Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 488(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
And God, she looks even more breathtaking like this.
The first time, on Salvatore’s insistence, she had been draped in layers and layers of tulle and diamonds, a glittering doll on display. I couldn’t take my eyes off her then either, but this… this is the Viola of my dreams. Real. Quiet. Mine. The satin clings just enough to hint at the curves beneath, the neckline modest but revealing the elegant line of her throat. Every step she takes makes the fabric shift, whispering against her legs.
She reaches me and can’t quite hold my gaze. Her green eyes flick up, then away, lashes lowering like she’s trying to hide behind them. Her cheeks are flushed—barely, but I see it. She’s nervous. The thought sends a possessive thrill through me. It is at once dark and sweet. I wonder what’s going through her head. Is she scared? Regretting her decision already? The thought twists something sharp in my chest. I want to reach out, take her hand, reassure her—but I don’t. Not yet.
“If you want a bigger party sometime down the line,” I murmur, voice low so only she can hear, “just say the word. For now, we have to make do with this.”
She glances around the small sanctuary, the soft light catching on her cheekbones and making her skin look luminous. “It’s okay,” she says, almost shy. “I like small, shotgun weddings.”
The priest steps forward then, dressed in simple white vestments, smiling gently at both of us like he has no idea what kind of world we come from. The ceremony begins—soft words, ancient vows, the kind of promises that have bound people for centuries. I barely hear them. All I hear is the sound of her breathing beside me, the faint rustle of satin when she shifts her weight, the soft click of her heels on the stone floor.
We say “I do.” My voice is steady, low, sure. Hers is quieter, but clear, no tremor. The priest blesses the union, hands raised, words washing over us like water. And just like that, we are married.
I lean in for the kiss. She meets me halfway. I keep it light, simple—a mere press of lips, soft and brief, but the moment our mouths touch, something electric snaps between us. Her lips part just slightly under mine, warm and trembling, and for one heartbeat I taste the future. Then we separate. The space between us feels colder than it did a second ago. I can still taste her mouth and smell the sweetness of her breath.
Leonardo shakes her mother’s and sister’s hands, while murmuring polite words. The small group moves toward the doors. The wedding is late in the evening, so when we step outside the sun is already setting, painting the streets in deep oranges and pinks. The air is cool, carrying the faint scent of exhaust. The photographer waits on the steps, camera ready. We pose for a few quick shots—my arm around her waist, her hand resting lightly on my chest, both of us looking straight into the lens like we’re just another couple. The flashes pop, bright and fleeting. Her body is warm against my side. I tighten my hold.
The photographer steps back.
“Time to say goodbye,” I say quietly.
She nods, turns around and walks over to her mother and sister. I watch them for a moment—her mother’s shaky hug, Fabiola’s tight, worried expression, the way Viola’s shoulders stiffen as she tries to reassure them. Then I bid Leonardo goodbye with a quick clap on the shoulder and head to the SUV waiting at the curb.
I tell the driver to take the rest of the evening off. “I’ll drive.”
He nods and disappears into the night. I slide into the front seat, engine purring to life under my hands, and wait for my wife.
My wife.
The words settle in my chest like something warm and permanent. I drum my fingers on the steering wheel once, then still them as a big grin grows on my face.
Viola is now my wife.
Chapter Seventeen
VIOLA
“Where is his family? Doesn’t he have any family at all?” my sister asks as I approach her, her voice low but sharp.
She’s staring at Ricci with a pinched expression like he’s some kind of puzzle she can’t solve, her arm still linked with our mother’s. “Or he just didn’t invite them.”
“He doesn’t have any family,” I say quietly, correcting her. My sister and mother share one of those unimpressed looks—the kind that used to make me feel small when I was younger, like I’ve disappointed them again without even trying. I can’t stand it right now. The weight of the day is already pressing down on me, and their silent judgment is the last thing I need. “Stop it, you two. This is done. I’m married now. I came to say goodbye.”