Embers

I never imagined that my wedding day would also be the last day of my life. It sounds dramatic, I know. Like a cliché from a cheesy movie. But sometimes, life hands you the most clichéd tragedies anyway. That morning, the sunlight was almost unreal. September in Tuscany, Italy—the sky so impossibly blue it seemed filtered. Villa Rosa was filled with white roses, my choice. Luca had teased me about them, saying roses were too ordinary. I told him, “Then let’s find the extraordinary in the ordinary.” He had laughed. That laugh—the kind that could light up the entire room. Luca Rossi. My husband. The youngest Mafia don on the East Coast, with his fingers wrapped around half of America’s casinos, arms deals, and smuggling routes. Thirty-two years old, with eyes like frozen lakes and a smile deep enough to drown anyone. And I am his bride. Avi Fernandez. Or, from now on, Avi Rossi. I stood in front of the mirror, my fingers trembling—not from nerves, but from a ridiculous, overflowing kind of happiness. My wedding dress was ivory satin, low-cut in the back—Luca’s insistence. “Your back is beautiful,” he’d said. “Miss Ivy—oh, no, Mrs. Rossi,” the makeup artist corrected herself with a smile as she pinned my veil in place. “You are the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen.” I believed her. In that moment, I truly felt like the most beautiful person alive. Silly. So very silly. The ceremony began at three in the afternoon. The guest list was intimidating: politicians, judges, businessmen—and men whose “business” spoke for itself. They arrived with impeccable suits and smiles that were entirely proper. I didn’t have many relatives left on my father’s side, but Luca had said it didn’t matter. His family was now my family. Family. My mother died when I was sixteen—ovarian cancer. My father had a heart attack last year, leaving me alone to hold the Fernández estate together. Not huge, but solid: real estate, a winery, some investments. When I met Luca, it felt like God had finally opened a window for me. It was at a dinner in Milan. He walked over silently, handed me a glass of wine—Pinot Grigio, not champagne. Later, he admitted he had been watching me all evening, noticing I hadn’t taken a single sip of my champagne. “You don’t like sparkling wine,” he said. I should have been wary then. A man who notices such minute details is either utterly in love—or dangerous. I didn’t think much of it. The wedding went off without a hitch. Luca’s vows came in a deep, resonant voice, like a cello. His thumb brushed the back of my hand; the diamond ring glinted coldly in the candlelight. “I do,” I whispered. Applause erupted. I saw his right-hand man, Marco, in the front row. Expressionless, carved like a knife. I nodded; he barely returned it. The reception carried on late into the night. Dancing, toasts, cake-cutting. Luca wrapped his arm around my waist, kissed my earlobe, and murmured, “Are you tired?” “A little,” I admitted. “Hang in there a bit longer. Soon, it’ll be over.” I thought he meant soon the social obligations would end, and then it would be just the two of us. I was such a fool. By two in the morning, the guests had finally gone. I removed my makeup, my fingers trembling from exhaustion. The dress was too heavy, so I changed into silk. Then I heard it. From the study next door. Luca’s voice. That tone—a cold, measured voice I’d never heard before. I crept barefoot to the door. It wasn’t closed. Warm light spilled out. Luca stood with his back to me, a cigarette clamped between his fingers. Marco faced him. “…Have the Fernández family’s assets all been transferred?” Luca asked. My heart stopped. Marco nodded. “Yes, sir. Real estate, the winery, investments. Miss Ivy’s signature was effective this morning.” Signature? What signature? The events of today flashed in my mind. Before the ceremony, he handed me documents, calling them formalities. I signed without reading—because he was my husband. Because I trusted him. My stomach sank. “Avi…” Marco began hesitantly. “What should we do with Avi?” Silence fell. I could hear my own heartbeat. Luca exhaled a long puff of smoke. “Send her on her way. Make it look like a home invasion. Take care of her family. Make it clean.” I understood everything—and nothing. Family. My family? My dad is dead. My mom—ovarian cancer. My knees gave out. I leaned against the wall, palms slick with cold sweat. My fingernails dug into the wallpaper. So he never loved me. So he married me for my fortune. So my family… I stumbled back. My heel hit a vase. Porcelain shattered, echoing. The study fell silent. The door flew open. Marco appeared. His face flickered—just for a moment—before hardening again. “Miss Ivy,” he said. Not Mrs. Rossi. I saw Luca. Calm, collected. Perhaps even relieved. No explanation. No panic. Just a nod to Marco. “Now,” he said. One word. Like a bullet. Marco raised his hand. A gun aimed at my forehead. Those two seconds stretched into eternity. I saw Luca stub out his cigarette. I saw Marco’s finger on the trigger. I saw my bare feet on the cold marble, my nails painted pearl white—a detail for the wedding. I wanted to scream. To ask why. To plead. But nothing came out. The gun fired. A violent force ripped through my skull. I fell backward. Lights spun. The chandelier above blazed painfully in my vision. Then the fall. Water. Cold, rushing—river or lake, I didn’t know. Darkness. Some think death is the worst pain. They’re wrong. The worst pain is realizing, just before you die, that the happiest moment of your life was a complete lie. The worst pain is having no time to cry. But it doesn’t matter. I’m not dead yet. And as long as I have breath, I will crawl back. Because some scores the dead cannot settle.