Mafia's Bloody Wife

The chapel bells had fallen silent, their echoes still trembling in the October air as I stood at the altar in my mother's wedding dress. The ivory lace felt like a second skin, the rose embroidery along the back catching the filtered sunlight streaming through stained glass windows. Each delicate thread seemed to whisper promises of the future I'd dreamed of since childhood.

Peter's hands were steady as he reached for mine, his dark eyes reflecting something I mistook for devotion. The Novak family chapel was packed with faces I'd known all my life, their murmurs of approval creating a warm cocoon around us. This was everything I'd imagined—the fairy tale my mother had promised me before cancer stole her away when I was twelve.

"Do you, Anna Marie Novak, take Peter James Novak to be your lawfully wedded husband?" Father McKenzie's voice carried the weight of tradition, of generations of Novak unions blessed in this very spot.

"I do." The words came easily, naturally, like breathing.

Peter's smile was radiant as he slipped the wedding band onto my finger. The gold felt cold against my skin, heavier than I'd expected. But as the ring settled into place, I felt something else—a small piece of paper pressed against my palm. My heart fluttered with surprise and delight. Even now, in this sacred moment, Peter was thinking of romantic gestures.

I closed my fingers around the note, hiding it from the congregation's view. The ceremony continued in a blur of vows and blessings, but my thoughts kept drifting to the secret message burning against my palm. What surprise could he have planned? Perhaps a honeymoon destination he'd kept hidden, or a gift waiting in our new home.

The kiss that sealed our union was brief but tender, and the chapel erupted in applause. Rice fell like snow as we walked down the aisle, Peter's arm strong and sure beneath mine. I felt like I was floating, carried by the weight of my happiness and the promise of our life together.

It wasn't until we were seated in the wedding car, waving goodbye to our guests, that I finally unfolded the note with trembling fingers. The handwriting was Peter's familiar scrawl, but the words made my breath catch:

*Meet me at the lake tower—I have a surprise.*

The lake tower. The old lighthouse on the shore of Lake Michigan that had been abandoned for decades. It seemed an odd choice for a romantic rendezvous, but perhaps that was the point. Peter had always been one for grand gestures, and the isolation would give us privacy for whatever he had planned.

"The reception is at the Grand Ballroom, isn't it?" I asked the driver, a man I didn't recognize but who wore the Novak family colors.

"Change of plans, Mrs. Novak," he said without turning around. "Mr. Peter requested a detour first."

My stomach fluttered with anticipation. Mrs. Novak. The title still felt foreign on my tongue, but hearing it from someone else