Bound by Blood, Forged in Fire

Coldvows

Chapter 4: Cold Vows

Manhattan, St. Patrick’s Old Cathedral, 4:18 PM

The organ’s mournful notes echoed through the vaulted ceilings of St. Patrick’s Old Cathedral, a somber soundtrack to a union forged in blood and necessity. Isabella Moretti stood at the back of the aisle, her heart pounding like a war drum. The white lace dress clung to her athletic frame, its fitted bodice accentuating her subtle curves and the gentle flare of her hips. The gown’s high slit revealed her scuffed combat boots, a deliberate rebellion against the traditional veil and heels her cousin Sofia had begged her to wear. Her dark brown hair, with its auburn highlights, was loosely pinned, strands framing her heart-shaped face. Her hazel eyes, flecked with gold, burned with defiance, the freckle on her right cheek stark against her lightly tanned skin. The silver cross pendant at her throat felt heavier than ever, a tether to her mother’s memory in a moment she felt utterly alone.

She gripped the bouquet of white roses like a weapon, her calloused fingers itching for the knife strapped to her thigh, hidden beneath the dress. This wasn’t a wedding; it was a contract, signed in ink and sealed with her freedom. The Moretti and De Luca capos filled the pews, their faces a mix of respect and unease, the Russo threat lingering like smoke in the air.

At the altar, Luca De Luca stood like a statue carved from shadow and steel. His 6’2” frame was draped in a bespoke black tuxedo, the fabric hugging his broad shoulders and lean waist, emphasizing his athletic build. His jet-black hair was swept back, a single lock falling over his forehead, softening the sharp lines of his face. His emerald-green eyes were unreadable, but the faint scar above his right eyebrow and the silver signet ring on his right hand hinted at the danger beneath his polished exterior. His jaw was set, lips a firm line, as he watched her approach, his gaze heavy with something she couldn’t name—resignation, maybe, or a challenge.

Isabella’s boots thudded on the stone floor, each step a protest. Her father, Vincenzo, stood at her side, his deep brown eyes softening for a moment as he squeezed her arm. “You’re doing this for the family,” he murmured, his scarred cheek taut.

“For you,” she corrected, her voice low, bitter. “Not for me.”

He said nothing, guiding her forward. The priest’s voice droned, but Isabella barely heard it, her eyes locked on Luca. He didn’t flinch under her stare, his posture rigid, his hands clasped behind his back. She wanted to hate him—his arrogance, his control, his damn perfect face—but the memory of their knife-throwing contest, his knife splitting the bullseye beside hers, stirred something else. Respect, maybe. Or worse.

The vows were a blur, her voice flat as she recited them. Luca’s was steady, his deep timbre cutting through the cathedral’s hush. When the priest pronounced them man and wife, the words landed like a guillotine. Luca leaned in, his breath warm against her ear, and for a moment, she thought he’d kiss her cheek. Instead, he murmured, “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be, Moretti.”

She pulled back, her hazel eyes flashing. “Call me De Luca one more time, and you’ll regret it.”

His lips twitched, a smirk breaking through. “Noted, Isabella.”

The reception was held in the cathedral’s adjacent hall, a lavish affair of crystal chandeliers and long tables laden with food. Isabella ditched the bouquet, her boots clicking as she grabbed a whiskey from the bar. Luca watched her from across the room, his emerald eyes tracking her like a hawk. She raised her glass in a mock toast, her smirk daring him to approach.

He did, of course. The band struck up a slow waltz, and Luca crossed the floor, his tuxedo accentuating his broad chest. “Dance with me,” he said, not a request but a command.

She snorted, sipping her whiskey. “Pass.”

“It’s expected,” he said, his voice low, his hand extended. “Unless you want every capo in here whispering about how the Moretti girl can’t play her part.”

Her jaw tightened, but she set the glass down, her calloused fingers brushing his as she took his hand. His grip was firm, his skin warm, and a jolt shot through her, unbidden. He led her to the dance floor, his hand settling on her waist, the other guiding her arm. Her dress swished, the slit revealing her boots, and she caught his glance at them, his smirk faint.

“Nice touch,” he murmured, his eyes glinting. “Combat boots at a wedding. Subtle.”

“Better than your shiny shoes,” she shot back, her hazel eyes meeting his. “You look like you’re auditioning for a cologne ad.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, pulling her closer as the music swelled. Their bodies were inches apart, his hand firm on her waist, her curves pressing against his frame. She could feel the heat of him, the strength in his arms, and it made her pulse race despite herself. His emerald eyes held hers, the scar above his brow catching the light, and for a moment, the room faded, leaving just the two of them, swaying in a fragile truce.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, his breath grazing her cheek.

She tilted her head, her freckle stark in the soft light. “What, you thought I’d be some blushing bride? Sorry to disappoint.”

“Not disappointed,” he said, his grip tightening slightly, his eyes darkening. “Just… intrigued.”

Her breath hitched, and she hated how his words stirred something in her. She stepped closer, her lips curling. “Careful, De Luca. Intrigue gets you in trouble.”

His smirk returned, but there was heat in it now, a spark that made her skin prickle. The song ended, but neither moved, their hands still linked, their bodies too close. The crowd’s applause broke the spell, and Isabella pulled away, her heart pounding.

“Don’t get used to this,” she said, her voice husky as she grabbed her whiskey and walked off, her boots echoing. Luca watched her go, his emerald eyes unreadable, his blood humming with a dangerous curiosity.