PART 1: The Church Smelled of Dying Roses When a Mafia Boss Demanded Me as His Payment

Part 1 — The Wedding I Never Chose

The church smelled of dying roses and incense so thick it coated my throat.

I stood at the back entrance, my trembling fingers pressed against the heavy oak door, feeling the rough grain beneath my palm like it was the last real thing left in my life. Everything else felt like a nightmare I could not wake from.

Three days.

That was all it had been since my father’s funeral.

Three days since I had stood beside his coffin, numb with grief, while strangers in dark suits watched me from the back of the cemetery. Three days since I had learned the truth about the debts, the gambling, and the promises he had made to men who did not forgive.

Three days since a name I had only heard whispered in fear became the architect of my fate.

Dante Moretti.

I had never seen him before yesterday. I had never known monsters could wear thousand-dollar suits and move through the world as if they

owned every atom of air around them. But I knew now.

God, I knew now.

The wedding dress they had brought me hung heavy on my frame. It was silk and lace, beautiful in a cruel way, and it cost more than my nursing school tuition. It fit perfectly, which somehow made everything worse. They had known my measurements. They had been watching me. Planning this. Preparing a cage and calling it mercy.

Through the narrow crack in the door, I could see the church filling with people I did not know. Men in black suits with hard eyes. Women dripping in diamonds that caught the candlelight like shards of ice. No one from my life was there. No friends. No family. My mother had died when I was twelve. My father had died three days ago, leaving me with nothing but debt and this transaction disguised as a wedding.

“Miss Russo.”

The voice behind me was soft, but firm.

I turned to see Mrs. Castellano, an older woman dressed in midnight blue, her silver hair swept into an elegant bun. She had introduced herself yesterday, though I suspected her real purpose was not to comfort me.

“It is time,” she said.

“I cannot.”

The words scraped out of me.

“Please. There has to be another way. I can work. I can pay back whatever he owed.”

“Your father owed three million dollars.”

Her voice was not unkind, but it held no mercy.

“Money borrowed from Mr. Moretti’s family. Money that was supposed to fund a shipment that never arrived. Your father gambled it away instead. That kind of betrayal requires payment.”

“Then take everything,” I whispered. “The house. The car. Whatever is left.”

“There is nothing left.”

She stepped closer, and I caught the scent of gardenias.

“This is

mercy, child. Mr. Moretti could have demanded blood. Instead, he has demanded you.”

Mercy.

I wanted to laugh, but my throat had closed around something that felt like broken glass.

“Why?” I asked. “Why me? He does not even know me.”

Something flickered across Mrs. Castellano’s face. Pity, maybe. Or warning.

“That is not a question I can answer. But I can tell you this. Dante Moretti always has his reasons, and he always gets what he wants.”

She adjusted my veil with gentle hands that felt like a cage closing.

Through the delicate lace, the world became softer and hazier, like I was already disappearing.

The organ music swelled.

Wagner’s processional.

My execution march.

Mrs. Castellano opened the door fully, and I saw him for the second time in my life.

Dante Moretti stood at the altar like a king surveying his kingdom. Even from that distance, I could feel the weight of his presence, the way everyone in the church seemed to orbit around him, pulled by some dark gravity.

He wore black, of course. A tailored suit cut perfectly to his broad shoulders and lean, dangerous frame. His dark hair was swept back from his forehead. His jaw was sharp enough to make him look carved instead of born. His shirt was open just enough to reveal the black lines of a phoenix tattoo rising from his chest toward his collarbone.

But it was his eyes that stopped my heart.

Dark honey. Amber. Gold-flecked and burning.

They locked onto me across the church, and he did not look away.

“Walk,” Mrs. Castellano murmured. “Do not run. Do not hesitate. You will only make it worse.”

My feet moved without permission.

Each step down the aisle felt like walking into deeper water. I tried to breathe, but the incense was too thick, my corset too tight, and Dante Moretti was still staring at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.

Two men stood behind him. Security, obviously. One was massive, built like a wall, with a scar running from his temple to his jaw. The other was leaner and watchful, his hand resting near where I suspected he kept a gun. The priest looked uncomfortable, sweat beading at his hairline despite the cool air.

Then I was there.

Standing beside Dante Moretti.

Close enough to smell expensive cologne, leather, smoke, and something metallic that made me think of blood.

He turned to face me fully, and I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.

“Sophia.”

My name in his voice was velvet over steel.

“You look beautiful.”

I wanted to spit at him. I wanted to scream. I wanted to run.

Instead, I stood frozen as he reached up and slowly lifted my veil. His fingers brushed my cheek, just barely, just enough to make me flinch.

Something flashed in his eyes.

Satisfaction.

Possession.

“Do not be afraid,” he murmured, so quietly only I could hear. “I am not going to hurt you.”

The word no burned in my throat, but I could not force it out.

The priest cleared his throat.

“Dearly beloved…”

The ceremony passed in fragments. Words I did not process. Vows I did not mean. A ring that felt heavy and cold on my finger.

A shackle dressed as jewelry.

“You may kiss the bride.”

Dante’s hand cupped my face, tilting my chin up with his thumb. His touch was gentle. Too gentle for a man who had forced me here.

His eyes searched mine for something I did not understand.

Then his mouth brushed mine.

The kiss was soft and careful, nothing like what I had expected from a man who had bought my future with my father’s debt. When he pulled back, his thumb caught a tear I had not known I had shed.

“Mine,” he breathed against my lips. “Finally, mine.”

The church erupted in applause, hollow and obligatory.

Dante’s hand found the small of my back, possessive and warm through the silk of my dress, and he guided me back down the aisle. I felt hundreds of eyes on us. Judging. Calculating. Wondering if I would break.

Outside, the afternoon sun felt like a slap after the dim church. A line of black cars waited, identical and gleaming. Dante opened the door of the middle one himself and helped me into the leather interior.

The door closed with a heavy, soundproof thunk.

Dante slid in beside me.

Suddenly, the spacious back seat felt suffocating.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Home.”

He watched me again with that unbearable intensity.

“Our home.”

“I do not have a home anymore,” I said bitterly. “You made sure of that.”

His jaw tightened.

“Your father made sure of that when he stole from me.”

“He was grieving. My mother died, and he made mistakes, but he did not deserve—”

“He stole three million dollars, Sophia.”

Dante’s voice was calm. Almost conversational. Somehow, that made it worse.

“Money that belonged to people far less forgiving than me. If I had not acted, they would have. And they would not have been satisfied with repayment.”

Anger burned through my fear.

“So you decided to collect me instead? Like I am property?”

His hand moved fast, catching my chin in a grip that was firm but not painful.

His amber eyes dropped to my mouth, then back to my eyes.

“Like you are my wife.”

My breath caught.

“You are my wife now, Sophia. Mine to protect. Mine to keep. And anyone who tries to touch what is mine will learn exactly why people fear the Moretti name.”