The Blood Debt Bride

Bianca's Pov

I stood at the back of the cathedral with my hands folded because no one had told me what else to do with them.

The doors were still closed. The music hadn’t started. Everything felt paused, like the room was holding its breath and waiting for something bad to happen. My father stood beside me, stiff in his suit, smelling like sweat covered up by expensive cologne. He didn’t look at me once. He kept adjusting his cufflinks like they mattered more than I did.

“Straighten your shoulders,” he said under his breath. “You look nervous.”

I didn’t answer. If I spoke, I might say something that would ruin this. And ruining this wasn’t allowed.

The dress was heavier than I expected. Not because of the fabric. Because of what it meant. It had been chosen by people I didn’t know, paid for with money that wasn’t mine, approved by a man who barely remembered my name. I wondered, not for the first time, if Don Moretti would even recognize me tomorrow.

The doors opened.

The music started, loud and echoing, filling the cathedral too fast. Heads turned. Phones came up. I didn’t look at the guests. I kept my eyes forward, fixed on the long aisle and the man waiting at the altar.

Don Alessandro Moretti looked older up close. Not just older hard. His face was carved into something permanent and cold. He didn’t smile when he saw me. Didn’t nod. He looked bored, like this was a task he wanted finished.

I took my first step.

My father’s arm was rigid under my fingers. He walked quickly, like he wanted this done as soon as possible. I matched his pace automatically. The faster it happened, the faster it would be over. That was the lie I kept telling myself.

People whispered as I passed. I caught pieces of it.

“So young…”

“Poor girl”

“Valenti made a smart deal.”

No one said my name.

When we reached the altar, my father placed my hand into Don Moretti’s like he was handing over documents. No squeeze. No pause. Just release.

I stood beside my husband and felt very small.

The priest started speaking. Words about unity. About commitment. About God. I heard them but didn’t absorb them. I focused on breathing instead. In through my nose. Out through my mouth. Slow. Controlled.

Don Moretti leaned slightly toward me. His grip tightened around my fingers.

“Don’t embarrass me,” he muttered.

I nodded once.

The priest asked the first question.

That was when I heard it.

A dull sound. Not loud. Almost easy to ignore. Like something heavy hitting stone far away.

Then another.

I lifted my head. The guards near the doors shifted. One of them reached for his radio.

The explosion came in a heartbeat later.

The cathedral doors blew inward. Smoke. Fire. Shattered glass. The force knocked people backward, sending screams ripping through the room. My ears rang so badly I thought I’d gone deaf.

Gunfire