I sink back in my chair, laughing under my breath. She’s a handful. She’s stunning. She’s sharp, smart, and witty. And soon, she’ll be mine.
I’m not ready for her. But Dio, I want her all the same.
It's the day of the wedding. The room is quiet but for the low drone of the priest's murmured preparations. The fireplace behind him crackles softly, throwing shadows of orange across the stone walls of my study. It's not the chapel my mother hoped I'd marry in, but it's safe. Controlled. Intimate.
Tomasso stands a few paces to my left, arms crossed, eyes scanning the windows like there's still a threat outside. There might be. I know that. Envy breeds recklessness, and I'm not naive enough to believe the men my father kept at bay will stay silent now that the old lion is gone. Even though this wedding is much of a secret now, it's as much a shield as it is a beginning. And I intend to make both count.
I'm wearing black. No tuxedo, no tie. A button-down shirt, the collar open, sleeves rolled to the forearm. It isn't tradition, but it’s me. I’m not dressing for spectacle. I dress for the occasion, and today, I'm dressed for her.
Because my eyes are trained to the entrance, I see the moment she enters, and I stop breathing.
Liliana walks in with the quiet of snowfall. Her dress is ivory, not white, soft like pressed cream, hugging her waist and floating around her legs with every step. The neckline dips slightly, revealing the graceful line of her collarbone, and her brown hair—Jesus—her hair is down. Long and loose and thick, curling slightly at the ends like it was made to be wrapped around a man’s hand. My hand.
My heart thunders. I want to reach for her. I want to pull her against me, bury my face in that hair, breathe her in until I forget what danger is. I want to thread my fingers through those strands, grip them as I kiss her hard and deep until she's breathless and trembling and conceding to me. I want to carry her to my bed, lay her down, and love her like a man who's been starving for years. Wildly. Thoroughly. Completely.
My eyes move to her lips. They're bare. I should be paying attention. The priest is saying something about rings. But all I can think about is her mouth. How it would taste. How it would open for me.
I feel the press of my cock against the front of my trousers, bulging and insistent, and I try not to adjust myself like a fucking schoolboy. Damnit, I've been reduced to a mess.
She steps closer, eyes downcast, but I see the color on her cheeks. They have the faintest blush, like she's been kissed by the sun and is trying to pretend otherwise. She has to know what she does to me.
The priest clears his throat and I almost flinch. “The rings.”
Tomasso steps forward and places them in my palm.
I take hers. Her fingers are delicate. As I slide the ring over the curve of her knuckle, our skin brushes, and my pulse quickens.
It shouldn’t matter. But it does. Her touch is like a jolt of something hot and searing. Her fingers tremble beneath mine, and it’s all I can do not to look at Tomasso, not to look away, not to betray how much this moment means to me.
“Giovanni Renzetti, do you take this woman to be your wife?”
My voice is a rasp. “I do.”
The priest nods, then turns to Liliana. “And do you, Liliana Marchelli, take this man to be your husband?”
I look at her intently. I expect her to sign it, but instead, her lips part. Her eyes are locked on mine, steady and unflinching.
“I...” Her voice is a whisper.
Her throat works around the word. She swallows, tries again. “A…Ah do.”
Rough, hesitant, but said.
It punches the air out of me. I don't realize I’ve stopped breathing until Tomasso shifts beside me. Liliana’s still watching me, and it feels like something huge has cracked open between us.
I feel it then. The magnitude of what she’s just done. This isn’t just a vow. It’s a declaration. A promise forged in effort, weighted with intention. She fought for those words. For me.
I’m not the man who believes in redemption, but this? This feels like grace.
The priest gestures. “You may kiss the bride.”
I take a step forward and cup her face in my hands. Her cheeks are flushed, warm beneath my palms. I lean in close, so only she can hear.
"Sei la cosa più squisita che abbia mai visto." You're the most exquisite thing I've ever seen.
Her breath catches. And then I lower my head to kiss her.
There’s nothing soft about it. Nothing tentative. My mouth claims hers, coaxing, devouring. I taste her like I’m memorizing her. I kiss her like the world will end if I don’t. I taste the faint sweetness of her lips, soft against mine. Her lips are soft, and hesitant at first, but then, they grow warmer, fuller.
