Chapter 8 "I Do" to War
Dawn broke too quickly.
Liam hadn't moved from the chair.
He sat there, watching Alessia sleep, his wrist still caught loosely in her grip. At some point during the night, her hand had relaxed, but he hadn't pulled away.
He told himself it was because he didn't want to wake her.
But that was a lie.
The truth was, he'd seen something last night. Something that cracked the careful mask she always wore. Something vulnerable and real and human.
And it unsettled him more than any threat ever could.
Don't let him in.
Who was she afraid of? Her father? Someone else?
The questions circled his mind like vultures.
Alessia stirred, her eyes fluttering open. For a moment, she looked disoriented, confused. Then her gaze landed on him.
She yanked her hand back like she'd been burned.
"What are you doing here?" Her voice was hoarse, defensive.
"You asked me to stay."
Her face went pale. "I—what?"
"Last night. You had a nightmare. I found you in the hallway." Liam's voice was neutral, careful. "You don't remember?"
Alessia sat up quickly, too quickly, wincing as her head swam. "I don't—I didn't—"
"It's fine." He stood, putting distance between them. "It was late. We're both under a lot of stress."
She stared at him, her hazel eyes searching his face for something—mockery, maybe, or judgment.
But his expression was unreadable.
"Thank you," she said finally, the words clearly painful for her. "For... staying."
Liam nodded once. "Get ready. The car comes in two hours."
He walked out without another word, leaving her alone with her confusion and the ghost of whatever nightmare had broken her open.
The cathedral was a monument to excess.
St. Patrick's Cathedral in Midtown—chosen by the Council because it was neutral, public, and impossible to turn into a battlefield without international consequences.
Every pew was filled. O'Sullivans on the left, Scarpettis on the right, the aisle between them a demilitarized zone that felt more like a minefield.
Armed guards lined the walls, their faces impassive, their hands never far from their weapons.
This wasn't a wedding. It was a hostage exchange.
Liam stood at the altar in a perfectly tailored black tuxedo, his hands clasped in front of him, his expression carved from stone. Beside him, his father, Declan O'Sullivan Sr., stood with his jaw tight, his eyes cold.
Behind them, the O'Sullivan family filled the pews. Hard faces. Watchful eyes. Siobhan sat in the front row, her red curls pulled back, her face pale and worried.
On the opposite side, the Scarpettis mirrored them. Don Salvatore sat in the front pew, his expression unreadable, a king surveying his kingdom.
The tension in the room was suffocating.
The organ began to play.
Every head turned toward the entrance.
And Alessia appeared.
Liam's breath caught despite himself.
She was stunning.
The dress was ivory silk and lace, fitted perfectly to her body, flowing behind her in a long train. Her dark hair was pulled up in an elegant twist, a delicate veil covering her face. Around her neck, the pearl necklace gleamed softly in the cathedral light.
But it was her eyes that stopped him.
Even through the veil, he could see them. Sharp. Focused. Terrified.
She walked down the aisle on her father's arm, her steps slow and measured, every inch the perfect bride.
But Liam knew better.
He'd seen her last night, broken and trembling, begging him not to let someone in.
This woman was a performance. A mask.
And he was starting to wonder what lay beneath it.
Don Salvatore stopped at the end of the aisle, turning to face his daughter. For a moment, something passed between them—too quick for Liam to read.
Then Salvatore placed Alessia's hand in Liam's.
His grip was crushing. A warning.
"Take care of her," Salvatore said, his voice low and dangerous. "Or I will."
Liam met his gaze evenly. "Understood."
Salvatore released her hand and stepped back.
Alessia and Liam stood facing each other, her hand cold in his.
The priest began speaking, his voice echoing through the cathedral.
Liam barely heard him.
He was too focused on Alessia. On the way her jaw was tight. On the way her breathing was too controlled. On the way her free hand trembled slightly at her side.
She didn't want this any more than he did.
"Do you, Liam Patrick O'Sullivan, take Alessia Sofia Scarpetti to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
Liam's voice was clear, cold. "I do."
The priest turned to Alessia. "And do you, Alessia Sofia Scarpetti, take Liam Patrick O'Sullivan to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
She hesitated. Just for a second.
Long enough for the entire cathedral to hold its breath.
Then she spoke, her voice steady. "I do."
The priest smiled, oblivious to the war being waged in silence. "Then by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."
Liam lifted her veil slowly, his eyes never leaving hers.
Alessia's face was pale, composed, her hazel eyes locked on his with something that looked like resignation.
He leaned in.
She didn't move.
Their lips met in a kiss that was mechanical, cold, performative. Nothing more than a business transaction sealed with contact.
But as they kissed, something happened.
Alessia's earring—a delicate diamond stud—vibrated faintly against her earlobe.
She froze.
It was so subtle, so quick, that no one else would have noticed.
But Liam felt her entire body go rigid.
A transmission. Encrypted. Coming through the listening device embedded in her earring.
She couldn't make out the words—just fragments, distorted by interference.
"—target acquired—"
"—position confirmed—"
"—stand by—"
Her blood ran cold.
Someone was here. Watching. Reporting.
But who? And to whom?
Liam pulled back, his eyes narrowing as he studied her face.
She forced herself to breathe. To smile. To pretend everything was fine.
The cathedral erupted in polite applause—forced, hollow, the sound of two families pretending they weren't imagining each other dead.
Liam's hand came up, his thumb brushing against her cheek.
To anyone watching, it looked tender. Intimate.
But his touch was rough, possessive, a reminder of ownership.
He wiped away a tear that wasn't there, his eyes cold and knowing.
"The performance is over, wife," he murmured, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "Now the war begins."
Alessia's chest tightened.
She met his gaze, her own voice just as quiet, just as dangerous.
"Then let's see who survives it."
They turned to face the crowd, hand in hand, smiles plastered on their faces.
Husband and wife.
Enemies bound by vows and violence.
And as they walked back down the aisle together, the applause ringing hollow in their ears, Alessia couldn't shake the feeling that someone in this room was about to make their first move.
And she had no idea who.