Blood on the Wedding Dress
1585 Words
The solemn, ancient chime of wedding bells echoed through the vaulted stone arches of the centuries-old cathedral.
White roses lined the aisle, their sweet, cloying scent heavy in the air. Too heavy. It felt less like a celebration and more like the stifling perfume of a funeral.
Overhead, massive crystal chandeliers glittered with dazzling, cold brilliance, casting sharp fractured light across the hundreds of distinguished guests filling the pews. They smiled, rustling in their silks and tailored suits, eagerly waiting for the grand spectacle to begin.
It was supposed to be the happiest day of Seraphina Romano’s life.
Instead…
She was counting the agonizing seconds until it was over.
Her fingers tightened around the stems of her bouquet, squeezing so hard the white roses bruised beneath her touch. She forced a shallow, trembling breath into her lungs. The elegant wedding dress—a masterpiece of heavy satin and intricate lace—clung to her body like a gilded cage. Its long, dramatic train trailed behind her across the polished marble floor, hissing softly against the stone like a warning.
Everyone in the pews looked at her with envy. They thought the glint of moisture in her eyes came from tears of happiness.
They weren’t.
This wasn’t the fairy tale she had dreamed of as a young girl. It was a sentence.
Her father had spent months cold-bloodedly arranging her marriage to Adrian Morelli, the son of one of Italy’s most ruthless and powerful politicians. The alliance promised a staggering influx of wealth. Unchecked influence. Absolute security.
Or so the public was meant to believe.
Seraphina knew the ugly truth beneath the glamour. This wasn’t a love story. It was a hostile takeover. Another business deal signed in her compliance.
She risked a glance toward the altar.
There stood her father, Don Marco Romano. He stood tall and proud beside the groom, greeting influential senators and judges with a smooth, confident smile. To the rest of the world, he looked like a doting, triumphant father.
To Seraphina, who knew the calculating micro-expressions of the Romano syndicate all too well, he looked like a man desperately hiding a vulnerability. A man sealing a crack in his empire by sacrificing his daughter.
Suddenly, the pipe organ swelled, a thunderous wave of sound that vibrated right through the soles of her shoes and rattled her ribs.
The massive, iron-reinforced oak doors at the back of the cathedral slowly groaned open, flooding the dim vestibule with blinding midday sun.
Every guest rose to their feet in a synchronized rustle of luxury.
“She’s beautiful.”
“Like an angel descended from heaven.”
“The perfect Romano bride.”
The adoring whispers followed her, drifting like suffocating incense as she took her first step down the endless aisle. Then another. And another. She kept her gaze locked forward, refusing to look at the sea of smiling strangers. To them, she was a flawless piece of porcelain, a trophy cementing a treaty. None of them cared about the panic drowning her.
At the altar, Adrian Morelli watched her approach. His smile was smooth, calculated, and entirely victorious. He didn't look like a man in love; he looked like an investor watching his shares mature. He possessed the smug confidence of a man who always got what he bought.
The priest stepped forward, opening a heavy, gold-leafed Bible. His booming voice echoed perfectly through the cavernous acoustics of the church.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness the sacred union of—”
BOOM!
A deafening, ground-shaking explosion ripped through the eastern wall of the cathedral.
The priceless stained-glass windows shattered instantly into millions of lethal projectiles. Colorful fragments of ancient glass rained down from the ceiling like a deadly meteor shower.
The idyllic scene fractured into pure chaos. Guests screamed in terror, diving beneath the pews. Children wailed as the chandeliers swung wildly overhead, the lights flickering violently before plunging the entire church into a smoky, terrifying darkness.
A split second later, a second explosion rocked the front entrance.
The rapid, deafening pop of automatic gunfire erupted outside, echoing like thunder against the stone walls.
“Protect the Don!” shouted a voice through the dark.
“Ambush! Get the bride out of here!”
“Move! Move! Move!”
Panic swept through the cathedral like a flash flood. The air grew thick and choking with gray smoke and the sharp, metallic tang of cordite. Through the gloom, Seraphina saw the silhouettes of bodyguards drawing their weapons, their flashlights cutting chaotic beams through the dust.
Seraphina couldn’t see. She couldn’t think. The sheer volume of the noise pressed against her skull.
Suddenly, a fleeing body crashed hard into her shoulder. The impact spun her around. The bouquet slipped from her numb hands, and the pristine white roses scattered across the marble floor, instantly trampled and stained by the dark crimson blood of wounded guests.
Her own heartbeat thundered so loudly in her ears it drowned out the screams.
“Father!” she shrieked, looking wildly toward the altar. “Father!”
There was no answer. Only the brutal, rhythmic chatter of another burst of gunfire.
Then, out of the blinding haze, a powerful, calloused hand seized her wrist.
The grip was iron, locking around her skin like a vice. She gasped, her lungs burning from the smoke.
“Don’t scream.”
The voice wasn’t panicked. It was deep. Articulately calm. Entirely commanding.
Before she could pull away or fight back, she was yanked forward, dragged effortlessly through the billowing smoke and the fleeing crowd. The world became a dizzying, terrifying blur of shouting men, broken glass crunching beneath her shoes, and the blinding flash of high beams outside.
Within seconds, the cold outdoor air hit her face, but there was no relief.
Several black, heavily armored SUVs completely surrounded the cathedral steps. Masked men tactical gear were methodically exchanging heavy fire with the remnants of the Romano security detail.
One of the masked men threw open the rear door of a central SUV.
Seraphina began to thrash, digging her heels into the asphalt. “Let me go! Help!”
The man holding her didn’t even flinch at her resistance. With terrifying, effortless strength, he lifted her off her feet, tossing her into the spacious leather interior of the vehicle before climbing in right behind her.
The heavy, bulletproof door slammed shut with a definitive thud, sealing out the noise of the m******e.
The engine roared to life, tires screeching as the convoy sped away into the Roman traffic.
Seraphina scrambled backward against the far door, her breathing ragged and uneven, her expensive veil torn and hanging over her shoulder. She stared across the dark, plush interior of the SUV.
“What do you want with me?” she demanded, trying to keep the tremble out of her voice. “Who paid you?”
No one answered immediately.
The man sitting directly opposite her calmly, methodically peeled off his black leather gloves, tossing them onto the console. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he removed his dark sunglasses.
His face finally came into the dim light of the tinted windows.
He possessed strikingly dark hair, a sharp, aristocratic jawline, and a thin, rugged scar slicing through his left eyebrow. But it was his eyes that made her blood run cold—they were a piercing, icy gray, carrying absolutely no pity, no remorse, and no fear.
He wore an impeccably tailored black suit, looking as though he had simply stepped out of a high-stakes corporate boardroom instead of orchestrating a bloody assault on a sanctuary.
He evaluated her in silence for several agonizing seconds, his gaze sweeping over her torn dress and flushed face.
Then, he spoke.
“I’ve just ruined your wedding.”
His voice was quiet. Intimate. Controlled. And utterly terrifying.
Seraphina swallowed the lump of dread rising in her throat, clenching her jaw. “Who are you?”
He leaned back comfortably against the leather seat, crossing one leg over the other.
“My name…” he paused, letting the silence stretch just long enough for the gravity of her situation to fully settle inside her chest, “…is Alessandro De Luca.”
The name felt like a physical blow, stealing the remaining air from her lungs.
Every child born into the syndicate families of Italy had heard the whispered, ghost-story legends about the De Luca family. They were the most feared, mythologized Mafia dynasty in the country. A shadow empire built on absolute ruthlessness and unyielding bloodlines. A family that never forgot an insult, never forgave a betrayal, and whose enemies rarely survived long enough to regret crossing them.
She stared at him in sheer disbelief, her voice dropping to a horrified whisper.
“You…”
“...you’re the Devil of Sicily.”
For the first time since he had dragged her from the burning church, Alessandro’s stoic expression shifted. A slow smile spread across his sharp features.
It wasn’t a warm smile. It wasn't even a cruel one. It was the calm, devastating smile of a grandmaster who had already won the game before his opponent even realized it had started.
“I’m not here to kill you, Seraphina.”
A fragile, desperate spark of hope flickered inside her chest.
Then, with his very next words, he systematically destroyed it.
“I’m here…” he murmured, his icy gray eyes locking onto hers, “…to make you my wife.”
End of Episode 1
- Writer
