Her eyebrows shoot up toward her hairline. “But our families would never agree to that.”
I twirl her around on the dance floor then bring her in closer. “Let me worry about that. What do you say, Princess? Can you give me a year?”
“Yes.”
Our dance ends and Maria rushes toward us. “If you look straight ahead, you’ll see your cake.” She grins at Sophia. “I’m pretty sure your dad has a weird sense of humor.”
We both turn to stare at the wedding cake. It is morbidly elegant, black fondant adorned with sugar skulls, orange marigolds, tiny edible pumpkins. Sophia smiles at it, wiggling her painted eyebrows, the mask only half hiding her amusement.
I lean close. “You like it?”
She smirks. “It’s… appropriate.”
Maria laughs. “It could be worse.” She hands each of us a glass of champagne and disappears back into the crowd.
We clink our glasses together, the two of us untouched by the people around us. Guests dance, some awkwardly, some gracefully, some not at all. I notice the little things—the way she tilts her head when she laughs, how her eyes find mine even if she’s only a step away.
I realize then that no matter how many enemies, how many threats, how many times the world will try to bend her or me, we will stand unbroken. Defiant. Together.
When the time comes for speeches, my men step forward first, offering words not just of loyalty but of belief in what we are building, in what we will always defend. Sophia’s friends follow, laughter and stories threading together to form the tapestry of our life already beginning.
At one point, I catch her hand in mine, raising it just enough to brush my lips across her knuckles, a promise in a gesture. She doesn’t pull away. She leans into it, letting me feel her warmth.
I glance across the property, noticing every corner, every shadow, every torch still burning. The estate is secure. My men are vigilant.
The night deepens. Candles flicker, pumpkins glow, shadows stretch long across the stone paths. We dance, we laugh, we toast, we celebrate. And I realize, quietly, that this is more than a wedding. It’s a declaration. A challenge. A start. A promise.
The music swells again, a slower song this time, intimate. I pull her close, our foreheads pressed together, and the world fades except for her, for us. A spark of hope ignites deep in my chest, burning brighter than any fear.
I whisper against her ear. “This is just the beginning.”
“You’ve got one year, Raphael.”
My heart skips a beat and an ache forms in my chest. “Yes. But you have to try too.”
“I will.”
But there’s a look in her eyes that says she’s already looking for a way out. Perhaps it was foolish of me to think we could make this work.
Chapter Twelve
Sophia
Sitting alone in my childhood bedroom, the faint echo of the wedding fades. The house is quiet, almost reverent, and I trace the gold band on my finger absentmindedly. One year ago, I never imagined I’d be here, married to the man who set my world on fire—literally—then pulled me into something I didn’t understand. Raphael. The Reaper. The way he took over a room without speaking, in the way my body remembers him.
And then there is my father. The man who should have protected me but instead forced me into this marriage, this alliance between our families. All those carefully rehearsed smiles, the whisper of authority, the press of his hand at my elbow as he walked me down the aisle—it still stings. I realize, with a sinking weight, that maybe the dead security guards weren’t the Russians after all. Maybe this was always meant to be a test of loyalty, a way to see if we could be contained, guided, controlled.
Shaking my head, I push away the memories, letting the present take over. I’ve changed into my going-away outfit. Pale pink. The same color as Maria’s bridesmaids’ dress. A flowing skirt swirls around my legs as I smooth the silk of my striped pink-and-white blouse. Matching shoes. My face is devoid of makeup except for my favorite lip gloss. I look comfortable,elegant, perfect for leaving a life I didn’t ask to have and stepping into the one I choose with him.
Descending the staircase of my childhood home, and there he is. Waiting. Raphael. The Reaper. My husband. My body hums at the sight of him, the same magnetic pull I felt the first time he touched me, the same sharp, undeniable tension in the air whenever he’s near. He smiles, just enough to make my heart skip a beat, just enough to remind me he knows exactly how to kiss me and make me melt, and just enough to make me trust him with the one-year promise he made. One year to make or break us.
As I reach the second-to-last step, he extends his hand. The one with his wedding band glinting in the light. I let my hand slide into his, feeling the warmth, the strength, the promise behind the gesture. Together, we walk to the limousine waiting outside, my father’s grand gesture of control, or perhaps ceremony. Raphael is calm, confident, the sort of man who commands presence without effort.
My father and Raphael’s father are here, side by side. My father’s eyes linger on me for a heartbeat longer than comfortable, but Raphael’s father is all composure. Both of us kiss the cheeks of these men—the architects of our entwined lives—and I feel the weight of history pressing down, a silent acknowledgment that our lives are now bound in ways we can’t undo.
Raphael opens the door for me, and I slide inside. The leather smells faintly of smoke and polish, warm and familiar in a dangerous way. I watch him shake hands with his brother, before he slides in beside me. My pulse quickens, knowing this is just us now.
“Raise the privacy screen,” he tells the chauffeur.
