Chapter 23 23.

Chapter 23 23.


"Look closer, Elena. You always were prone to seeing what you wanted to see." Dante said with a slight scuff.

Dante’s low voice was a purr right against her ear, but his hand that wrapped around her wrist didn't tremble. He didn't even turn his head toward the back of the chapel. He just stood there, staring at the priest with a terrifyingly calm smile playing on his lips.

Elena’s heart was hammering so hard against her ribs she was sure the lace of her bodice would tear. She couldn't breathe. The man in the doorway… the cane, the pale skin, the dark, sunken eyes that haunted her every waking hour.

"Salvatore?" she choked out again, and her voice shattered in the heavy air of the chapel.

She took a half-step toward the aisle, her soul reaching for that broken silhouette, but Dante’s grip tightened. He didn't just hold her; he anchored her to the altar.

"Well, who do you think we have here?, Elena," Dante whispered, his tone conversational, as if they were discussing the flower arrangements. "Does our guest look like my brother?"

But suddenly, the man in the doorway began to limp forward.
Elena's brow raised. “Why the limp?”
The thud of the carbon-fiber cane echoed off the vaulted stone ceiling. As he stepped out of the shadows of the narthex and into the amber glow of the chandeliers, the light hit his face.

Elena’s breath hitched. Followed by a jagged, cold realization that pierced her chest.

It was his face. The same nose, the same sharp jawline, the same deep-set eyes. But as he drew closer, the details began to blur. The skin looked too tight, almost waxy, like a fresh burial. The eyes were dark, yes, but they were vacant. They didn't burn with the tortured fire of the man she loved. They were the eyes of a doll.

"Who… who are you?" Elena whispered, her voice trembling with a mix of horror and dawning grief.

The man stopped at the end of the pews. He didn't look at her but at Dante. Then, he sank to one knee, the cane clattering loudly against the marble floor.

Hushed sounds came from the congregation as people kept murmuring unheard words to each other.

"The prior claim is withdrawn," the man said. His voice was a perfect haunting mimicry of Salvatore’s voice. "I am here only to witness the union of the True Head of the House."

"Avery," Dante called out, his voice ringing through the silent chapel.

The Romano cousin who had dressed Elena stepped forward from the shadows of the pillars. She held a velvet cushion, and on it sat a single, heavy signet ring—the Romano crest.

"Give it to him," Dante commanded.

Avery walked to the man kneeling on the stone floor. The man took the ring, his movements stiff and mechanical, and stood up. He walked the final few steps to the altar. Elena wanted to scream, to run, to scrub the sight of him from her brain. “What the hell is going on here?

"Is this your work?" Elena hissed at Dante, her eyes burning with tears she refused to shed in front of the Commission. "You found a man, carved his face into a mirror of your brother, just for this?"

"I found a man who needed a purpose," Dante replied, finally turning his head to look at her. His blue eyes were as flat and cold as a winter sea. In a whisper he continued

"And I found a way to show the world and you that Salvatore is wherever I want him to be. Even if it’s standing right in front of you, giving his blessing."

The imposter reached the altar. He held the ring out to Dante.

"Happy matrimony!” Then he gave a slight bow.

Dante took the ring and slid it onto his pinky finger. He then turned back to the priest, who was sweating so profusely his collar was soaked.

"Continue," Dante said. It wasn't a request.

"But... but the interruption," the priest stammered, his eyes darting toward the imposter. "The claim—"

"The claim has been withdrawn by the claimant himself," Dante interrupted, his voice like a slamming door. "Unless you’d like to argue with my brother's own mouth? Finish the vows."

Elena looked down at the imposter’s hands. It had no scar. Just a blank canvas Dante had painted a nightmare onto. She felt a wave of nausea so violent she had to grip the edge of the altar to stay upright.

"Do you, Elena Moretti," the priest started again, his voice cracking, "take this man—"

"Wait," Elena whispered. She looked at the imposter. "If you’re him... if you’re really Salvatore... tell me what you said to me in the basement. The last thing."

The imposter’s face didn't change. No flicker of recognition. No pain. He just stared through her.

"I said... I would see you in the light," the man replied.

Elena’s heart died. “You're a cheat!” She turned to Dante.

Dante leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "He’s a very good actor, isn't he? I’ve had him practicing for weeks. Since the night Luciano 'rescued' the real one."

"Where is he, Dante?" Elena asked, her voice dead. "Tell me the truth for once. If this is a lie, where is the truth?"

"The truth is whatever I say it is," Dante said, pulling back to look the priest in the eye. "She said 'I do' before the interruption. The contract is signed. The witnesses have seen the blessing. Finish it."

The priest didn't look at Elena again. He looked at the floor. "Then, by the power vested in me by the House of Romano and the ancient laws of Sicily, I pronounce you husband and wife."

The words felt like stones being piled on her chest.

"You may kiss the bride," the priest whispered.

Dante didn't hesitate. He grabbed Elena’s chin, forcing her head up. He kissed her with passion and ownership. Elena didn't close her eyes or lean into the kiss; she stared straight ahead, over Dante’s shoulder, at the imposter who was now being led away by two guards.

The congregation erupted into polite, measured applause. The Commission stood up, their faces masks of professional approval. The merger was complete. The Moretti pipelines were now Romano property.

Dante pulled away, his eyes scanning her face. "Smile, Elena. The cameras are waiting outside. We have a reception to attend."

"I hope you choke on the cake," Elena said, her voice a low, venomous promise.

Dante just chuckled, that dark, hollow sound that made the chapel feel even colder. He tucked her arm into his, his grip a reminder that she was now legally, physically, and blood-bound to his shadow.

"You’ll learn to love the taste of the crown, Elena. Most people do once they realize they have nothing else left to swallow."

As they began the long walk back down the red carpet, Elena didn't look at the flowers or the guests. She looked at the heavy oak doors. She was a Romano now. She was the wife of the Devil.

But as her heels clicked against the marble, she felt something small and hard pressed against her palm. She looked down. In the chaos of the kiss, Avery had brushed past her, slipping a tiny, folded piece of paper into her hand.

Elena tucked it into the lace of her sleeve, her heart catching a spark of a flame she thought had been extinguished.

She walked out of the chapel into the blinding Sicilian sun, the flashbulbs of the paparazzi hitting her like a firing squad. She smiled for the cameras—a perfect, porcelain mask.

Because for the first time since the
drug had worn off, she knew that the man at the door hadn't been Salvatore. And if he wasn't there, he was still out there somewhere.

And she was going to burn this house down until she found him.

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