The gown was as much a costume as it was anything sacred.
Lace clung to me, tight and threadbare, as if sewn with invisible threads of fate. Every stitch a reminder that this was not a joy but a condemnation.
A life traded to pay for my father's mess.
My hands trembled as I draped the veil across my face, the white fabric dropping in a haze across the mirror, I barely recognized the girl staring back. Soft curls bound high.
Soft lips painted slightly too pale for what I had in mind, a white wedding dress for a bride who wasn't pure.
But they didn't know that.
They saw the obedient daughter, the sacrificing virgin, the bride who would sacrifice for power to pay for the sin of her father.
They did not see the knife hidden in my bag or the blood-soaked training which brought me to this moment.
I was marrying the country's deadliest man today not out of love, but out of vengeance.
There was a knock at the door, crisp and definite.
"It's time," a quiet voice called from down the hall.
I breathed once, deeply but evenly, and stood, stiff-backed, blank-faced, the killer in me skillfully concealed behind the mask of a good bride.
The chapel was cold and cavernous, all granite walls and gold candelabras that mocked the seriousness of what happened here.
Dante Moretti towered at the altar like a figure hewn from shadows.
He didn't look up at me as I walked over to him, His eyes were still fixed on some distant point, his jaw set, his shoulders squared, He wore a black suit that was tailored so well it looked almost sinful.
Whispers threaded through the pews of visitors from both sides, witnesses to public execution, Some pitied me, Others laughed, All of them understood what type of man Dante was.
Cold, cruel, Untouchable.
He'd built an empire upon blood and secrecy He didn't take wives. He took power.
until now
My heels clacked against the marble floor, louder than the priest's soft murmurs. With each step I took towards Dante, further into the belly of the beast.
He looked at me at last when I stood before him.
And God his eyes were knives. Grey, sharp, empty, the sort of eyes that had seen too much, believed too little, and killed with pleasure.
His tone colder than the air, "You're late."
I tilted my chin around a quarter inch, enough to show I wasn't afraid,"You'll get by."
His lips curled slightly, not a smile, not exactly scorn, Just enough to show he didn't like me yet.
Good, It would make this easier later.
The ceremony was short, Gratefully so, The priest spoke the vows in mechanical monotone, and we repeated them with the fervor of strangers united under contract.
"I now declare you husband and wife," he intoned. "You may kiss the bride."
A moment.
Dante looked at me, unreadable.
And then he leaned his head ever so little to one side and kissed the air next to my face, Barely touching me, Not a kiss, not even a gesture. Just a dismissal.
The crowd applauded hesitantly, My mother wept in back of me. His guards stood silently, like phantoms in wait to attack if I crossed a line.
I smiled obediently, casting my eyes down like a dutiful wife.
But inside of me, I swore my own vow.
I will kill you, Dante Moretti, Not today. Not tomorrow, But before our first anniversary, your empire will be destroyed and your blood will be on my hands.
The party was lavish but vacuous. Guests ate under golden chandeliers, their laughter false, their smiles cut-glass. Dante and I sat at the banquet table like statues, not speaking, not touching.
"Your family must be proud," he finally said, eyes never shifting from his wine glass
"They sold you to me like a commodity," I retorted, voice sugar-coated venom. "Proud doesn't enter into it."
He turned his head my way, slowly, "Watch yourself, wife. That mouth of yours might cost you."
I regarded him calmly, "So might yours."
Another lip spasm. Another almost-smile. "This is not going to be easy, is it?
"No," I answered quietly "It isn't."
That night in the limousine, there was silence between us like smoke.
"I don't want a wife," Dante said finally, His voice was low but lethal "This marriage is politics, you'll be a good wife, smile when I tell you, and get out of my way."
I stepped towards him, the step slow and deliberate, "Then we know each other, I don't need a husband either."
He stared at me long and cold.
Then stepped close to me, not quite close enough to touch.
"There's something about you," he whispered, "Something I don't like."
I leaned into him too, my voice barely above a whisper. "Good, Keep it that way."
The rest of the ride was subdued, But it wasn't peace it was a storm about to rage.
We arrived at his mansion a sprawling steel and marble fortress, no warmth. No hello, Just the unmistakable aura of money extracted from blood.
Dante walked ahead of me, not waiting for me, disappearing up the formal stairs, a butler showed me to a guest room, not the master bed.
So he really did mean it no touch, no intimacy, no love.
Well
Fine by me.
But as I stood alone in the room, unzipping the dress, peeling off the mask I'd worn all day, I looked at my reflection again.
The murderer glared back this time.
Eyes keen, heart steady, mind clear.
He doesn't want me around?
Perfect.
Because the only way to kill him was to be up close.
Soft knock on my door.
I whirled around, tight in the chest.
But it wasn't Dante.
It was a young maid, white-faced and trembling.
Her voice shook
"Miss. you have to watch yourself tonight, the last woman who married him. didn't live through her wedding week."