Chapter 12 The Bride Of The Century
••Luciana••
The mirror throws my reflection back at me like a joke I never agreed to. I asked firmly and clearly for something simple. A soft curl here, a light touch of makeup there. Something that said I’m present, not I’m the main attraction in a royal circus.
Yet here I stand, looking like the bride of the century.
My hair glimmers in sculpted waves, pinned with pearls I don’t remember approving. My dress shimmers like moonlit water. My lips carry a shade too bold for my taste. If my mother were alive, she would have strutted into the room, clucked her tongue, snapped her fingers, and told them all exactly what to do.
A tug crosses my chest. I miss her today more than I’ve missed her in years.
I lift my chin and breathe. This is my duty, the princess no one refuses. Today I have to play the role they need me to. After tonight, I leave Sicily behind and step into Russia’s icy breath, into a life already decided for me.
A soft knock, then Matteo slips inside.
His eyes widened. “You look stunning, Luci.”
He doesn’t hide the sadness behind the compliment.
“Stunning wasn’t the goal,” I mutter.
He steps closer, adjusting a strand of my hair gently, the way only someone who grew up beside me would dare. “I know this isn’t what you wanted. I know it feels like losing something.” His voice lowers. “But I’m here. I’ll always be here. A call, a whisper, even a bad feeling in your stomach—I’ll pick up.”
That squeezes something tender in me. “Thank you, Matteo.”
He nods, though his eyes are glossy. The room feels too quiet, too heavy, until—
The door opens again.
Antonio appears in the doorway, eyes tracing my reflection. His tie is crooked, of course it is. My brother has never once gotten it right.
“You don’t have to look so serious,” I say softly, forcing a smile. “It’s a wedding, not a funeral.”
He chuckles, but it’s strained. “For you, they’re the same thing, sorella.” (sister)
I turn, studying his face, too young to be burdened, but too clever to stay innocent.
“You’ll take care of them, won’t you? Father, the men, the estate.”
He hesitates. “Of course. Though I’ll miss you. The house will be too quiet without your constant scolding.”
A small laugh escapes me, brittle and brief. “Then fill it with noise. With life. Make Sicily proud while I…”
I don’t finish my sentence, I pause abruptly as he hugs me suddenly, and fiercely as if he can keep the world from pulling me away.
When he finally releases me, there’s a maturity in his expression that wasn't there before. I wish I could capture this moment, him standing in my doorway, unbroken by life's harshness.
“At least you’ll get to enjoy your ukha, sister. Given how you raved about that fish soup, I half-expected you to jet off to Russia for the recipe!”
I can't help but roll my eyes, although a small smile creeps onto my face.
“It wasn’t just the soup, Antonio. It was... the stillness I felt while savoring it. It was as if time itself had paused.”
He chuckles as he steps further into the room.
There’s something special about Russia’s clear fish soup—ukha, crafted from river pike, fresh herbs, and a splash of vodka for a touch of warmth. I once tasted it during an outing with Adrian and told Antonio how wonderfully unique it was—so refreshing, a far cry from the heavy Sicilian broths I grew up with.
"Well, we should get moving, Luci. Unless you want Father bursting in here," he comments.
Father has no patience for delays, especially not for an occasion meant to display Moretti power.
Antonio offers his arm, Matteo shadows my other side, and together we step out of my room.
My breathe steadies.
When we arrived at the grand hall, the courtyard is a hive of luxury cars and armed guards pretending to be ushers. Every seat is filled.
Underworld families linger with sharp smiles, the oblivious ones—politicians, business partners, old-money aristocrats—float around with champagne, believing this is simply a beautiful union between two powerful clans. They have no idea they are watching an alliance stitched with blood and obligation.
Antonio leads me through a quiet corridor toward the bride’s waiting room, but a familiar presence catches my attention.
Roman.
He stands a few steps down the hallway, speaking with Theo in low tones. His suit is crisp, the Orlov crest gleaming faintly on his cuff. For a split second, something unreadable crosses his face when he notices me.
Theo slips away instinctively, leaving us alone.
An enclosed alcove branching off the hallway gives us privacy, though the muffled noise of guests filters through the marble walls.
Roman waits for me to say something.
I reach into my dress and pull out the engagement itinerary—the one I was going through in the library days ago. I shove it against his chest.
His brows knit. “What’s this?”
“Page eight.” My voice is tight. “Minimizing scandal… maximizing unity…” My finger jabs the line I have memorized. “And this.”
He reads it.
"An heir is expected within the first year of marriage."
His jaw tightens.
“I’m not doing this with you,” I say quietly, a tremor threading through my words. “I won’t be commanded into motherhood like I’m breeding livestock for an alliance.”
A flash of something—anger? guilt?—fires behind his eyes. I don’t want to either,” he replies, just as quietly. “Not like this. Not under their timeline. Not under your father’s terms or mine.”
My chest loosens. Only a fraction, but still.
He looks aside as if trying to swallow something bitter. “Let’s just get this wedding done with.”
Then he turns and walks out, the fabric of his suit brushing coldly past me.
For a moment I remain frozen, staring at the door he slipped through.
If things hadn’t gone wrong, if Adrian hadn’t died, today might have been something else. Something close to joy. Something like hope.
Instead, duty calls, and I must walk into it with steady steps.
Antonio’s voice echoes lightly from down the hall. “Sister? They’re ready.”
I gather the folds of my gown, lift my chin, and follow the sound.