Chapter 36 Tied and Tangled
Matteo
The cufflink wouldn’t fasten.
Which was ridiculous, because I’d worn this exact shirt three dozen times before, and never once had it fought back like this. My fingers were steady, my hands clean. But the damn clasp just wouldn’t slip through.
“Need help?” came Rosco’s voice from the open doorway, casual and amused.
“I need this shirt to do its fucking job,” I muttered, finally wrangling the cuff into submission.
He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, already dressed in his own suit—dark navy with a tie that looked more expensive than mine. I wasn’t going to ask.
Instead, I reached for the bottle of scotch on the sideboard and poured us each a glass.
Rosco accepted his without a word and tipped it back like we were about to bury a body instead of attend a wedding.
“Any nerves?” he asked, settling into the leather chair across from me.
I gave him a look.
He smirked. “Right. You don’t do nerves. Forgot who I was talking to.”
I sipped, letting the burn slide down my throat. “It’s just a show.”
Rosco shrugged, swirling the amber in his glass. “A show with a very expensive guest list. Half the city’s old guard is already in the pews.”
“And the other half is waiting to see if I flinch.”
“You won’t,” he said simply. “You never do.”
But that was the problem, wasn’t it? I didn’t flinch. I didn’t bend. I didn’t hesitate.
Until her.
I hadn’t let it sink in until today. Until I watched her disappear into the bridal suite in a blur of silk and nerves, with Carol fussing at her elbow like some overqualified wedding planner.
Valentina Rossi was about to become my wife.
In name, at least.
In truth?
That was still dangerously up for debate.
A knock came at the door.
“Enter,” I called, setting my glass aside.
Alessio stepped in, already in full tuxedo, hair combed, tie neat. The man could’ve been walking into a gala or a goddamn war zone and looked exactly the same.
He gave me a long look, then smiled faintly.
“You clean up well.”
I lifted a brow. “So do you.”
He nodded toward the bar. “Any left?”
I handed him the bottle.
He poured himself half a glass, sipped, then stood still—just watching me.
Not with suspicion.
With something gentler.
Almost like pride.
“You’ve built something powerful here,” he said. “Tonight seals that foundation. But it’s not the business I’m thinking about.”
“What is it, then?”
“The girl,” he said simply. “She’s beautiful. Clever. Fierce.”
He paused.
“Don’t let her burn out in this life.”
My throat tightened, but I said nothing.
He drained the rest of his drink and set the glass down with a soft clink.
“I’m going to check on her before the ceremony,” he said, adjusting the cuff of his jacket. “Make sure she’s ready.”
I gave a nod. “Let me know if she’s not.”
He smiled again—small and quiet—and disappeared through the door.
Rosco glanced at me.
“So,” he said. “Still just a show?”
“Yes, still a show,” I said, “for that man that just walked out the door and he’s eating up every bit of it as planned.”
Rosco adjusted his cuffs and shot me a sidelong glance. “You remembered the rings, right?”
I tapped the inside of my jacket. “Right pocket. I’m not an amateur.”
He smirked. “Well, you are getting married.”
“Temporarily.”
“Sure,” he said, like he didn’t believe it for a second.
We left the prep room and stepped out into the garden chapel. The guests were already seated—rows of white chairs tucked between flower-draped arches and twinkling lights. Everything looked soft, polished, expensive. Just like the plan.
Rosco gave my shoulder a quick pat, then peeled off to sit in the front row, leaving me to walk alone toward the altar.
That was the way it had to be. No best man. No wedding party. No distractions.
Just me.
Waiting.
The music shifted, swelling from delicate strings into a fuller arrangement. A quiet hush rippled through the guests as everyone stood and turned toward the back.
The doors opened.
And there she was.
Valentina.
My bride.
Her arm hooked gently through Alessio’s as they began their slow walk down the aisle, step by deliberate step. Her face was calm, unreadable. Her spine straight. Her presence unshakable.
The gown was something else.
Not flashy. Not vulgar. Just… striking.
Ivory that shimmered like moonlight. A neckline that framed her collarbones and fell into soft, off-shoulder drapes. The skirt floated, layer upon layer of embroidered tulle with delicate pearl accents that caught the light like stars. And the train—long, lace-edged, cathedral-length—trailed behind her like she ruled the place.
She looked untouchable.
Unreal.
And yet here she was.
Each step forward drove home the truth I’d been trying to ignore—this woman was about to become mine, even if the vows were a lie and the contract was forged in manipulation.
Even if the fire in her eyes reminded me she was never meant to be owned.
Still, I couldn’t look away.
She was beautiful.
And I hated how much I felt it.
How much I wanted her anyway.
The closer she got, the more surreal it felt. Like I was watching something sacred I didn’t deserve to touch.
Then I remembered.
That day I thought she was flirting with Rosco and I almost fucked her then. Until…
“I’m still a virgin.”
The words had clanged around in my head for days—like some twisted dare, like a challenge I wasn’t supposed to want to win.
I had promised to take it from her.
Tonight.
Claim her body the same way I was claiming her name, her future, her fate.
For a second—just a blink of guilt—I wondered what the hell I was doing. She looked so untouchable up there, so poised. So proud of what she hadn’t given away.
But then my mouth tightened.
Who the hell was still a virgin at twenty-five anyway?
She’d made her choice. I was just… finishing the job.
Hell, I’d be doing her a favor.
My jaw flexed.
The officiant stepped forward and cleared his throat, addressing the guests. “Please be seated. We are gathered here today…”
And just like that, the fog snapped.
I straightened my spine, locking my expression into something noble. Detached. Exactly what they expected from a man of my station.
The kind of man who didn’t hesitate when it came time to make a woman his.