Married to the Billionaire Mafia Don

Chapter 3: The Wedding

The cathedral loomed ahead, regal and ancient, nestled on a manicured hill at the far end of the Martinelli family estate. Its ivory stone walls were kissed by creeping ivy, and stained-glass windows glimmered like hidden jewels under the morning sun.

The air held a crisp stillness, like the world itself was holding its breath for what was about to unfold.

Ivy stood just inside the arched wooden doors, her fingers trembling slightly as they clutched the delicate lace veil attached to the elegant ivory gown she'd been dressed in. The dress, selected by one of Lorenzo's personal stylists, fit her like a glove, its bodice snug and flattering, the mermaid silhouette cascading around her legs in waves of silk and lace.

"Ready, signorina?" Victor asked softly, his voice carrying the same calm professionalism she'd come to expect from him.

Dressed in a tailored gray suit, he looked more like a groomsman than an assistant. Yet, his watchful gaze never missed a thing.

Ivy swallowed, then nodded.

"As ready as I’ll ever be," she said bravely.

Victor gave a small smile and stepped aside. The massive doors opened with a low creak, revealing the grand interior of the cathedral.

The pews were filled sparsely with family and associates, most of whom Ivy had not been introduced to. Yet she could feel their stares, a thousand judgments laced in silken suits and expensive perfume.

She began her walk down the aisle, accompanied by the swell of a single violin. There were no bridesmaids or flower girls. This was not a traditional wedding. It was business. A transaction sealed with vows and a signature. Still, Ivy held her head high.

At the altar stood Lorenzo, immaculate in a black tuxedo, his dark hair slicked back, his expression unreadable. He looked like something out of a fashion editorial: handsome, poised, and distant. He didn’t smile when he saw her, but neither did he frown. Ivy decided to take that as a win.

As she approached, a priest in crimson vestments motioned her into place beside Lorenzo. The ceremony began immediately. Latin prayers echoed beneath the high ceilings, the scent of incense thick in the air. Ivy barely heard the words. Her mind flitted between panic and disbelief.

You’re marrying a man you barely know, Ivy thought to herself. You’re marrying into the Mafia. This is your life now.

When it was time for the vows, Lorenzo’s voice was steady and cold.

"I, Lorenzo Antonio Martinelli, take you, Ivy Giselle Wesley, to be my wife. To honor and protect, as long as we both shall live."

Ivy hesitated for a breath before responding.

"I, Ivy Giselle Wesley, take you, Lorenzo Antonio Martinelli, to be my husband. To stand by you, through better or worse, till death do us part."

The priest blessed the rings, and with mechanical precision, they exchanged them. When he announced them husband and wife, Lorenzo leaned in and pressed a polite kiss to her cheek. No lips. No warmth. Just duty.

The guests applauded, soft and controlled. It felt more like the closing of a business merger than the beginning of a marriage.

After the ceremony, Victor led Ivy into a small room at the back of the cathedral where a marriage certificate lay waiting on a heavy mahogany desk. Lorenzo was already there, signing the final document with an engraved fountain pen.

He handed the pen to Ivy without a word. She took it and signed her name with careful strokes: Ivy Wesley-Martinelli.

"Congratulations," Victor said as he collected the papers. "It’s official."

Ivy managed a nod, though her stomach twisted into knots. She turned to Lorenzo and asked, "So... now what?"

He looked at her, eyes cool and unreadable. "Now we face my family."

---------------

Lorenzo had disappeared with Victor to take a phone call shortly after the wedding photos. She was left to navigate her way to the formal sitting room, where the rest of the Martinelli family waited to welcome the new bride.

Or judge her.

"This way, signora," one of the housekeepers said in a thick Italian accent, motioning down a corridor lined with oil paintings of Martinelli ancestors who all looked equally intimidating.

Ivy straightened the hem of her cream dress and followed, silently rehearsing her smile. She stepped into the grand salon, an elegant room drenched in warm golds and rich mahogany, the kind of place where secrets whispered against velvet cushions.

Olivia Martinelli sat in a throne-like chair at the center of the room, her silver-streaked hair pulled back tightly. Her hawk-like eyes took in Ivy's every move.

"So," Olivia began, her voice as crisp as the wine that bore her family name, "this is the woman my son married."

Beside her, Isabella and Giulia lounged like cats preparing to pounce. Isabella wore a forest green gown that clashed intentionally with Brenda’s understated cream ensemble, while Giulia twirled a piece of her bleach-blonde hair between long, manicured fingers, a smirk tugging at her lips.

"Welcome to the family," Giulia drawled.

"Thank you," Ivy said, forcing warmth into her voice. "It’s an honor to be here."

Olivia didn't respond immediately. Her eyes narrowed, studying Ivy as if she were a fine wine that hadn't been properly aged.

"Where are your people, Ivy?" Olivia asked, the words laced with subtle condescension.

Ivy's smile tightened. "I came alone. I don’t have any family who could attend."

"How convenient," Isabella murmured, lifting a crystal flute to her lips.

"Some people are better off without the weight of the past," Ivy said evenly, locking eyes with her new mother-in-law.

Olivia leaned back, clearly intrigued. "You're not intimidated easily. That’s good. This family devours the weak."

"I’ve had worse than a cold welcome and prettier women throwing shade," Ivy replied, earning a quiet snort from Giulia, who didn’t expect the bride to have a bite.

Just then, Lorenzo entered the room with Victor trailing behind him. His eyes scanned the gathering and landed on Ivy, softening slightly. "Hope I didn’t miss the warm welcome."

Olivia stood. "A word, Lorenzo," she said crisply.

He nodded, placing a hand gently on Ivy’s lower back before following his mother into a side room. The door shut behind them with an ominous click.

Giulia moved closer to Ivy, still smiling sweetly. "Do you know how many women tried to marry my brother?"

"Enough to host your own reality show, I imagine," Ivy replied, deadpan.

Isabella snorted, and for a brief second, the tension cracked. But Giulia quickly recovered.

"You won't last," she threatened.

"Maybe not, but I’ll enjoy the ride," Ivy replied boldly.

The door opened again, and Olivia swept out, her expression unreadable. Lorenzo followed, his features carefully composed.

"We’re having dinner in the east dining room," Olivia announced for Ivy’s benefit. "Let’s see how well you handle a proper Martinelli family meal."

The family dining hall was a cavernous space inside the main mansion. Crystal chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings. A long oak table stretched across the room, already set with gold-rimmed china and shining silverware. Servants in white jackets stood silently at intervals.

Dinner was a symphony of passive aggression. Between the veal medallions and the tiramisu, Olivia made several pointed remarks about loyalty, legacy, and the importance of knowing one’s place. Ivy responded with grace and veiled wit, never letting her guard down.

It was a game of mental chess, and she was beginning to understand just how high the stakes were.