Married To The Devil I Hate

Chapter 2

The heavy doors of the church close behind me with a loud, final thud, sealing me inside the lion’s den.

The traditional wedding march begins to play from the massive pipe organ above, but to my ears, it sounds exactly like a funeral dirge. Every single head in the packed cathedral turns to watch me. The air inside the church is thick, suffocating with the smell of burning candles, holy incense, and the colognes of five hundred ruthless killers.

I keep my chin high. The sheer white veil covers my face, masking the sheer terror bubbling up in my throat, but I can still see the crowd perfectly. The church is strictly divided, like a battlefield drawn with an invisible line down the center aisle.

On the left sit the members of the Romano family—my father’s capos, soldiers, and business associates. They look nervous, tense, and defeated. On the right sit the De Santis men. They are laughing softly, whispering to each other, puffing their chests out with the arrogance of absolute victors. Underneath every single tailored tuxedo jacket in this holy building, there is a loaded gun.

My father’s grip on my arm is punishing, his fingers digging into my bare skin to keep me moving forward. "Walk slower," he hisses through his teeth, keeping his fake, plastered smile fixed on his face for the crowd. "Don't look like you're marching to an execution."

"That is exactly what this is," I whisper back bitterly, my dark brown eyes staring straight ahead.

At the end of the impossibly long aisle, standing on the elevated altar, is my executioner.

Luca De Santis.

As I get closer, the details of the man I am being forced to marry come into sharp, terrifying focus. He is huge. At least six-foot-three, with broad, powerful shoulders and a thick chest that pushes against the black fabric of his custom suit. He is thirty years old, but the harsh, sharp angles of his jawline and the cold stillness of his posture make him seem like an ancient, immovable statue. His pitch-black hair is swept back flawlessly, not a single strand out of place.

But it is his eyes that make my breath catch in my throat. They are blue. Not a warm, inviting ocean blue, but the piercing, freezing blue of glacial ice. Even through the barrier of my veil, I can feel the absolute weight of his stare. He isn't looking at my beautiful dress or my hair. He is looking right through me, stripping away my defenses, analyzing me like a piece of prey that has just wandered into his trap.

My heart hammers wildly against my ribs. I want to turn and run. I want to scream. But I picture my younger sister, Elena, sitting in the front pew on our family's side. I have to do this. I am her only shield.

When we finally reach the bottom of the altar steps, my father stops. He turns to face Luca. For a split second, the absolute hatred between the two men is so thick you could cut it with a knife.

My father, the defeated boss, and Luca, the man who slaughtered our men and took our city.

Luca doesn’t say a word. He simply steps down one stair, towering over my father, and holds out his large, imposing hand.

My father swallows hard, his jaw ticking with suppressed rage. He grabs my hand, practically ripping it away from his own arm, and shoves my fingers into Luca's palm.

"She's yours now," my father mutters, the ultimate betrayal falling from his lips so easily.

Luca’s long fingers immediately curl around my hand. His grip is like hot iron. His palm is rough, covered in the faint, hardened callouses of a man who spends his life handling firearms and breaking bones. He holds my hand so tightly that the delicate bones in my fingers grind together, a silent, painful warning that I belong to him now. There is no escaping this hold.

My father retreats to the front pew, leaving me completely alone with the Devil of Chicago.

Luca steps up to the altar, pulling me along with him. The priest, an older man who looks utterly terrified to be standing between two mafia titans, clears his throat and begins the mass in shaky Latin.

I don't hear a single word the holy man says. My entire focus is on the massive man standing mere inches from me. He radiates heat, a dark, dangerous warmth that seeps through the cool silk of my dress. I can smell him—a rich, intoxicating mix of cedarwood, whiskey, and something entirely dark and masculine. It is a scent that demands obedience.

"Stop shaking," Luca murmurs.

His voice is incredibly deep, a low, raspy rumble that vibrates straight down my spine. It is the first time I have ever heard him speak, and the sound of it makes my stomach drop.

"I'm not shaking," I lie, tilting my chin up defiantly, glaring at him through the white lace.

A cruel, humorless smirk pulls at the corner of his lips. "You are trembling like a f*****g leaf, Sophia. Don't lie to me. I hate liars."

His tone is calm, but the quiet menace behind the words is unmistakable. I press my lips together, refusing to give him another response. I force my knees to lock, desperately trying to still the subtle tremors shaking my body. I hate him. I hate his arrogance, his power, and the way he looks at me like I am just another prize he won in his bloody war.

The ceremony drags on, a blur of prayers and blessings that feel completely empty in a marriage built on blackmail and death. Finally, the priest reaches the vows.

"Do you, Luca De Santis, take Sophia Romano to be your lawfully wedded wife?" the priest asks, his voice echoing loudly in the silent, massive church.

Luca’s eyes never leave mine. His thumb slowly, almost thoughtfully, strokes the soft skin on the back of my hand, sending an unwanted jolt of electricity up my arm.

"I do," Luca says. His voice is loud, clear, and absolute. It seals my fate.

"And do you, Sophia Romano, take Luca De Santis to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

Silence falls over the cathedral. Five hundred people are holding their breath, waiting for my answer. I can feel the heavy, threatening glares of Luca's men burning into my back. If I say no, a bloodbath will erupt right here in the house of God. My father will die. Elena will die.

I swallow the lump of bile in my throat. I stare into Luca’s dead, freezing eyes.

"I do," I whisper. My voice is weak, frail, and pathetic. I hate myself for it.

"Louder," Luca commands softly, squeezing my hand tight enough to make me wince. "Let them hear you."

A flare of hot, reckless anger sparks in my chest. I narrow my eyes at him, my hatred momentarily overriding my fear. "I do," I say loudly, my voice echoing off the vaulted stone ceilings.

"The rings," the priest prompts nervously.

Matteo De Santis, Luca's younger brother and best man, steps forward. He is smiling, looking entirely too relaxed for a man standing in a room full of enemies, and hands Luca a small velvet box.

Luca pulls out the ring. It is a massive, blindingly bright emerald cut diamond set in thick platinum. It must be worth millions. It is heavy, cold, and flawless. Luca grabs my left hand, pulling it up between us. He doesn't ask for permission; he just forcefully slides the heavy band of metal down my ring finger. It feels like a shackle locking into place.

I take the plain platinum band the priest hands me. My hands are shaking so badly I almost drop it. I grab Luca’s massive left hand. His skin is warm, and his veins run thick along the back of his hand. I slide the ring onto his finger, hating that the ring fits him perfectly.

"By the power vested in me, and in the eyes of God, I now pronounce you husband and wife," the priest announces, taking a quick step back as if he wants to get out of the blast zone. "You may kiss the bride."

My breath completely stops.

Luca turns fully toward me. The silence in the church is deafening. Slowly, deliberately, he reaches up with both hands and grabs the bottom edge of my white veil. He flips the sheer fabric back over my head, exposing my face to the world, and more importantly, exposing my face to him.

Without the veil between us, his proximity is overwhelming. His eyes scan my face, taking in my pale skin, my eyes, and my trembling lips. He looks at me with a dark, consuming hunger that makes my blood run cold. There is no love in his gaze. There is only possession.

He steps into my personal space, completely crowding me. One of his large hands slides around the back of my neck, his fingers tangling roughly into my perfectly styled hair. His grip is firm, holding my head perfectly still so I cannot turn away.

"Mine," he whispers, the word for my ears only.

Before I can even process the threat, his head dips down, and his mouth crashes over mine.

It is not a gentle kiss. It is not romantic or sweet. It is a harsh, bruising, and dominant claiming. His lips are hot and demanding, pressing hard against mine, forcing my mouth to part. I gasp from the shock of it, and he takes immediate advantage, tasting me with a violent intensity that makes my head spin. I grip the lapels of his suit jacket simply to keep my balance, my fingers digging into his suit.

The kiss is a public declaration of ownership to the hundreds of dangerous men watching us. He is showing my family, his family, and the entire Chicago underworld that Sophia Romano belongs entirely to the De Santis empire now.

When he finally pulls back, I am breathless, my chest heaving, my lips completely swollen from his rough kiss. I stare up at him, my eyes wide and furious.

Luca looks down at me, a dark, satisfied gleam finally appearing in his frozen blue eyes. He releases my neck and grabs my hand again, interlocking his strong fingers with mine.

He turns us around to face the crowd.

The right side of the church erupts into thunderous applause, cheers, and the stomping of feet. The De Santis men are celebrating their ultimate victory. The left side of the church, my family, offers nothing but a slow, reluctant, and defeated clapping.

I stand there, my hand trapped in the iron grip of the Devil, the heavy diamond weighing down my finger. I look out over the sea of faces, realizing the horrifying truth of my new reality.

I am Sophia De Santis now. And I am entirely at his mercy.