Chapter 9 - The Wedding With Armed GuestsWe married in spring.
Small ceremony.
Which in Dante’s world meant eighty guests, twelve security officers, two armored vehicles, and Rocco arguing with a priest about concealed weapons.
I wore ivory.
Not white.
Dante wore black.
Obviously.
Sofia sat in the second row.
She and Dante were rebuilding something.
Slowly.
Carefully.
He called her Sofia.
Not Mom.
She accepted it.
That mattered.
Julian attended despite claiming organized crime was terrible for his blood pressure.
My father did not.
Three weeks before the wedding, a letter arrived from Rio.
I returned it unopened.
That was my closure.
Not hearing his explanation.
Not receiving an apology.
Not giving him another chance to decide my worth.
I already knew it.
Dante waited at the altar.
The most dangerous man in the room looked terrified.
I smiled.
His shoulders relaxed.
When I reached him, he whispered:
“You came.”
I almost laughed.
“Were you expecting me to escape through ventilation?”
“With you, always a possibility.”
The ceremony began.
When asked whether he took me as his wife, Dante said:
“Yes.”
Then added:
“If she still agrees.”
Everyone laughed.
I squeezed his hand.
“I still agree.”
Choice.
Always choice.
We kissed.
Rocco cried.
He denied it.
Nobody believed him.
That evening, Dante and I stood alone on the balcony of the Sicilian villa.
The Mediterranean stretched beneath us.
My blue ring caught moonlight beside my wedding band.
“Mrs. Moretti,” he murmured.
I raised an eyebrow.
“Careful.”
“Ms. Rossi.”
“Better.”
“My wife.”
I smiled.
“That one you can keep.”
He kissed me.
And somewhere below, fireworks exploded.
I jumped.
Dante laughed.
May you like
I punched him.
Marriage.
