married to the Mafia king

VOES MADE OF KNIVES

CHAPTER THREE:

The dress fit like a verdict.

Lyra stood in front of the mirror in a room she'd never seen before yesterday, in a dress someone else had chosen, in a house that belonged to a man she'd known for exactly four days, and thought: this is what it feels like to disappear without dying.

"You look beautiful," said the woman lacing the back of the gown — Mrs. Aldric, Dimitri's housekeeper, a thin, sharp-eyed woman who'd introduced herself with exactly four words and hadn't volunteered a fifth since. Lyra didn't bother answering. There was nothing beautiful about a dress bought to settle a debt.

Through the window, she could see the garden filling with people she didn't know — men in dark suits who moved like they were used to occupying rooms by force rather than invitation, a scattering of women whose smiles didn't reach their eyes. No family. No friends. She'd asked if June and Theo could attend, and Dimitri had said yes with a speed that surprised her, the only kindness he'd offered since the office — and then he'd assigned them their own security detail, two men positioned at a discreet distance, which told her everything about how dangerous he actually believed this day to be.

She found Theo first, stiff in a rented suit two sizes too big, looking like a boy trying very hard not to look terrified. June stood beside him in green, arms crossed, scanning the crowd the way she'd been scanning rooms since their father died — cataloging exits, cataloging threats, cataloging the particular wrongness of a wedding with armed men at its corners.

"You don't have to smile," June murmured, catching Lyra's hand before the procession started. "Just don't let them see you shake."

"I'm not shaking."

"You are. It's fine. I am too."

The ceremony itself moved with the brisk efficiency of a business transaction wearing the costume of romance. There was no priest, no officiant in robes — only a county clerk who looked deeply uncomfortable to be flanked by men with shoulder holsters, reading vows off a card like he wanted the whole thing finished before anyone changed their mind.

Dimitri waited at the altar in black, unreadable as stone, and when Lyra reached him, he didn't smile. He studied her the way he had in his office — cataloging, assessing — and for one disorienting second, something flickered behind his eyes that looked almost like regret.

"You don't have to do this," he said, low enough that only she could hear.

"You said I had until Friday."

"I'm giving you the chance to walk away. Right now. Before the words make it permanent."

It would have been easier to hate him if he weren't offering her an exit at the altar he'd built. "And if I walk away?"

"Then you take your chances with the men who are still looking for you, and I lose whatever leverage I have to stop them." His jaw tightened. "I won't pretend that's a generous offer. It's just an honest one."

She thought of Theo's small, scared face in the doorway at midnight. She thought of June's hand gripping hers hard enough to bruise.

"Say the words," Lyra said.

The clerk cleared his throat and began.

She didn't remember most of the vows. She remembered the weight of the ring sliding onto her finger, cold and unfamiliar, and the way Dimitri's hand didn't shake at all when he placed it there, steady as a man signing a contract rather than a man making a promise. She remembered the moment she was meant to say I do and the way the words came out of her mouth sounding like someone else's voice, someone braver than she felt.

It was when the clerk said you may kiss the bride that the first crack appeared.

Dimitri leaned in — and froze.

His eyes had gone to the back of the garden, to a man in gray standing just beyond the security perimeter, a man who hadn't been on any guest list Lyra had seen. The man met Dimitri's gaze for exactly one second, then turned and walked away into the crowd of catering staff, unhurried, like a man who'd only come to confirm something rather than to threaten it.

"Who was that?" Lyra whispered, the kiss forgotten, her pulse climbing.

"No one." Dimitri's voice had gone flat, controlled in a way that told her it was anything but nothing. He kissed her then — brief, perfunctory, a formality completed rather than a vow sealed — and turned immediately to one of his men, murmuring something too quiet for her to catch. The man nodded once and slipped away from the crowd toward the garden's edge.

The reception that followed felt like a stage play performed for an audience that already knew the ending. Lyra smiled when she meant to smile, accepted congratulations from strangers who watched her like she was a transaction they were verifying in real time, and found her new husband's hand at the small of her back more often than seemed necessary — not affectionate, she realized. Vigilant.

It was near the cake, in a rare moment alone, that June found her.

"Who's the guy in gray?" June asked quietly, eyes still scanning. "The one your husband looked like he wanted to kill."

"You saw him too?"

"I see everyone, Lyra. It's a skill you develop when your dad starts getting calls he won't explain." June's jaw tightened, achingly familiar — their father's exact expression, worn on a sixteen-year-old's face. "He looked at Dimitri like he knew something. Like he was checking a box."

Lyra's stomach turned cold. "Checking what box?"

"I don't know. But I don't think that man came here for cake."

Across the garden, Dimitri reappeared at her side, smooth and composed again, slipping back into the role of attentive husband as though the last ten minutes hadn't happened. "Dance with me," he said, and it wasn't quite a request.

She let him lead her onto the small clearing of grass that served as a dance floor, his hand warm and certain against her waist, and for one strange, suspended moment, the danger of the day fell away and there was only the two of them, moving in careful circles beneath string lights, two strangers performing intimacy for an audience that needed to believe in it.

"Who was he?" she asked again, quiet, close enough that her words brushed his jaw.

Dimitri's grip on her tightened — not painfully, but enough that she felt it, enough that she understood the question had landed somewhere it wasn't meant to.

"Someone who works for the man who killed your father," he said finally, voice low enough to vanish beneath the music. "And someone who just confirmed I broke a promise I made a long time ago — the day I decided to marry you instead of letting you die."

The music swelled around them, and Lyra realized, with a chill that had nothing to do with the evening air, that she had just become the answer to a question someone else had been asking for years — and she had no idea what it was.