Incense hangs heavy in the vaulted arches of Saint Cecilia’s, a cloying mist of frankincense and cold stone that Lucia Castellano can taste on her tongue. She stands in layers of ivory silk, the fabric stiff enough to hold her upright even as her father’s grip on her elbow bruises. At the altar, Dante Falcone waits, a charcoal-clad shadow with eyes that carry a steady, unsmiling weight. He does not look like a man receiving a bride; he looks like a general accepting a surrender.
Lucia counts the exits—three behind the altar, two in the transept—while her hand brushes the hidden weight of the silver stiletto strapped to her thigh. It is a thin, cold reassurance against the Castellano silk. Her father signed the peace treaty in blood, and now she is the ink. As she reaches the altar, the priest’s voice is a drone, a background noise to the frantic beat of her own heart.
When it is time to join hands, Dante leans in, the heat of him cutting through the cathedral’s chill. His voice is a low, serrated whisper meant for her alone. 'Your father didn't tell you the treaty is already broken.' Lucia freezes, her breath hitching as his dark eyes lock onto hers with predatory clarity. Dante reaches for Lucia’s hand, but his fingers linger on the pulse at her wrist.
