Chapter 17-NADIA
1092 Words
[Time Skip: One Month Later]
The month of planning passed in fragments rather than days.
There were no mornings or nights, only obligations. Lace samples laid out like battle maps. Security briefings conducted in clipped voices. Lists of names I was expected to memorize and faces I was expected to trust without question.
And Luca.
Always present. Always distant.
We shared the same villa, the same corridors, the same silence. He was often gone before sunrise and returned long after midnight, his world running parallel to mine without intersecting unless it had to.
When it did, it was precise.
Necessary.
We spoke in the library most often. Neutral ground. Walls lined with old volumes and newer ledgers. The scent of leather and dust grounding me when everything else felt staged.
“The seating arrangement needs to be adjusted,” I told him one evening, spreading a chart across the table. “The Spanish delegation can’t be placed that close to the Russians.”
He leaned over my shoulder, close enough that I felt the warmth of him, though he never touched me. “They’ll take it as an insult.”
“They already expect one,” I replied. “This one is survivable.”
A pause.
“You’re learning,” he said.
“I don’t have the luxury of not learning.”
His gaze flicked to mine. Something unreadable passed between us.
That was how it went.
Short conversations. Strategic ones. No small talk. No questions about how I felt. No reassurances. Just alignment.
Once, near the end of the second week, I found him in the library later than usual, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up, a glass of untouched whiskey beside him.
“You’re avoiding me,” I said calmly.
He didn’t look up from the document he was reading. “I’m busy.”
“So am I.”
That earned his attention. He set the paper down and studied me carefully, like a calculation that refused to settle.
“This month isn’t about us,” he said finally.
“No,” I agreed. “It’s about control.”
A flicker of approval crossed his face. “Exactly.”
I didn’t ask if that meant after.
He didn’t offer.
And yet, there were moments.
Passing each other in the corridor at dawn. His hand briefly brushing my wrist as he handed me a folder. A glance held a second longer than required. Late-night phone calls overheard through walls, his voice low, commanding, unyielding.
He never raised it with me.
That restraint was intentional.
By the final week, the villa felt like a holding cell dressed as a palace.
Now, the morning of the wedding had arrived.
I stood in the center of the dressing room in the heart of Milan, the weight of the gown pressing into my shoulders like armor. The dress was a masterpiece of Italian silk. Not the crimson of the gala. Not the color of blood or warning.
White.
So pure it felt almost aggressive.
Structured. Elegant. Heavy.
A dress designed to make a statement before I ever opened my mouth.
“You look like a Queen,” Alessandra murmured behind me as she pinned the long lace veil into my hair. For once, there was no sharpness in her voice. No test.
“The Snow Syndicate should be proud.”
I met my reflection’s eyes. Calm. Unflinching.
“I am a Snow,” I said evenly. “But today, I am something else.”
Her hands stilled for a moment.
Then she nodded, as if acknowledging a truth she had already accepted.
The drive to the Duomo di Milano passed in silence. Streets cleared. Security layered so thick it felt like moving through airless space. When the doors of the cathedral came into view, massive and carved with centuries of power and penance, my pulse steadied instead of spiking.
This was not fear.
This was inevitability.
The doors swung open.
The organ swelled, its sound reverberating through stone and history, vibrating through my bones. Thousands of white lilies lined the aisle, their scent overwhelming, almost suffocating. Every power player from Europe and America sat in those pews, eyes sharp, attention focused.
This was not a wedding.
It was a declaration.
I stepped forward.
Each step echoed. Marble beneath silk. Eyes following my movement like surveillance cameras.
I didn’t look at them.
I looked at him.
Luca stood at the altar in a black tuxedo, cut perfectly, his posture immaculate. Don De Santis. Head of the table. Center of gravity.
His face was composed, expression carved from restraint.
But as I drew closer, his gaze shifted.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
His eyes traced me from veil to hem, assessing not the dress, but the woman wearing it. For a fraction of a second, the mask cracked.
Not softness.
Recognition.
Something dark and intense flickered there, gone almost as soon as it appeared.
When I reached him, he didn’t wait for the priest.
He reached out and took my hand.
His grip was firm. Warm. Steady.
“You didn’t run,” he murmured, so low only I could hear.
I didn’t look away. “I told you. I chose the path.”
A corner of his mouth tightened. Approval. Relief. Something else unnamed.
The ceremony blurred into ritual. Latin vows spoken over incense and candlelight. Words older than nations binding us in front of gods and criminals alike.
When it came time for the rings, Luca took mine and slid it onto my finger with deliberate care. His thumb lingered just long enough to feel intentional.
“With this,” he said, his voice carrying through the cathedral, “I bind our houses. And I bind my life to yours.”
Not ownership.
Binding.
The distinction mattered.
The kiss was meant to be symbolic. A performance. Proof.
But when his lips met mine, it was none of those things.
It was controlled, restrained, and unmistakably a claim. A promise delivered without softness. Without illusion.
When we pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against mine, invisible to anyone but me.
“After today,” he whispered, “everything changes.”
I believed him.
As we walked out of the cathedral together, bells ringing across Milan, cameras flashing, alliances sealing themselves in real time, the weight of the gold band on my finger finally settled.
The month of preparation was over.
The war had ended.
The marriage had begun.
And whatever Luca De Santis had been planning all this time, I was no longer just surviving it.
I was part of it.
- Writer
