Serafina
I stand before the massive oak doors of St. Augustine's Cathedral, and for the first time in eight years, I feel something close to fear.
Not the kind that makes you run. The kind that roots you to marble floors and whispers that once you cross this threshold, there's no going back. The kind that knows you're about to marry the man whose family destroyed yours, and every step down that aisle is a step closer to either revenge or ruin.
"Miss De Luca." The wedding coordinator hovers at my elbow, her voice pitched with barely concealed anxiety. "We're ready when you are."
*Miss De Luca.* Not *Mrs. Moretti.* Not yet.
I smooth my hands down the front of my dress—black silk that clings to every curve before flowing into a dramatic train. The designer nearly wept when I rejected the
