The slap echoed through the cathedral like a gunshot.
Dante's head snapped to the side. He stumbled.
He clutched his stomach. His face went grey.
He doubled over, retching.
A spray of bright red blood hit the white marble floor of the aisle.
"Dante!" his mother screamed.
He fell to his knees, coughing, thick crimson dripping from his chin. His ulcer. The years of stress had finally ruptured him.
He looked up at me through the hair falling in his eyes. There was blood on his teeth.
"Elena," he wheezed.
I looked down at him from the altar. I stood in the circle of Matteo's arm.
I felt nothing.
"Get him out of here," Matteo ordered, his voice devoid of pity.
The guards dragged him away, his expensive shoes scraping against the floor, leaving a trail of blood smearing the pristine white marble behind him.
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