The silk of my wedding dress didn't feel like a garment. It felt like a shroud.
I stood before the floor-to-ceiling gilded mirror in the De Luca estate, staring at a stranger. The woman in the reflection was draped in thirty yards of hand-stitched Venetian lace, her face veiled in tulle so fine it looked like mist. She looked fragile. She looked like a peace offering.
In reality, I was a timed explosive.
"You look exactly as a De Luca bride should, Bianca," a voice rasped from the doorway.
I didn't turn. I didn't have to. I knew the heavy, rhythmic tap of my uncle's cane on the marble floor. Vittorio De Luca, the man who had raised me since my father's car was pulled from the icy depths of the Valerra docks five years ago, walked into the frame of the mirror.
His hand, withred but still possessing a grip like a vice, settled on my shoulder. Through the lace, his touch felt like lead.
"The Morettis think they are winning today," Vittorio whispered, his eyes meeting mine in the glass. "They think by demanding you as the price for peace, they are taking our pride. But they are merely opening their gates to the wolf."
"I'm ready, Uncle," I said. My voice was a flat, tonal thing—a product of years of being told that emotions were for those who didn't intend to survive the night.
"Are you?" He leaned closer. "Dante Moretti is not like his father. He doesn't lead with his heart. He leads with a calculator. He will watch you. He will test you. He will try to find the crack In the porcelain."
I reached down, my fingers disappearing into the heavy folds of my skirt. I didn't find skin. I found the cool, reassuring bite of the leather strap fastened to my right thigh. Nestled against the holster was a stiletto blade, the hilt made of blackened bone.
"Let him look," I replied. "The only thing he'll find is the widow I'm about to make him."
Vittorio smiled, a slow, yellowed expression that never reached his eyes. "Remember the docks, Bianca. Remember the smell of the salt and the oil when they pulled your father's body out. Remember who ordered the hit. Today, you aren't just a bride. You are justice."
He kissed my forehead—a benediction of hate—and left me alone to finish the transformation.
The Cathedral of San Lorenzo was a monument to old blood and older secrets. Located in the heart of the Old Quarter, its stone walls were stained by centuries of sea salt and political blood.
As the black limousine pulled up to the steps, the world outside seemed to hold its breath. The sidewalk was lined with men in sharp, charcoal suits—Moretti soldiers. They stood with their hands folded in front of them, their eyes hidden behind dark lenses, looking more like a firing squad than a wedding party.
My cousin Luca opened the door, offering me a hand. His palms were sweating.
"You don't have to do this, B," he whispered, his eyes darting toward the stone arches of the cathedral. "We can find another way. We can start the war today. I have men in the rafters—"
"The war already started, Luca," I said, stepping out and letting the weight of my train settle on the pavement. "I'm just the one ending it."
I walked up the steps, my head held high. Every step was a calculation. I counted the exits. I counted the guards. I noted the way the Moretti men tracked my movement—not with lust, but with the wary respect one gives a predator in a cage.
Then, the heavy oak doors swung open.
The cathedral was filled with the elite of Valerra's underworld. The De Lucas sat on the left, a sea of traditional black. The Morettis sat on the right, looking modern, polished, and utterly lethal.
And at the end of the long, candle-lit aisle stood the man who had haunted my nightmares for half a decade.
Dante Moretti.
He didn't look like the monster I had built in my mind. He was younger than the legends suggested, with hair the color of midnight and a jawline that looked carved from the very marble of the altar. His suit was a dark, midnight blue—not black—as if he wanted to stand out from the mourning colors of the rest of the room.
But it was his eyes that stopped my breath. They weren't the eyes of a killer, or a businessman. They were the eyes of an observer. Cold. Deep. Terrifyingly intelligent.
As I began the long walk toward him, the music—a somber, haunting cello arrangement—seemed to fade. My focus narrowed until the only thing in the world was the man at the altar.
Dante didn't move. He didn't smile. He watched me with a stillness that was unnatural. Most men shifted their weight or adjusted their cuffs. Dante Moretti stood like a statue in the center of a storm.
When I finally reached the altar, Vittorio handed me over. It was a symbolic gesture, the passing of property from one King to another.
Dante reached out. His hand was large, his fingers long and elegant. As he took my hand, a jolt of pure, electric heat shot up my arm. It wasn't the heat of romance; it was the friction of two opposing forces colliding.
He leaned in, his lips brushing the side of my veil as he whispered the first words he would ever say to me.
"You're trembling, Bianca."
I stiffened, my fingers twitching toward the hidden blade in my dress. "It's cold in this house of God, Dante."
"It's not the cold," he murmured, his voice a low, melodic baritone that vibrated in my chest. "It's the weight of that knife against your thigh. It must be uncomfortable."
My heart stopped.
I looked up at him through the tulle of my veil. His expression hadn't changed. He was still the picture of the perfect groom, looking at his bride with a mask of calm. But his eyes—those dark, piercing eyes—told me everything.
He knew.
He had known before I even stepped out of the car.
The priest began the liturgy, the Latin words echoing off the vaulted ceiling, but I didn't hear a word. My mind was racing. If he knew about the blade, why was he letting me stand here? Why hadn't his men seized me at the door?
Dante's grip on my hand tightened—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me that he was the one in control.
"Vows," the priest prompted.
Dante spoke first. He didn't use a script. He looked directly into my eyes, and for a moment, the mask slipped. I saw a flicker of something—not hatred, not love, but a grim, recognized kindred spirit.
"I, Dante Moretti, take you, Bianca De Luca, to be my wife. To hold and to protect, to honor and to obey the laws of the blood. Your enemies are my enemies. Your debts are my debts. From this day until the end, your life is bound to mine."
It sounded like a vow. To everyone else in the cathedral, it was a promise of union.
To me, it was a warning. I own you now.
It was my turn. My throat felt tight, the air in the cathedral suddenly too thin to breathe. I thought of the docks. I thought of the blood. I thought of my uncle's voice in the mirror.
"I, Bianca De Luca," I started, my voice flickering before I steadied it with the cold iron of my resolve. "Take you, Dante Moretti. I vow to be the partner you deserve. To share your home, your secrets, and your fate. Until death do us part."
The words felt like ash in my mouth.
"The rings," the priest said.
A small boy in a suit brought forward the velvet cushion. Dante took the band—a heavy, platinum circle encrusted with black diamonds. He slid it onto my finger. It felt like a handcuff.
When I placed the ring on his finger, my hands were steady. I made sure of it.
"By the power vested in me," the priest intoned, "I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your bride."
Dante reached up, his movements slow and deliberate. He lifted the veil, folding it back to reveal my face to the world. For the first time, there was nothing between us. No silk, no lace, no family legacy.
Just a girl who wanted him dead and a man who knew her every secret.
He leaned down, his face inches from mine. I could smell the scent of him—expensive tobacco, sandalwood, and something sharp, like ozone before a strike of lightning.
He didn't kiss my lips. He pressed a lingering, firm kiss to the corner of my mouth, his breath hot against my skin.
"Try to kill me tonight, Bianca," he whispered so softly that only I could hear. "And I promise, you'll be the first thing I bury in the morning."
He pulled back, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, and turned us toward the congregation.
The applause was deafening. The De Lucas cheered. The Morettis cheered. The city of Valerra celebrated the union that was supposed to bring peace.
As we walked down the aisle, hand in hand, the sun streaming through the stained glass, I realized with a sickening jolt that I wasn't the hunter.
I was the bait. And the trap had just snapped shut.