Chapter 32
32
Victoria
The gown hangs in front of the mirror, taunting me.
Silk. Lace. Hand-stitched beading that probably costs more than most people’s yearly salary. It’s beautiful in the way daggers are beautiful—intricate, polished, designed for one purpose.
Hmm…
Not a bad idea.
Death is certainly an option right now.
It would be easier than the road ahead of me, that much is for sure.
Helen, one of the older maids who’s been with us for years, stands behind me, fingers smoothing the bodice like she’s petting a wild animal she’s trying not to spook. “You’re shaking.” She pulls a loose thread near my shoulder.
“I’m not shaking,” I lie, and it’s obvious. My voice is way too flat to be telling the truth. “I’m perfectly fine. Just vibrating with happiness p>
The corner of her mouth lifts. She knows I’m full of shit. “Of course.” Her hands move to the laces at my back, tightening the corset in steady, practiced pulls. “Hold the rail,” she adds, nodding toward the post of the old canopy bed. “If you fall, I’m too old to catch you p>
I grab the post and exhale as she yanks the laces. “You’re not old,” I grit through my teeth as she pulls so tight I’m afraid I’ll pass out. “You’re in your prime. You put up with me and my father. That’s got to give you bonus points for a long life p>
“Or put me into an early grave.” She laughs. “Your father, I mean. You… You’re the easy one p>
I swallow hard. “I used to be easy. Before everything went to hell p>
Helen ties off the last knot, fingers lingering against the small of my back like she wants to say more. “Turn.” She taps my hip.
I rotate slowly, the dress fluttering around my legs in a cloud of ivory.
A mirror stands in front of me, and I don’t recognize the girl in the reflection. It’s not that I don’t look like myself, but because now I look like a bride. I always thought I’d be excited for this moment, but instead, as the tears fill my eyes, I’m scared.
What will happen to me once I’m his?
Helen steps closer, reaching for the veil draped over the chair. “Ready?” she asks, the word thick.
“No,” I answer, not even pretending. “But go ahead p>
She lifts the veil slowly, hands careful. Then she adjusts it around my face. “You are so beautiful,” she whispers, voice breaking. “They don’t deserve to see you like this p>
A lump punches the back of my throat. “Then maybe we should just skip it.” I force a hollow smile. “You can help me climb out the window. I’ll hitchhike to Canada. They have really good healthcare. It can’t be that bad p>
Her smile falters, grief sliding over her face like a shadow. She presses her lips together, glancing toward the door as if it might sprout ears. “You know we can’t.” She breathes. “Not now p>
“Because he’ll find us,” I say quietly.
She closes her eyes for a moment, lashes damp. “Because he already has,” she answers, and I swear the air feels thinner.
I want to ask her more. I want to say his name and hear what she thinks of him. The boy who fixed our doors and kissed me under the stars. The man who burned down my father’s empire and came back with a ring and a cage.
But she’s already risking everything by being in this room with me and talking to me about it.
A knock sounds, two sharp raps on the door. My mother’s rhythm. I’d recognize it anywhere.
Helen’s hands drop instantly, posture straightening. “Are you ready?” she asks again, but this time, it sounds like a script.
“I’m dressed,” I answer. “That’s as close as we’re going to get p>
She gives me one quick, fierce look—something like I’m sorry and be careful and you are stronger than you think all wrapped into one—and moves to open the door.
My mother slips in, her champagne-colored dress is tailored and elegant. Her eyes find me. “You look very nice, Victoria p>
“Thank you.” I force a crooked smile under the veil. “In my opinion, I look like a very expensive hostage p>
“Victoria,” she warns.
“What?” I ask. “Too soon p>
Helen’s eyes flick to mine in the mirror, a silent plea to stop. Not make this worse. As much as I love her, I’m not sure I’m able to do that. I’m feeling extra prickly today.
I exhale slowly, lungs pressing my corset. “Is he here p>
My mother hesitates a moment too long.
My heart drops. “He is,” I answer myself, the words flat. “Of course he is. God forbid he ditch me at the altar. I’d happily welcome that p>
Her jaw tightens. “Your father is waiting in the hall,” she says instead. “We should go. The priest… he doesn’t want to be kept waiting p>
Of course, he doesn’t. Poor man probably didn’t expect to risk his soul over a private Mafia-adjacent hostage wedding when he woke up this morning.
Helen steps back, smoothing invisible wrinkles from my skirt. “Walk slow. The dress is heavy p>
“The dress is the least heavy thing in this room,” I mumble, before my mother hooks her arm through, pretending to be the perfect mother.
Too little, too late, woman. No one in this house is fooled by your act.
We move toward the door, then head out into the hallway. We keep walking until we see my father. He’s waiting at the end, near the side entrance that leads toward the backyard, where my mother wants the ceremony to take place.
While Lorenzo has been clear that this wedding will be a secret—why, I have no clue—my father still dresses the part despite the lack of cameras to document it.
He’s in his black tux, shoulders rigid, expression carefully arranged into something neutral and proud. But his eyes are… off. Too bright. Too sharp.
He looks at me, mouth opening to speak. Here it comes. “You’re late.” He checks his watch purely to be an asshole.
“I’m worth waiting for,” I answer, my chin lifting.
He huffs through his nose. “Let’s not keep him,” he says, holding out his arm. “The sooner this is done, the sooner p>
“We can start pretending this wasn’t your idea?” I finish, sliding my hand into the crook of his elbow.
His jaw flexes. “It was this or ruin p>
I look straight ahead. “You chose you,” I say quietly. “It’s fine. I expect it by now p>
He goes stiff beside me.
Neither of us speaks as we continue to walk down the side corridor.
We pass the garden. My peripheral vision catches a flash of the weathered building all the way by the water.
The boathouse.
For a second, my mind plays out a picture, but I shake my head.
Not today, Satan.
I look away and continue toward the fountain. Once there, my father stops, adjusts his sleeves for no reason, and finally looks at me properly. “Whatever you feel, you cannot let it show. Not to him p>
“That’s the funny thing.” I lift a brow. “He already knows exactly how I feel. He’s counting on it p>
The muscle in his cheek jumps. “Smile p>
The air already feels thicker as I take in the makeshift canopy that’s supposed to be an altar.
The priest stands there, fingers tangled together.
Rafe stands near the front, his suit black, tie loosened, as if this is mildly annoying. His gaze slides over us, assessing, as if he’s checking off a mental list.
And at the altar across from the priest is—
Lorenzo.
He turns toward us.
Then he takes me in.
A dark look spreads across his features.
He’s in a black tailored suit, dark shirt, no tie, top button undone. There’s a small cut on his lip, already healing, and a faint bruise under one eye. How did he manage to get into a fight on the one day I haven’t seen him, and what does the person he fought with look like? Something tells me worse than him.
He looks me up and down, and heat crawls up my spine. Not the good kind.
My father’s arm tightens under my hand. “Head up p>
I lift my chin, my gaze still locked with Lorenzo’s as we walk. His mouth curves, lazy and lethal.
Not a smile. A promise.
My heart pounds harder with every step, and I swear my palms are sweating. The dress rustles around my legs.
We stop in front of him.
My father’s fingers tense around my hand, then pry it off his arm. He turns toward Lorenzo, jaw clenched. “She’s yours,” he forces out.
Lorenzo’s brows tic. “She’s mine,” he agrees softly, reaching out.
His hand closes around mine. It’s warm, firm, and most importantly…unyielding.
A flash of memory hits me—his fingers on my skin. Touching softly. Lovingly.
This is none of those things.
The priest clears his throat. “We are… gathered here today,” he begins, looking around at the five of us, “to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony p>
Rafe snorts under his breath, low enough that only the three of us at the front hear.
Lorenzo’s mouth twitches.
My fingers tighten in his instinctively.
“Victoria Danforth,” the priest continues, clinging to the script like a lifeline, “do you take Lorenzo Amante to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, in p>
“I do,” I cut in, voice calm and flat.
The priest blinks. My mother chokes, and Rafe glances away like he’s hiding a grin.
Lorenzo’s eyes flash, dark amusement sparking. “Impatient, Little Bird? Can’t wait to sign your soul away p>
I keep my gaze on the priest. “I’d like to be done before the Stockholm syndrome kicks in,” I reply, sweet and deadly.
A huff of laughter catches in his chest. “You always were impatient p>
The priest flounders for a moment, then stumbles forward. “And… and you, Lorenzo Amante,” he tries again, “do you take Victoria Danforth to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health p>
“I do,” Lorenzo answers, eyes never leaving my face. “Obviously p>
The word wraps around me like a noose.
The priest’s gaze flicks between us, sweaty and panicked. “Do you have vows prepared?” he asks hopefully, like maybe someone will start talking about love and save him from this nightmare.
“I think we’ve said enough,” Lorenzo deadpans.
“Yes,” I add, pressing a smile that shows too many teeth. “I wouldn’t want to lie in front of a priest. Something tells me that won’t help my bid to get into heaven p>
My father winces.
The priest swallows hard. “Then… umm… we will proceed with the rings p>
Rafe steps forward, pulling a small velvet box from his jacket with a resigned little shrug, like even he can’t believe he’s playing ring bearer in this particular tragedy.
He flips it open and offers it to Lorenzo.
Lorenzo takes the first band, cool metal glinting between his fingers. He grasps my hand, turning it palm down, his thumb stroking along my knuckles once in a touch that doesn’t match his eyes at all.
“Look at me,” he orders.
I don’t want to, but I do anyway. Show no fear.
He slides the ring onto my finger slowly, deliberately, like he’s carving his name into my bones.
“This belongs to me now,” he says, voice low.
“My hand?” I whisper, throat tight.
His gaze doesn’t flicker. “We both know the answer p>
My lungs forget how to function for a beat.
I pick up his ring from the box. My fingers don’t feel like they’re attached to my body. I feel like I’m stuck in a nightmare, and I can’t shake myself awake.
I grab his left hand and shove the ring down his finger with a little more force than necessary.
It still slides on smoothly.
He smirks. “Easy, Little Bird,” he drawls. “I know you want to maim me, but we haven’t taken pictures yet p>
“I thought you said there are no pictures,” I bite out.
“You’re right.” He smirks. “We’ll have memories. Those last longer p>
The priest’s voice drones on. I can’t even hear the words. All I hear is husband and wife.
That’s all I need to hear for my knees to buckle. Lorenzo doesn’t wait for me to right myself before he tugs me toward him, one hand clamping around my waist, the other curling possessively at the back of my neck.
His mouth crashes onto mine.
It’s not gentle.
It’s not tender.
It’s not anything a wedding kiss is supposed to be.
He kisses me like a punishment.
He’s telling me he owns me.
That I’m a possession.
He’s reclaiming every breath I took without him for the past five years.
His lips move against mine, not giving me room to fake this.
Despite my internal resistance, my body betrays me, a shiver sliding down my spine, as my damn traitorous fingers curl in his jacket.
Fury mixes in my chest.
I don’t want this. Then why do I feel so hot all of a sudden?
Head in the game. Stop this insanity. We do not enjoy kissing the enemy.
As if he can read my mind, Lorenzo deepens the kiss, and like the idiot I am, my pulse spikes.
I swear a sound slips from my mouth, and I want to die of embarrassment. Then, as if the moment can’t get any worse, it does. Because he pulls back first. His lips graze the corner of my mouth. “To your cage p>
Great. Just great.
My hand snaps up until my fingers grasp his lapel. “I hate you,” I whisper, breath shaking as I push him away.
His eyes flare, but I know that look, and it’s not shock…
It’s satisfaction.
Asshole.
“Good,” he murmurs. “You’ll need the energy p>
I turn my head toward the priest. Maybe it’s not too late for him to step in and say this isn’t right. He looks like he might faint.
He won’t be helpful.
My mother wears her blank stare, and my father continues to stare straight ahead. It’s like if he doesn’t acknowledge this, it’s not really happening.
Rafe, on the other hand, is having the time of his life. His huge grin is only cut off by his lips puckering to blow out a low whistle.
Lorenzo releases my waist but keeps hold of my hand, turning us toward the side door. “Time to go, Mrs. Amante,” he says, voice smooth. “We have a long night of pretending not to kill each other ahead of us p>
I lift my chin and let him lead me back toward the house, the train of my gown trailing me as I march my way to my metaphorical prison cell.
He thinks he built me a cage.
He doesn’t realize I plan on testing the bars.