His Enemy’s Bride

By the time they told me my groom was dead, I had already been sewn into my wedding dress.

Literally sewn.

My mother had decided three days earlier that the ivory silk did not sit tightly enough against my waist, and because apparently the possibility of breathing comfortably during my own wedding constituted a personal insult to the Moretti name, two women had spent the better part of an hour tightening the bodice until my ribs felt rearranged.

I was standing in front of a mirror taller than I was, surrounded by white roses, crystal perfume bottles, and enough diamonds to purchase a small country, when the door opened behind me.

Nobody announced themselves.

That was the first sign something was wrong.

People always announced themselves around my father.

They knocked. They waited. They asked permission.

Even family.

Especially family.

I looked at my reflection rather than turning around.

My father stood in the doorway.

Beside him was my uncle Carlo.

Neither man smiled.

My mother, who had been adjusting the lace at my shoulder, froze.

For one strange second, nobody spoke.

The silence stretched until I could hear the faint music drifting up from the ballroom three floors below. A string quartet was playing something classical and expensive. Guests were arriving. Champagne was being poured. Two hundred people were preparing to witness the marriage that was supposed to end seven years of bloodshed between the Moretti and De Luca families.

I looked at my father in the mirror.

“What happened?”

His jaw tightened.

My father was not a man who hesitated.

Antonio Moretti had ordered men killed over less time than he was currently spending choosing his words.

That frightened me more than anything he could have said.

“Matteo is dead.”

The room seemed to move.

Not dramatically.

There was no scream. No collapsing to the floor. No shattered glass.

Just a small, strange tilt in the world, as if everything had shifted half an inch to the left and forgotten to move back.

My mother whispered my name.

I turned slowly.

“What?”

My father stepped inside and shut the door behind him.

“Matteo De Luca was found forty minutes ago.”

“Found where?”

“Elena.”

“Where?”

My uncle Carlo looked toward the windows.

That was enough.

I understood.

Not an accident.

Not an illness.

Not some sudden collapse caused by a weak heart nobody had known about.

Matteo had been murdered.

I pressed my fingers against the diamonds at my throat.

They had belonged to his grandmother.

His father had sent them to me that morning as a gesture of peace.

Now they felt like a hand tightening around my neck.

“How?”

My father did not answer immediately.

I looked directly at him.

“How did he die?”

“A gunshot.”

My mother inhaled sharply.

“One?”

My father’s expression changed.

Barely.

But I had spent twenty-four years learning to read Antonio Moretti’s face because, in our family, surviving often depended on understanding what people refused to say.

“One,” he confirmed.

That surprised me.

Executions were rarely subtle in our world.

Men were made examples of.

Bodies appeared in cars, warehouses, alleys, rivers.

Messages were written in blood because men like my father believed subtlety was for people who lacked power.

One bullet meant something else.

Personal.

Precise.

Planned.

“Where was he?”

“A parking garage near the courthouse.”

I frowned.

“The courthouse?”

My father nodded.

Matteo had no business at the courthouse.

At least none I knew about.

I had spoken to him the night before.

He had called at eleven seventeen.

I remembered the time because I had been staring at it on my phone while deciding whether to answer.

In eighteen hours, we were supposed to become husband and wife.

Yet our conversation had lasted four minutes.

He had asked if I was nervous.

I had told him no.

He had laughed because he knew I was lying.

Then he had said something strange.

Tomorrow fixes everything.

At the time, I thought he meant the wedding.

Now I wondered whether he had meant something else.

“Who killed him?” I asked.

My father’s stare became colder.

“We don’t know.”

That was a lie.

Or at least not the entire truth.

“Who do the De Lucas think killed him?”

No answer.

My stomach tightened.

“Papa.”

My mother moved toward me. “Elena, this is not the time.”

“It is exactly the time.”

“Elena.”

I ignored her and kept my eyes on my father.

“What do they think?”

His silence answered before he did.

“They think it was us.”

My mother crossed herself.

I almost laughed.

Not because anything was funny.

Because of course they did.

Seven years of ambushes, bombed restaurants, missing shipments, burned businesses, dead sons, dead cousins, dead soldiers.

Seven years of hatred dressed up as honor.

And tonight was supposed to end it.

The Moretti daughter marrying the De Luca heir.

Two names becoming one.

A truce signed not with ink but with my body.

Now Matteo was dead before he could reach the altar.

And everyone downstairs was carrying a gun.

“How many De Lucas are here?”

My uncle finally spoke.

“Too many.”

“Helpful.”

“Elena.”

“I’m asking because if they think we murdered Matteo, half the men downstairs are currently deciding whether to start shooting before dessert.”

My father walked toward me.

He was still wearing the dark suit he had chosen for the ceremony. Black tie. Silver cuff links. The small scar beside his mouth looked paler than usual.

“You will stay in this room.”

“No.”

His eyes hardened.

“You will stay here until I tell you otherwise.”

“What happens to the wedding?”

For the first time, something flickered across his face.

It disappeared quickly.

But I saw it.

That frightened me.

“What?” I asked.

“Elena—”

“What happens now?”

He looked at Carlo.

My uncle looked away.

I felt suddenly cold beneath layers of silk.

“Papa.”

A knock sounded at the door.

Three sharp strikes.

Nobody moved.

Then came a fourth.

Slow.

Deliberate.

My father’s hand went beneath his jacket.

So did Carlo’s.

My mother stepped closer to me.

The door opened before anyone gave permission.

A man entered.

I knew who he was before I saw his face.

Everyone knew Dante De Luca.

Not personally.

People did not know Dante personally unless they had made a series of catastrophic decisions.

But everyone knew the stories.

The oldest De Luca son.

The one who had disappeared from New York eight years earlier after putting three men in the hospital during a private meeting nobody was supposed to know had happened.

The one rumored to have built his own network in Chicago, Miami, and parts of Europe without using his father’s name.

The one who had refused to return even after his mother died.

The one Matteo never discussed.

Dante stepped into the room wearing black.

Not a tuxedo.

Not wedding clothes.

A black suit with no tie, the top button of his shirt undone.

There was dried blood on his cuff.

Not much.

Enough.

He shut the door behind him.

My father moved in front of me.

Dante barely looked at him.

His attention found me immediately.

I had seen photographs.

None of them had prepared me for the actual man.

He was taller than Matteo, broader through the shoulders, his dark hair pushed back carelessly as if someone had run a hand through it too many times. His face was not classically handsome. Too severe. Too sharp. A faint scar cut through one eyebrow.

But it was his eyes that held me.

Dark.

Completely still.

Matteo’s eyes had always carried warmth, even when he was angry.

Dante’s carried nothing.

“Get out,” my father said.

Dante ignored him.

My uncle Carlo stepped forward.

“De Luca.”

Only then did Dante glance away from me.

“Moretti.”

The way he said our name made it sound like an accusation.

My father’s voice dropped.

“You do not walk into my daughter’s room without permission.”

“And you do not murder my brother on his wedding day.”

My mother made a small sound.

Carlo pulled his gun.

Everything happened quickly after that.

My father drew his.

Two of Dante’s men appeared beyond the doorway.

Weapons rose.

Safety catches clicked.

I stood in the middle of it all wearing eight thousand dollars of silk.

“Enough.”

Nobody listened.

I raised my voice.

“I said enough.”

This time, Dante looked at me.

His men did not lower their weapons.

Neither did my family.

I took one step forward.

The train of my dress dragged behind me.

“If someone starts shooting in this room, I will personally haunt every single one of you.”

Carlo stared at me.

My mother whispered, “Elena.”

Dante’s mouth moved.

Not quite a smile.

Something more dangerous.

“You think this is amusing?” I asked him.

“No.”

“Good.”

“I think you are.”

My father took another step.

“That is enough.”

Dante looked at the gun pointed at his chest and seemed almost bored by it.

Then his gaze dropped to my left hand.

To the ring Matteo had given me six months earlier.

A square emerald surrounded by diamonds.

The engagement ring of the woman who was supposed to become Matteo De Luca’s wife in less than an hour.

Dante walked toward me.

My father blocked him.

“Take another step.”

Dante stopped.

The room went silent.

Then he said, “Tell your daughter to remove my brother’s ring.”

I stared at him.

“What?”

“The ring.”

My hand closed instinctively.

“It was given to me.”

“By a dead man.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

My father’s gun rose slightly.

Dante did not even blink.

I looked down at the emerald.

Yesterday it had represented a future I had never chosen.

Now it represented a man who would never see tomorrow.

“I’m not taking it off.”

Dante’s gaze returned to my face.

“That wasn’t a request.”

Something hot and immediate moved through my chest.

Anger.

Good.

Anger was easier than fear.

“I don’t take orders from you.”

“You will.”

“No.”

“Elena,” my father warned.

I glanced at him.

That was my second warning.

Not Dante.

My father.

And suddenly I understood there was a conversation happening in this room that I had not been invited into.

I looked between them.

“What have you agreed?”

Nobody answered.

My pulse began to pound.

“What have you agreed?”

My mother reached for my arm.

I pulled away.

“Tell me.”

Dante was the one who finally spoke.

“The wedding continues.”

I stared at him.

For a moment, I genuinely thought I had misheard.

“What?”

“Tonight.”

My father said nothing.

That told me everything.

I laughed once.

A short, disbelieving sound.

“Matteo is dead.”

“Yes.”

“And you think we’re continuing the wedding?”

“Yes.”

“With whom?”

Dante held my gaze.

I knew the answer before he said it.

Still, some small part of me waited for the universe to make sense.

It did not.

“Me.”

Nobody moved.

The music downstairs continued.

Violins.

Cellos.

A perfect civilized soundtrack to madness.

I turned to my father.

“No.”

“Elena.”

“No.”

“This is bigger than—”

“No.”

I stepped backward.

My dress caught beneath my heel.

I nearly stumbled but recovered before anyone could touch me.

“You cannot be serious.”

My father’s expression was carved from stone.

“If this marriage does not happen, the truce dies with Matteo.”

“The truce is already dead.”

“No,” Dante said. “My brother is.”

I looked at him.

For the first time, something appeared beneath the coldness.

Grief.

It lasted less than a second.

Then it was gone.

“You think marrying me fixes that?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

“Because there are two hundred armed people downstairs waiting to see whether tonight ends in a wedding or a massacre.”

I hated that he was right.

I hated him more for saying it so calmly.

Dante moved closer.

My father did not stop him this time.

That frightened me more than the guns.

He stopped directly in front of me.

Close enough that I could see a faint line of blood near his collar.

Close enough to smell cold air, leather, and something metallic.

I lifted my chin.

“If you think I’m walking downstairs and marrying you because you’ve decided it—”

“I haven’t decided anything.”

“No?”

“No.”

His gaze dropped again to my ring.

“Our fathers did.”

I turned sharply toward mine.

“Is that true?”

My father’s silence was answer enough.

Something inside me cracked.

Not because I had expected freedom.

I had given up expecting that years ago.

But Matteo had been part of the bargain.

Matteo was quiet.

Reasonable.

He had never pretended our marriage would be romantic, but he had promised me space.

A separate office.

My own money.

No children for at least three years.

Small freedoms.

Pathetic freedoms, perhaps.

But mine.

Dante De Luca looked like a man who did not understand the concept.

“I won’t do it.”

My father exhaled slowly.

“Elena.”

“I said no.”

Dante tilted his head.

“And what happens when your father’s men leave this room?”

I looked at him.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means my family believes yours murdered Matteo. Your family believes mine will retaliate. Everyone downstairs is waiting for an excuse.”

“Then tell them not to.”

His expression almost changed again.

This time I was sure it was amusement.

“You think I control every angry man carrying a gun downstairs?”

“Aren’t you supposed to?”

“No.”

The honesty surprised me.

He leaned closer.

“I control what they fear.”

A chill moved across my skin.

“And tonight, Elena, fear is the only thing keeping anyone alive.”

My name sounded wrong in his mouth.

Too familiar.

Too deliberate.

I took a breath.

“You expect me to marry you to prevent a war.”

“I expect you to understand that the war has already started.”

That silenced me.

Dante reached toward my hand.

I pulled it away before he could touch me.

His eyes lifted.

A warning passed between us.

Then he held out his palm.

“Ring.”

“No.”

“Elena.”

“No.”

His jaw tightened.

Good.

At least he could be irritated.

“Take it off.”

“Make me.”

My mother inhaled behind me.

My uncle muttered something in Italian.

Dante stared at me for a long moment.

Then he stepped closer.

Much closer.

My instinct was to retreat.

I did not.

His hand closed around my wrist.

Not painfully.

Firmly.

His thumb pressed against the pulse beating far too quickly beneath my skin.

I hated that he could feel it.

His eyes lowered to my mouth for one brief second.

Then back to my eyes.

“You should be careful with those words.”

My stomach tightened.

“Is that a threat?”

“No.”

His thumb moved once against my wrist.

Slowly.

“Advice.”

I should have slapped him.

Instead, I remained completely still.

He released me first.

That annoyed me too.

Then Dante reached into his jacket.

Every gun in the room lifted.

He ignored them and removed a small black velvet box.

He opened it.

Inside was a ring.

Not delicate.

Not romantic.

A large oval diamond surrounded by smaller black stones.

Beautiful in the way a weapon could be beautiful.

I looked from the ring to him.

“You brought that with you?”

“No.”

Something in his voice changed.

“It belonged to my mother.”

My anger faltered.

Only slightly.

“She wore it until the day she died.”

“And now you want me to wear it?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because if we walk downstairs, nobody can doubt what happened here.”

“And what exactly happened here?”

Dante closed the distance between us again.

His voice dropped so that only I could hear.

“A replacement.”

The word struck me like a slap.

I stared at him.

He continued before I could speak.

“For both of us.”

His brother.

My future.

One corpse.

One marriage.

One brutal exchange.

I pulled Matteo’s ring from my finger.

For a second, Dante looked surprised.

I pressed it into his palm.

Then I closed his fingers around it.

“I am not your replacement bride.”

His eyes locked on mine.

“No.”

He opened the black box again.

“You’re my wife.”

“I haven’t said yes.”

“You will downstairs.”

“And if I don’t?”

A knock sounded at the door.

One of Dante’s men stepped inside.

His face was pale.

“Boss.”

Dante did not look away from me.

“What?”

The man hesitated.

Then said, “They found the gun.”

Every person in the room went still.

Dante’s fingers tightened around Matteo’s ring.

“Where?”

The man looked directly at my father.

“Inside a Moretti car.”

My blood turned cold.

My father swore.

Carlo raised his weapon.

Dante’s men did the same.

The room exploded into movement.

And Dante—

Dante simply looked at me.

No anger.

No panic.

Nothing.

Then he took my left hand.

Slid his mother’s ring onto my finger.

And said quietly,

“Now we really are getting married.”