The devil's last bride

Chapter 2:The devil's altar

The Church of San Lorenzo sat on the outskirts of Milan like an ancient stone tomb. Outside, dark-tinted SUVs flanked the perimeter, engine hums mixing with the quiet chatter of armed men in tailored suits standing every ten paces.

Inside the small bridal room near the nave, Susan's fingers trembled as she did up the final pearl buttons along the back of Elena's dress.

"It's too quiet out there," Susan whispered, her voice cracked with emotion. "Elena, darling... we can still leave through the rear courtyard. My sister has a place in Switzerland. We could-"

"And where would my father go?" Elena asked softly, looking at Susan through the ornate mirror. The dress was a simple ivory silk—no lace, no grand train. She had refused the extravagant

gowns Damien's people had delivered to her house two days ago, choosing instead the plainest white dress she could find in her own closet.

"He brought this on us, Elena," Susan said, her eyes welling with tears as she rested her hands on Elena's shoulders. "Arthur made his bed. You shouldn't have to lie in it."

"He's my father, Susan," Elena replied. She reached down, resting her fingers over the cold metal of her mother's silver pendant, hidden beneath the silk collar of her dress. "And whoever took him expects me to break today. I won't give them the satisfaction."

A knock sounded on the wooden door. Before Susan could answer, it swung open. A man in a sharp blue suit strolled in, holding two cardboard coffee cups in one hand and a

half-eaten bakery pastry in the other. He had light brown hair, a crooked nose that looked like it had been broken at least twice, and an easy, relaxed smile that didn't fit the solemn atmosphere at all.

Susan immediately stepped in front of Elena, her chin lifted. "Who allowed you in here?"

"Relax, ma'am," the man said, offering a warm grin as he held up the coffee cups. "I'm Mike. Don's right-hand guy, security detail, and occasional driver when the regular guys call in sick. I brought coffee. Cappuccino for the bride, black for the lady who looks like she wants to stab me with a hairpin." Elena kept her face stoic. "Where is Damien?"

"Standing at the altar, looking like he's about to attend his own execution," Mike said lightly, taking a bite of his pastry. He looked Elena up and down, nodding in approval. "Honestly, Miss

The Devil's Last BrideRossi? Good choice on the dress. The Don hates big frilly things. Says they look like

lampshades."

"Is this funny to you?" Susan snapped, her voice trembling with anger. "You monsters forced a

young woman into a contract-"

"Hey, easy, auntie," Mike said, his tone softening into something surprisingly polite. "I just carry

out orders and make sure nobody gets shot on the way to the church. Look, I get it. You think

we're the bad guys. But between you and me? The Don's a man of his word. If he said your boss

lives, he lives. Now, Miss Rossi..."

Mike set the unused coffee on the vanity table and extended an arm toward the hallway.

"The priest is getting old, and the Don doesn't like standing around. Time to become a Moretti."

Elena took a deep, steady breath. She looked at Susan one last time, taking the older

woman's hands in hers. "Stay near the back. When this is over, go home and keep the doors

locked."

"Elena..."

"I'll be fine," Elena said, stepping past Mike into the corridor.

The heavy oak doors to the main chapel pushed open, revealing a cavernous interior lit only

by tall beeswax candles. There were no flowers, no organ music, and no guests sitting in the

pews—only two dozen men in dark suits stationed silently along the walls, their hands folded at

their waists.

And standing at the foot of the altar, flanked by the old parish priest, was Damien Moretti.

Elena walked down the stone aisle alone.

As she drew closer, she took him in. Damien was broad-shouldered and tall, wearing a crisp

black suit without a tie. His dark hair was combed back, revealing sharp, angular features, a

jawline carved from granite, and eyes as black and unreadable as deep water. He looked every

bit the thirty-eight-year-old leader of Europe's most feared syndicate—experienced, cold, and

utterly relaxed in the presence of danger.

He didn't move a muscle as she approached. His dark eyes locked onto hers, tracing every

detail of her face, measuring her reaction.

Elena stopped on the raised marble step beside him, holding her head high, refusing to look

down.

The priest began the traditional Latin vows, his voice echoing off the high stone ceiling.

Neither Elena nor Damien paid attention to the words. The silence between them felt heavy,

almost suffocating, like the air right before a summer thunderstorm.

When it came time for the rings, Damien produced a simple gold band from his pocket. His

hand was large, warm, and entirely steady as he slid the band onto her left ring finger. Elena's

skin prickled at his touch, but she didn't pull away.

She took the matching band and slid it onto his finger, her fingers brushing against his wrist.

She felt the heavy pulse beneath his skin—calm, slow, and completely composed.

The Devil's Last Bride"I now pronounce you husband and wife," the priest murmured, his voice laced with faint anxiety.

Damien turned to face her fully for the first time. He reached out, his long fingers gently

grasping her chin. His touch was firm, yet surprisingly careful. He leaned down toward her face. Elena braced herself, expecting a forced, aggressive kiss to

seal the contract. Instead, Damien's lips stopped a hair's breadth from her ear. His warm breath brushed

against her skin as he spoke in a low, quiet rasp that no one else in the church could hear.

"Don't eat anything served at the reception," Damien whispered softly. "And when we reach the car... keep your head below the window line." Before Elena could process his words, Damien stepped back, his expression turning cold and

distant once again. He offered her his arm. "Let's go, Mrs. Moretti," he said calmly. "Our guests are waiting." The black armored sedan glided through the heavy iron gates of the Moretti estate, winding

up a long, cobblestone driveway lined with towering Italian cypress trees. Rain slashed against the tinted, bulletproof glass, turning the sprawling villa ahead into a dark shadow against the night sky. Inside the back seat, the silence between Elena and Damien was deafening. Damien sat back against the leather, staring straight ahead. His hand rested near his lap,

completely motionless. Elena kept her back rigid, sitting as far to her side of the door as possible. The moment the car ground to a halt beneath the covered stone portico, Mike slammed open

the front driver-side door, pulling his umbrella out. He opened the rear door for Elena, giving her a small, sympathetic nod.

"Welcome to the compound, Mrs. M," Mike said smoothly, keeping his eyes sweeping the dark grounds. "Don't mind the armed guards every twenty feet. They're mostly harmless unless you try to leave without an escort." Elena stepped out, ignoring the chill in the air, and marched straight into the grand foyer of

the villa. The interior was modern, minimalistic, and freezing cold—marble floors, high ceilings, and floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the stormy gardens outside.

Damien walked in behind her, casually unbuttoning his suit jacket and tossing it onto a

leather chair near the door. He turned toward a side bar, reaching for a crystal decanter of whiskey. "The guest bedroom upstairs has been prepared for you," Damien said, his voice flat as he poured two fingers of amber liquid into a glass. "Mike will show you up. You'll find clothes, shoes, and anything else you need."

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