Mafia's Captive Bride

Chapter 2: The Wedding Without a Bride

She walked down the aisle in a dress picked by her family's murderer.

The ivory silk clung to my body like a second skin, its intricate beadwork catching the light from the cathedral's stained glass windows. Each step I took echoed through the cavernous space, the sound hollow and haunting. Three hundred guests rose as I passed, their faces a blur of expensive suits and designer gowns. None of them knew they were witnessing a funeral disguised as a wedding.

Alessandro stood at the altar, devastatingly handsome in his black tuxedo. His dark hair was slicked back, revealing the sharp angles of his face. He looked every inch the wealthy Italian prince, not the butcher who had carved up my family two weeks ago. His gray eyes tracked my movement with predatory intensity, as though I were prey walking willingly into his trap.

The cathedral was a monument to his power—ancient stone walls adorned with priceless artwork, golden chandeliers casting ethereal light over the proceedings. Fresh white roses filled every corner, their sickly sweet perfume making my stomach turn. He had chosen everything: the venue, the flowers, the dress that now felt like a burial shroud.

My bare feet had barely healed from running through my family's blood. Now they were encased in silk slippers that cost more than most people's monthly rent. The irony wasn't lost on me.

"Breathe," whispered Margherita Rossi, Alessandro's mother, from the front pew. She was an elegant woman in her sixties, her silver hair styled in an elaborate chignon, diamonds glittering at her throat. She had been the one to oversee my transformation from grieving daughter to acceptable bride. "You look beautiful, dear."

Beautiful. The word tasted like ash in my mouth.

I reached the altar, and Alessandro extended his hand. His fingers were long, aristocratic, unmarked by the violence they had committed. When I placed my trembling hand in his, his grip was firm but gentle—a mockery of tenderness.

The priest began speaking in Italian, his words flowing over me like water. I caught fragments: "sacred union," "blessed by God," "till death do us part." Death. Yes, death would part us. I would make sure of it.

Alessandro's thumb traced circles on my palm throughout the ceremony. The gesture was intimate, possessive, as though he were already claiming ownership of every inch of me. When the time came for vows, he spoke in that velvet voice that had haunted my dreams.

"Emilia," he said, turning to face me fully. "You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. From this moment forward, you belong to me. I will protect you, provide for you, and never let you go." His eyes glittered with something that might have been amusement. "I promise to love you until my dying breath."

The words were a slap in the face. Love. This man knew nothing of love. He knew only possession, control, domination.

When it was my turn, I looked directly into his gray eyes and spoke the words that would seal both our fates: "Alessandro, I promise to be by your side always. I will never leave you." The double meaning wasn't lost on me. I would be by his side—when I drove the knife into his heart. "I will love you until the very end."

His smile was slow, knowing. As though he could read the promise of death in my eyes and found it entertaining.

The priest pronounced us husband and wife. Alessandro's hands cupped my face with surprising gentleness before his lips crashed against mine. The kiss was meant to be brief, ceremonial, but he deepened it, his tongue sweeping into my mouth with brazen possession. I could taste expensive wine and mint, could feel the barely leashed power in his grip.

When he finally pulled away, his eyes were dark with something that made my pulse race. "Mine," he whispered against my lips, so low only I could hear.

The reception was a blur of congratulations from strangers, champagne I couldn't taste, and food I couldn't swallow. Alessandro's hand never left my body—my waist, my back, my shoulder. Always touching, always claiming.

His family surrounded us like a pack of well-dressed wolves. His brother Jaxon, younger but equally dangerous, raised his glass in a toast that felt more like a threat. His sisters, Elisabetta and Lucia, air-kissed my cheeks and welcomed me to the family with smiles that didn't reach their eyes. They all knew what I was—a trophy, a conquest, a pretty decoration for their brother's empire.

But it was his father, Andrea Rossi, who truly chilled me. The older man studied me with calculating eyes, his weathered hands folded over his cane. "She's lovely, Alessandro," he said in accented English. "But beauty fades. Make sure she proves useful in other ways."

Alessandro's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "She's my wife, Papa. That's enough."

"Is it?" Andrea's smile was sharp as a blade. "We'll see."

The evening stretched endlessly until finally, mercifully, it was time for the first dance. The band struck up a slow, romantic melody as Alessandro led me onto the dance floor. The guests formed a circle around us, their faces expectant.

His arm slid around my waist, pulling me against his solid chest. I could feel the heat of his body through the thin silk of my dress, could smell his cologne—expensive and masculine. We moved together in perfect synchronization, as though we had been dancing for years instead of hours.

"You're trembling," Alessandro murmured, his breath warm against my ear.

"I'm cold," I lied.

"I can warm you up later," he said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that sent unwanted heat spiraling through my core.

This was my chance. While everyone watched us dance, while his guard was down, while he was distracted by whatever twisted game he was playing.

I had hidden the small knife in the folds of my dress, a delicate thing with a pearl handle that had belonged to my mother. My fingers found it now, gripping the familiar weight.

"You look beautiful tonight," Alessandro continued, spinning me gracefully. "Almost happy."

"Appearances can be deceiving," I replied, positioning the blade.

"Indeed they can." His eyes glittered with dark amusement.

I struck fast, aiming for the space between his ribs where the blade would slide cleanly into his heart. But his reflexes were lightning-quick. His hand shot out, catching my wrist mid-air, stopping the knife inches from his chest.

The music continued. The guests kept watching. To them, it looked like an intimate embrace.

Alessandro's grip on my wrist was iron-strong, but his expression remained perfectly calm. If anything, he looked... pleased.

"If you wanted to touch me that badly, amore," he said, his voice a purr of dark satisfaction, "all you had to do was ask."

Heat flooded my cheeks—rage and humiliation in equal measure. He had been expecting this. He had been waiting for it.

"Let go of me," I hissed through gritted teeth.

Instead, he pulled me closer, his free hand sliding up my spine to tangle in my hair. To the watching crowd, we looked like newlyweds lost in passion. Only I could see the predatory gleam in his eyes, the satisfied smirk playing at his lips.

He leaned in, his mouth brushing against my ear as he spoke words that made my blood run cold:

"You'll have to try harder than that."

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