Reborn Bride of the Moretti Mafia

Chapter 2 — The Vows

The organ music swelled as the chapel doors swung open, and Elena Volkov stepped into the light.

The church was packed. Every pew was filled with faces she recognized from the first life—distant cousins, family friends, men in tailored suits who smiled too easily and women in designer dresses whose eyes never stopped moving. Chicago's elite had gathered to witness the wedding of the decade: the daughter of the city's most powerful federal prosecutor, marrying the heir to the Moretti empire.

Elena walked forward on her father's arm, her white train trailing behind her like a river of silk.

Her father's grip was firm, protective. In the first life, she'd taken comfort in it. She'd thought he was giving her away with love, with pride. Now she knew better. Every step down the aisle was a transaction, and she was the currency changing hands.

She kept her eyes fixed on the altar.

Alessandro stood there, waiting. He was breathtaking in his tuxedo—sharp lines, perfect posture, that impossibly handsome face that had once made her heart race with a single glance. The morning light streaming through the stained-glass windows caught the gold flecks in his dark eyes, and for a moment, just a moment, she understood why the girl she'd been had fallen so hard.

But she wasn't that girl anymore.

She scanned the crowd as she walked, her gaze sliding over the guests with practiced calm. There was her father's partner from the prosecutor's office, sitting too stiffly, his smile too tight. There was Luca, Alessandro's younger brother, beaming at her from the front row, innocent and warm, completely oblivious to the darkness his family was about to pull her into.

And there, in the third row on the groom's side, was Marco Rossi.

She recognized him instantly. Gray hair slicked back, a face that looked friendly if you didn't know what lurked behind it, hands folded in his lap with the casual stillness of a man who had ordered more deaths than he could count. He was smiling. Not at her—at Alessandro. A knowing smile, a conspirator's smile.

In the first life, Elena hadn't noticed him. She'd been too focused on the altar, on Alessandro, on the fairy tale she thought she was living. But this time, she saw everything. The way Rossi's presence made the air in the chapel feel heavier. The way Alessandro's jaw tightened when he glanced at him. The way her own father's hand squeezed her arm just a fraction too hard as they passed Rossi's pew.

Everyone in this room knows something I don't, she thought. But not for long.

She reached the altar.

Her father lifted her veil—a tradition, a tender moment between father and daughter. His eyes met hers, and for a heartbeat, she saw something flicker there. Guilt? Regret? It was gone before she could name it.

"Take care of her," he said to Alessandro, his voice steady.

Alessandro nodded. "I will."

The lie hung in the air between them, and Elena smiled through it.

The priest began the ceremony. The words washed over her—"dearly beloved," "sanctity of marriage," "until death do us part." She'd heard them before, three years ago, and they'd made her cry. She'd believed every syllable.

This time, she counted the exits.

Two side doors. One leading to the vestry, one to the garden. The main doors behind her, flanked by two of Alessandro's men in suits. A window high on the left wall, too small to climb through. She noted it all, filed it away, and kept her face radiant.

"Do you, Elena Volkov, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

She looked at Alessandro. His dark eyes were fixed on her, waiting. In the first life, she'd said "I do" with her whole heart, her voice trembling with joy.

This time, she said it clearly, steadily, with the cold precision of a woman signing a contract.

"I do."

Alessandro's turn. His voice was deep, confident, every word measured. "I do."

The priest smiled. "You may kiss the bride."

Alessandro stepped forward. His hand cupped her cheek—warm, gentle, the same hand that would push her off a balcony three years from now—and he leaned in.

His lips met hers.

The kiss was soft. Tender. The kind of first kiss that romance novels were written about. The guests sighed. Someone snapped a photo. The organ swelled again.

Elena felt nothing.

No, that wasn't quite true. She felt something, but it wasn't warmth or love or the flutter of a hopeful heart. It was cold. Clear. A sharp, crystalline purpose that settled into her bones like a blade sliding into its sheath.

He's going to kiss me like this while he plots my death, she thought. He's going to hold me in his arms and smile at me while he sells me to the man sitting in the third row.

The kiss ended.

Alessandro pulled back, and his eyes searched hers. Looking for something. Love? Excitement? In the first life, he'd found it.

This time, he found only a perfect, polished smile.

"Mrs. Moretti," he said, low enough that only she could hear.

"Mr. Moretti," she replied.

---

The reception was held at the Moretti estate, in a grand ballroom that had been transformed into a wonderland of white roses and crystal chandeliers. Champagne flowed. Laughter echoed off the marble walls. The string quartet played a waltz that Elena had danced to in the first life, her hand in Alessandro's, her head full of dreams.

She was not dancing now.

She moved through the crowd like a ghost, smiling, accepting congratulations, playing her role so perfectly that no one could have guessed the truth. She was the bride, the center of attention, and she used every second of it to watch.

She watched the way her father kept glancing at his watch. The way Marco Rossi cornered Alessandro by the bar, their heads bent together, voices too low to hear. The way Alessandro's hand tightened on his champagne glass when Rossi clapped him on the shoulder.

The deal, she thought. They're finalizing it right now, at my wedding reception.

She wanted to get closer. She needed to hear what they were saying. But the crowd pressed in around her—aunt she didn't remember, a family friend who wanted to tell her how beautiful she looked—and by the time she freed herself, the corner by the bar was empty.

Alessandro was gone. Rossi was gone.

Elena's heart rate quickened. She scanned the room, her eyes darting from face to face. Where had he gone? What were they saying without her?

She spotted a door at the far end of the ballroom, slightly ajar. A servant's corridor. She remembered it from the first life—a narrow passage that connected the ballroom to the study on the ground floor.

She moved without thinking, her white dress swishing against her ankles as she slipped through the door and into the dimly lit corridor. The music faded behind her, replaced by the distant clatter of kitchen staff and the soft hum of the estate's heating system.

The corridor led to a small anteroom adjacent to the study. She remembered that too. There was a ventilation grate in the anteroom's ceiling that allowed sound to travel from the study below. In the first life, she'd discovered it by accident, years too late to matter.

She found the grate, knelt down, and listened.

Alessandro's voice, low and sharp: "—double the price. Volkov's connections are worth more than we agreed."

Rossi's voice, smoother, older: "Volkov is already delivering. The question is whether you can control your new wife long enough for us to finish the operation."

A pause. Then Alessandro's voice again, cold and certain: "She's not a problem. She's a pawn. She doesn't know anything, and she never will."

Rossi laughed. It was a dry, rattling sound, like bones in a bag. "That's what I like about you, Moretti. You don't let sentiment get in the way of business."

"Sentiment is a weakness."

"And wives?"

"A necessity. One that can be discarded when it's served its purpose."

Elena's blood turned to ice.

She stayed perfectly still, her breath held, her fingers white-knuckled on the grate. The words hung in the air like smoke, seeping into her skin, burning their way into her memory.

Discarded when it's served its purpose.

She'd known. On some level, she'd always known. The documents she'd found in his office in the first life, the hushed phone calls, the way he'd looked at her sometimes—like she was a puzzle he was trying to solve, not a person he was trying to love. She'd known.

But hearing it. Hearing him say it. His voice so calm, so matter-of-fact, as if he were discussing a business merger instead of the woman he'd just married.

It shattered something inside her.

But the shards reformed instantly, harder than before, sharpened into a weapon.

He's going to throw me away, she thought. But he doesn't know that I'm not the same woman he married.

He doesn't know that I heard everything.

She rose silently, her knees aching from kneeling on the cold floor. She smoothed her dress, checked her reflection in the darkened glass of a framed painting—still smiling, still beautiful, still the perfect bride—and walked back to the ballroom.

The reception was still in full swing. The string quartet was playing a waltz. Alessandro was back at the bar, a fresh glass of champagne in his hand, his eyes finding her the moment she stepped through the door.

He smiled. Warm. Loving.

She smiled back.

And behind her smile, behind the mask of the adoring bride, a new Elena was being forged. Not the hopeful girl who had walked down the aisle. Not the terrified woman who had fallen from a balcony. Something else. Something colder.

The betrayal started on day one, she realized, and the thought settled into her like a key turning in a lock. But so did my plan.

I said "I do" to a man who plans to destroy me.

Let the games begin.