Dante Moretti POV

The needle trembled at one hundred and forty. The engine of the Ferrari screamed, a mechanical echo of the panic clawing at my throat.

I wove through the traffic on the bridge, deaf to the blare of horns. Every second that ticked by was a hammer blow to my chest.

She couldn't do this.

Elena was mine. She had been mine for five years. She was the quiet shadow in my life, the soft place I landed when the blood and the business became too much. She wouldn't marry Matteo. She was just trying to scare me. It was a bluff. She was trying to force my hand.

I gripped the leather steering wheel until my knuckles turned white.

I'm coming, El. Just wait.

I drifted around the corner onto Fifth Avenue, the tires smoking against the asphalt. The Gothic spires of St. Patrick's Cathedral loomed ahead, piercing the grey sky like judgment itself.

Matteo's security detail was swarming the entrance.

I didn't stop. I slammed the car onto the curb, the metal screeching against concrete. I threw the door open before the engine even died and ran.

"Capo!" one of the guards shouted, stepping in my path. "You can't go in there."

"Move," I snarled. I didn't slow down. I slammed a shoulder into his chest, sending him stumbling, and burst through the heavy oak doors.

The organ music hit me first. A deep, resonant chord that vibrated in my marrow.

Then the smell. Frankincense and thousands of black roses.

I skidded to a halt at the back of the nave. My breath came in ragged gasps.

The church was full. The entire New York Outfit was here. The bosses, the soldiers, the politicians we owned.

And there, at the end of the long aisle, stood Matteo.

He looked like death in a bespoke suit. Tall, broad, radiating a cold power that sucked the air from the room.

And walking toward him was Elena.

She was a vision in white silk. The dress was backless, plunging low, exposing the creamy skin I used to trace with my fingertips.

But my eyes snagged on something else.

A black mark on her shoulder blade. The tattoo. The M.

It wasn't hidden. It was framed by the lace, displayed like a brand. Property.

A murmur ran through the pews as I stood there, panting.

"I thought Dante said she was Matteo's mistress all along," a soldier whispered near me.

"Guess he wasn't lying," another chuckled. "Look at her. She's walking to the Don like she was born for it."

My own lies. They were twisting around my neck, choking me.

I watched her take another step. She didn't look back. She didn't look for me.

"Elena!" I screamed.

The sound tore through the sacred silence. The organist faltered and stopped.

Heads turned. Hundreds of eyes fixed on me.

Elena stopped.

She didn't turn around. She just paused, her back rigid.

"Stop!" I roared, sprinting down the aisle. "You can't do this! Elena!"

I was halfway to the altar when a wall of muscle blocked me.

My father. And behind him, Matteo's top enforcers.

"Enough," my father hissed, grabbing my lapels. His face was purple with rage. "You have shamed this family enough, Dante."

"She's mine," I gasped, trying to shove past him. "She's making a mistake. She loves me."

"She is the Don's bride," my mother said, stepping out from the front pew. Her eyes were chips of ice. "And you are making a scene."

"I don't care!" I yelled, looking past them at Elena's back. "Elena, look at me!"

My mother leaned in, her voice a venomous whisper. "If you take one more step, Dante, I will have Sofia removed from the hospital. Permanently."

I froze.

The threat landed like a bullet. It was the only thing that could pierce the red haze of my adrenaline.

I looked at Elena. She was standing next to Matteo now. She hadn't turned. Not once.

Matteo looked at me. His expression was utterly bored.

"Proceed," Matteo said to the priest.

My knees felt weak. I stood there, held back by my father's grip, and watched the woman I loved take the hand of the monster I called brother.

I heard his voice.

It didn't just break the silence; it shattered it.

It sounded desperate. Broken.

Elena!

My heart didn't race. My palms didn't sweat. My pulse remained steady, a slow, rhythmic drum against my ribs.

It was strange. For five years, my world had orbited around Dante Moretti. His moods were my weather. His approval was my sunlight.

Now, his scream felt like static, like noise from a television in another room that I could simply turn off.

I looked up at Matteo.

He hadn't flinched when Dante burst in. He hadn't looked worried. He just watched me, his dark eyes searching for a crack in my porcelain mask.

"Do you want to stop?" Matteo asked softly. The microphone didn't pick it up. It was just for us.

I looked past him at the altar, at the crucifix hanging in the shadows.

"No," I said.

Matteo nodded. He signaled the guards with a sharp flick of his finger.

I heard the scuffle behind me. I heard Dante's father hissing at him.

I didn't turn. Lot's wife turned back and turned to salt. I was walking through fire; I wouldn't turn to ash.

The priest cleared his throat, his hands trembling slightly as he adjusted his grip on the bible. "Do you, Matteo Moretti, take this woman..."

"I do." Matteo cut him off. He didn't look at the priest. He looked at me. "I take her. Now and forever."

The possession in his voice made my skin prickle. It wasn't the frantic, guilty possession of Dante. It was the calm certainty of a predator who has finally cornered his prey.

"And do you, Elena Vitiello..."

I looked at Matteo's chest. At the black silk tie resting against his white shirt.

"I do," I said. My voice was clear. It rang off the stone walls, final and absolute.

Matteo took my hand. His fingers were rough, calloused from guns and violence. He slid the ring onto my finger.

It was a heavy, thick band of platinum encrusted with black diamonds. It felt like a shackle. But it also felt like armor.

"You may kiss the bride."

Matteo didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, his hand sliding around my waist, pulling me flush against his hard body. His other hand came up to cup the back of my neck.

His thumb brushed the fresh tattoo. The M inked over the burn.

He leaned down.

"Mine," he whispered against my lips, a dark vow. "Only mine."

He kissed me.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a claiming. He devoured my breath, his tongue sweeping into my mouth, demanding submission.

I gave it to him. I melted into him, gripping his lapels to anchor myself.

Behind us, a sound of pure agony erupted.

"No!"

I broke the kiss and finally turned.

Dante had broken free from his father. He lunged toward the altar, his eyes wild, his face wet with tears.

"Elena!" he reached for me, his fingers clawing at the empty air.

My father-in-law stepped in. He didn't hold back. He swung his hand in a wide, vicious arc.

Crack.

The slap echoed through the cathedral like a gunshot.

Dante's head snapped to the side. He stumbled.

He clutched his stomach. His face went grey.

He doubled over, retching.

A spray of bright red blood hit the white marble floor of the aisle.

"Dante!" his mother screamed.

He fell to his knees, coughing, thick crimson dripping from his chin. His ulcer. The years of stress had finally ruptured him.

He looked up at me through the hair falling in his eyes. There was blood on his teeth.

"Elena," he wheezed.

I looked down at him from the altar. I stood in the circle of Matteo's arm.

I felt nothing.

"Get him out of here," Matteo ordered, his voice devoid of pity.

The guards dragged him away, his expensive shoes scraping against the floor, leaving a trail of blood smearing the pristine white marble behind him.