REBORN ON MY WEEDING NIGHT

Chapter 1: Reborn The floor was cold. That was the first thing Elena noticed. The concrete was cold and wet, and it smelled like rust and old rain. Her white wedding dress was torn at the hem and stained dark. Her hands were tied behind her back, and the rope had rubbed her wrists until they bled. She had cried for a long time. Now she couldn't cry anymore. She was too tired. Somewhere behind her, a door creaked open. Then came the sound of shoes on the floor, slow and calm. These were men who weren't worried about anything. "The deal with the Rossis is finished," a man said. "They hit our shipment last night. Someone has to pay for that." Elena knew that voice. She had known it all her life. She turned her head a little, enough to see the doorway. Her father stood there with the gray light behind him. Vittorio Moretti. The same man who had taught her to ride a bike. The same man who had walked her down the aisle only three months ago and told her she looked like her mother. "Papa," she said. Her voice came out cracked and small. He didn't answer her. He looked at her the way he looked at bad numbers in a book. Like she was a problem he had already decided to fix. Beside him, her brother Marco stood with his hands in his pockets. He stared at the wall. He would not look at her. "Marco," she tried. "Please." Marco's jaw moved, but he said nothing. "Finish it," her father said. Then he turned around and walked out. He didn't look back, not even once. Elena lay there, listening to his footsteps get quieter. She waited to feel scared. It never came. What came instead was a strange, quiet feeling in her chest, like a door closing. They sold me, she thought. My own family sold me. The footsteps behind her got closer. Then everything went dark. She woke up gasping for air. For a moment she didn't know where she was. There was soft light on her face. The air smelled like roses and hairspray. Her heart was pounding so hard it hurt. Elena sat up fast and grabbed at her throat, then her wrists, then her chest. There was no rope. There was no blood. Nothing hurt. She was sitting in a velvet chair in a big room full of flowers. A white lace gown was wrapped around her, tight at the waist, the skirt spread out over her knees. She knew this dress. She knew every stitch of it. "No," she whispered. "No, no, no." She got up too fast and almost fell. She grabbed the edge of the vanity table and looked up into the mirror. A young woman looked back at her. Twenty-four years old. Perfect curls, pinned up neatly. A long veil resting on her shoulders. Her cheeks were pale, and her eyes were wide, and she looked scared. It was her own face, but softer. Her face from before. Next to the mirror was a small cream card with gold edges. She picked it up with shaking fingers. The Wedding of Elena Moretti and Dante Rossi. Four o'clock. She looked at the little gold clock sitting by the flowers. It said 1:17. Less than three hours. Elena put the card down very carefully, like it might break. Then she gripped the table with both hands and made herself breathe. In. Out. In again. She remembered this day. She remembered how she had sat in this exact chair, shaking, praying that the man she was about to marry would not be cruel to her. She had prayed that her family would keep her safe. She had actually believed they would. Now she knew better. She looked back at the mirror. Her hands had stopped shaking. She hadn't even noticed when it happened. I'm not going to cry, she told herself. I'm done with that. She straightened her back. Then she practiced a smile in the mirror. A soft one. A shy one. The kind of smile a girl gives when she trusts everyone around her. She did it twice, and the second time it looked almost real. Good, she thought. That's the face they expect. I'll give it to them. At 1:40, someone knocked on the door. "Ellie? It's me." Marco. Her whole body went stiff. She felt her fingers curl into her palms. For one second all she could see was her brother in that warehouse, staring at the wall, letting it happen. She took a breath and let her shoulders drop. She let her lip shake a little, just the way it would have shaken the first time. "Come in," she said. The door opened and Marco stepped inside. He looked sharp in his black suit, his hair combed back, his smile warm and easy. He walked straight over and took both her hands in his. "Look at you," he said. "You look beautiful, Ellie. Mama would have cried." "Thank you." She looked down like she was shy. "I'm so nervous, Marco." "That's normal." "What if he's cruel to me?" She made her voice small. "Everyone says he's a monster. What if he hates me?" Marco squeezed her hands. "He won't. Papa made sure of that. This deal protects you. Dante Rossi will take care of you. You're safe now." Safe. The word almost made her laugh. She pressed her lips together so she wouldn't. She looked up at him through her lashes and let one tear roll down her cheek. Just one. Marco reached up and wiped it away with his thumb, gentle as anything. Anyone watching would have thought he was the best brother in the world. Elena watched his face closely. She saw the little flicker in his eyes when he said Papa made sure. She saw how he glanced at his watch while she was crying. Just a quick look, but she caught it. He's counting down, she thought. He wants this done so he can get paid. "I don't know what I'd do without you and Papa," she said softly. "You'll never have to find out." Marco smiled and kissed her on the forehead. "I'll see you at the church." He left. The door clicked shut behind him. The second it closed, Elena's smile fell off her face like it had never been there. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, right where he had kissed her. She stood there staring at the door. It had taken them three months to throw her away in her first life. Three months after the wedding, she had been dead on a warehouse floor. This time she knew the date. She knew the people. She knew every lie they were about to tell her. I won't wait three months, she thought. I'll be ready long before that. And when I'm done, they'll wish they never touched me. At four o'clock, the church doors opened. Elena took her father's arm and walked down the aisle slowly. The veil covered her face, which was a good thing, because she wasn't sure she could hide her eyes yet. His arm felt warm under her hand. He was smiling. He looked proud and gentle, like a father in a movie. Everything about him looked real. That was the worst part. "You look just like your mother," Vittorio said quietly. Elena smiled behind the lace. "Thank you, Papa." Say it again when you're begging me, she thought. Say it then. The church was full of men in black suits. Nobody coughed or whispered. Nobody moved much at all. It felt like the whole room was holding its breath. These were the most dangerous people in the city, and they were sitting in pews like it was an ordinary Sunday. At the end of the aisle, at the front of the church, one man stood alone. Dante Rossi. She remembered his face the way people remember a bad dream. A hard jaw. Dark eyes that gave nothing away. A mouth that never seemed to smile. In her first life she had been too afraid to look at him for more than a second. They had barely spoken in three months, and by the end they had hated each other. Her father put her hand into Dante's, and stepped back. Dante's hand was big and warm, and it closed around hers firmly. He was taller than she remembered. He stood very still, the way a man stands when he is used to people being afraid of him. Elena raised her eyes and looked at him through the veil. For a second, something changed in his face. It was small. A flicker in those dark eyes, gone almost before she saw it. Slowly, he lifted his free hand and took the edge of her veil. He pulled it back, and his fingers brushed her cheek as he did it. He was waiting for a scared girl to look at the floor. She could tell from how relaxed he was. He had done this before, in his mind, a hundred times. Bored. Sure of himself. But Elena didn't look down. She didn't flinch, either. She looked right at him, and she kept looking. Then she let the corner of her mouth lift in a small, cool smile. His hand stopped on her face. Dante Rossi, the man the whole city whispered about, stood in front of the altar and stared at his new wife like he had just heard her say something in a language he didn't know. Her heart was pounding. It wasn't fear. She was almost sure of that. It was something else, something she didn't have a name for yet. You don't know me, she thought. But you're going to. The priest began to speak. Neither of them heard a single word.