Chapter 22 22.

Chapter 22 22.


"Breathe, Elena. You’re making the lace itch."
A cold, feminine voice entirely devoid of warmth spoke.

Elena stared at her reflection in the gilded floor-length mirror of the bridal suite. The woman standing behind her pulled the corset strings tight enough to bruise. She's a Romano cousin.

"Avery, I can't breathe because the air in this house is toxic," Elena rasped, slightly squeezing her face.

"Does Dante expect me to smile or stare?"

"He expects you to look stunning," Avery replied, pinning a heavy, diamond-encrusted veil into Elena’s dark hair.

"Stunning and breathtaking.” Avery turned to pick a piece of jewelry from the table behind her. “I'm sure when you get there you'll know whether to smile or stare. Now, stand up straight. The priest is waiting."

Elena looked down at her foot. Beneath the white silk of her custom-made heels was the bandage Dante had applied earlier. And every step she took was a reminder of his fingers on her skin and the smell of Vanni’s blood on the wind.

"Is he alive?" Elena asked, her voice a whisper.
"Salvatore. Tell me, Is he really in the clinic?"

Avery stopped moving. Her eyes met Elena’s in the Elevator mirror, very cold but laced with pity. "He is wherever Dante needs him to be to keep you in that dress. That is all you need to know."

\---

The chapel was a cavern of white lilies and ancient stone. The scent was cloying, the kind of sweetness that masked the smell of rot. As the heavy oak doors groaned open, the small, elite crowd of the Mafia Commission turned in unison.

Elena felt the weight of a hundred predatory eyes. At the end of the long, red-carpeted aisle stood Dante.

He looked magnificent. He was dressed in a black velvet tuxedo, his hair swept back, his expression one of calm, absolute victory. He looked like a king receiving a tribute, not a man marrying the woman he loved. To his left stood Rocco, looking bored, his hand resting near the holster hidden beneath his jacket.

Elena’s legs felt unstable like she would fall any moment but she still held on to her self, regardless. “Every step you take toward me is a second of life for Salvatore. Dante’s words from the night before echoed in her mind with every “click” of her heels on the chapel floor.

She reached the altar, her hand trembling as Dante reached out to take it. His grip was just as it had been the night before—firm, cold, and inescapable.

"You look perfect," Dante whispered, his eyes scanning her face for any sign of the girl who had seen him kill. "The bandage is holding?"

"The wound is fine," Elena spat quietly, her eyes burning with a hatred she didn't bother to hide. "The infection is what worries me."

Dante smiled though it was the kind of smile that didn't reach his eyes. "The infection stands no threat. We'll see the clinic right after for a cure."

He turned her toward the priest, an old man whose hands shook as he held the leather-bound Bible. The ceremony began, a blur of Latin and hollow promises. Elena felt like she was watching it from the bottom of a deep well.

"Do you, Dante Romano," the priest intoned, "take Elena Moretti to be your lawfully wedded wife? To protect her, to honor her, and to hold her above all others in the eyes of the House?"

"I do," Dante said. His voice was steady, projecting power to every corner of the room.

The priest turned to Elena. "And do you, Elena Moretti, take Dante Romano to be your husband? To obey, to serve, and to unite the blood of Moretti with the strength of Romano?"

The silence stretched. Elena looked at the exit. She looked at Rocco’s hand. She looked at the diamond on her finger that felt like a shackle.

"I..." Elena started, her voice cracking. She looked at Dante. He tilted his head slightly, a silent reminder of the clinic. And what lay on its bed. Of the "final breath."

"I do," she whispered.

"Then," the priest said, clearing his throat as he reached the final, traditional hurdle. "If there be any man here who can show just cause why these two should not be lawfully joined in holy matrimony, let him speak now, or forever hold his peace."

The air in the chapel seemed to freeze. It was a formality for No one ever dared interrupt a Romano wedding. To speak up was to invite a bullet between the eyes before you finished your sentence.

The priest began to close the book. "By the power vested in me—"

"I believe I have a prior claim."

Immediately, the chapel door was kicked wide with a loud sound.

Elena spun around so fast her veil caught on her shoulder. Her heart stopped as her lungs seized.

The congregation turned back to face the back of the chapel where the voice came from. Everywhere was dead silent you could hear a pin drop.

Standing in the archway and leaning heavily on a black carbon-fiber cane, was a man who looked like he had crawled out of the mouth of hell.

Elena gasped, with her bulging eyes. Slowly she took in his features. He was pale, his cheekbones sharp enough to cut, with a more thin frame compared to when last she saw him. But it was the same eyes…the dark burning eyes she had seen in her dreams. Difference is…they were now fixed on the altar with a lethal, unyielding clarity.

“Salvatore?”