I stare at the ring that lies heavy on my finger. It’s a snug fit—my son has much thinner fingers than mine. I’ll need to get it resized. The reception is loud and filled with laughter, drunkenness, and regret. The last one comes from me, but it lingers in the air like cheap perfume.
I am married.
The words still don’t feel real, even on my lips. I vowed that after Beatrice, I would never marry again—but my son has forced my hand.
I hear a sniff beside me at the high table where we sit. I turn my head to the side and find my wife staring at her lap, looking miserable. She isn’t happy about this union, either. I get it. But I’m trying to make the best of it. We have a show to put on—for her parents, my colleagues, and the rest of the world. She carries a heavy name now.
“You could at least try to look like you’re not having the most miserable time of your life.” I lean toward her and utter the words into her ear. Her body shudders—the kind of reaction that would make one think she fears me. “You just got married, Maria. Smile a little.”
She sucks the air between her teeth sharply. “I didn’t know people smile when they’re going through torture.”
She turns her head, our breaths mingling in a plume of heat. I’m taken back to the church where I kissed her. It was brief, a short kiss—but it did things to my internal system that I didn’t expect.
“Where is your son, Mr. Davacalli?”
I clear my throat, trying to remove the lump that has formed in it.
“I’m sorry things didn’t turn out as you had hoped, Maria. But this… marriage between you and me is for the best.”
She bites down on her lip, trying to keep the words from escaping. She wants to speak—she’s seconds from an explosion—but the poise and composure she’s been groomed for since birth holds her tongue.
“This is by no means a real marriage.” From the jut of her chin alone, I know she’s trying to be defiant. It’s amusing, watching her try to go toe to toe with me. “I may hold the title of wife, but I will not perform the duties that come with it.”
I hold the corner of my mouth down to keep from smirking. I stare into her eyes—the fire in them intrigues me. Most people can’t even meet my gaze. This past week, she hasn’t dared to look me in the eyes for more than a fleeting moment—yet here she is, challenging me with my ring on her finger.
“Are you talking about fucking me, Maria?” I watch with great amusement as her cheeks heat with embarrassment. “Don’t be shy now.”
She grabs her wine and sips it, tearing her gaze from mine. She looks out at the happy crowd celebrating our union on the dance floor.
“That’s not what I meant. Look, Mr. Davacalli, I—”
“Matteo,” I correct her. “You’ll need to start calling me Matteo to keep people from getting suspicious.”
She blinks. “No. We just need to get through this night and head to our rooms.”
I notice she says rooms. I’m not objecting to having separate spaces, but from what Marcello said, he wants an heir within the year. I don’t want to start trying soon either, but we need to keep up appearances.
“Of course.” I lean back in my chair and reach for my glass. “But you do know that, in time, you’ll need to learn to just accept what happened. We’re married. That’s not going to change.
No divorce will free you—unless, of course, you put a bullet in the middle of my head. But if you do that, then your family goes right back to square one.”
I hear the grinding of her teeth, but she says nothing. Music fills the silence between us, and we sit watching the wedding unfold from the table we’ve been placed at—to be adored by all the guests.
I’m not foolish enough to think these people are happy about this union. Her marrying my son was going to be a seismic shift in mafia society. But now that she’s my wife, I’m sure the whispers have already made it to the East Coast. Which means this game is only going to get bloodier.
“Excuse me.” My bride gets up from her seat beside me and heads—likely—to her mother. She doesn’t look back, and I’m fairly certain that’ll be the last I see of her until we’re forced to leave for the manor.
Two hours later, and after many forced, fake goodbyes, we finally make it back to the Faravelli manor. Marcello and Marta left an hour earlier, leaving us to mingle with all their cokehead relatives.
The walk into the manor is silent—as expected. The woman hates me. She loathes everything I represent in her life. And who can blame her? She was meant to wear the Davacalli name beside my son—not wrapped around the man who forged it in blood and power.
Her heels click against the marble floors, the train of her dress trailing behind her like a cape. I want to offer to help, but she’d likely chew my head off. And I’m in no mood to deal with my ever-pleasant wife tonight.
She leads the way to her room. I follow closely behind her. I have no intention of sleeping. The last woman I fucked was my wife, and ever since then, I’ve had only my own hands for company—and it’s been enough. I haven’t needed to bury my cock anywhere—for now.
“You don’t need to follow me, Mr. Davacalli.” Her back is still turned to me as she leads us up the stairs.
“Are you forgetting it’s our wedding night, Mrs. Davacalli?” The words sound foreign on my lips. She is my wife—the realization hits me like a two-ton truck. I don’t want to accept it. “Besides, I need to walk you to your room.”
Her steps falter at the top of the stairs, but she doesn’t turn back. She continues with determined strides and makes her way to her room. She opens the door, and I follow her inside. I close the door behind us and stride in with a confidence that probably shouldn’t be allowed.
I place myself on the edge of her bed and take it all in. In the corner of the room sits an easel with a few strokes painted onto a white canvas. A painter—I never would’ve pegged her as the type. I imagined her room being far more… vibrant. But this… It’s rather dull and beige.
“So this is your room? It’s less colorful than I would’ve thought. Beige is rather dull for a woman like you.” I make the most obvious observation. Just by looking at her, she screams polished perfection. Rich, spoiled, a Mafia princess with access to more resources than the average girl. “You’re not what I imagined you to be, I must say.”
My bride stands in the middle of the room with her arms crossed over her chest, looking uneasy.
“It’s been a long day, Mr. Davacalli, and I—”
“Matteo,” I correct her. “We’re married now. There’s no need to be formal. You’re my wife, and it would be strange if people ever heard you call me ‘Mr. Davacalli.’”
“Right.” She shifts her weight from foot to foot. “Like I was saying, it’s been a long day and I just want my bed, so it would be great if you could leave my room. I want to shower and wash this whole day off.”
I stifle a laugh. “Odd thing to say about one’s wedding day.”
“Go, please.” She shudders and hugs herself, trying to find some comfort. “I understand that I’ll have to give you a baby one day—but tonight is not that night. Leave. Please.”
I hold up my arms to show her I’m not a threat. “I won’t ever force myself on you, Maria. When the time comes for a child, there are plenty of ways to get there without me having to find myself between your legs.”
In the corner of the room, I see three suitcases lined up against the edge. I guess she’s all ready for tomorrow.
“Do you have to be so crass?”
“It’s the truth. Never in my life have I had to force a woman to fuck me—and you won’t be the first. If and when you want to fuck me, all you need to do is ask.” I watch the heat tint her cheeks, even through the layer of makeup she wears.
She scrunches her nose in disgust, but it doesn’t make my words any less true. I never wanted another wife. I’m a widower. My love died the day I lost Beatrice. I have nothing left inside me to give.
“You can leave now, since we’ve cleared that up,” she bites out. “There are plenty of guest rooms—take your pick. I’ll be staying here for my last night.”
I lift myself from the edge of the bed and stand to my full height. I want to cross the distance between us and offer some solace, some comfort—but nothing I say will ease any of this. I’m struggling with her. I have no idea where my son is, and now I’m left with a wife I never intended to have. I am as pleased as a pig in a slaughterhouse.
“Goodnight, Maria. We take off tomorrow morning. We should be in New York by 9 a.m. I have a lot of business to attend to.”
Mainly finding my son and making sure he doesn’t make a mockery of himself—or our name.
My wife says nothing. She just hugs her body tightly. Her eyes stay locked on the front wall, and she looks like she’s seconds from falling apart. In this moment, I’ll give her the freedom to break in peace.
I walk out of the room without another word. I don’t even turn back to make sure she’s okay. We have no relationship beyond what the papers say.
I close the door and let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. For the first time since this fucking day began, I can breathe. The entire day has been nothing short of a shitshow, from the runaway groom to now having a wife.
I glare down at the ring on my finger. The thing feels more like a shackle than a symbol of love or loyalty.
“Fucking hell.”
My voice echoes through the empty halls of the Faravelli estate. Everyone is likely asleep—or hiding in their rooms, much like I want to be.
But first… I need to take the edge off.
I make my way down the stairs and into the kitchen, where I find Marcello’s less-than-stellar liquor collection. It’ll have to do for now. I pour myself a glass and head out through the sliding doors that lead to the back porch.
This is the only peace today will afford me.
Tomorrow, when the sun rises, there will be a long list of fires to put out. I’ll need to account for my son and his disappearance. I’ll need to make sure all loose ends are tied up before we leave.
And most importantly, I’ll need to keep my new bride alive.
I saw the reactions at the wedding.
The vultures may not be circling just yet—but they’re close.
They can smell the tension in the air.
“Are you not meant to be in bed with my daughter, Matteo?”
His voice catches me off guard. I glance to the side and find him by the sliding door of the kitchen. He’s still in his dress pants and shirt, but he looks far more disheveled than he did at the ceremony.
I don’t bother sitting up in my chair.
“I see you found my liquor supply.”
I raise the glass in the air. “It tastes like shit. When you left New York, did you also lose your taste for the finer things in life? You’ve had better whiskey in my basement, Faravelli.”
I glance back at my old friend, and he manages to let out a low smirk—against his will, I’m sure.
We’ve known each other a long time, and never in a million years did he expect me to marry his daughter .
He simply walks onto the porch and takes the chair beside mine that looks out to the yard.
The moon kisses the surface of the pool, casting a gentle blue hue over the area. You can hear the whistle of the crickets and the soft hum of the summer breeze weaving through the trees.
“You are married to my daughter.”
Those are the first words that come from my father-in-law.
“Yup.” I sip on the bitter liquid. “I know you pictured me joining your family a little differently. But we are family now, Faravelli—and my word still holds. From this day forward, you are under the protection of the Davacalli name. Your daughter will want for nothing. She will be the most protected woman on the East Coast—if not the entire country.”
Marcello remains quiet. He looks out over the water, his face pulled tight in a deep frown.
“You can’t even keep your son in check. How can I trust you to keep your word when it comes to my daughter?”
I pause, my glass halfway to my mouth. “I was caught off guard. But make no mistake—my son will answer for what he’s done.”
He scoffs. “You’re meant to be the most feared man in the world, and yet you can’t keep a leash on your own boy? I am not happy, Matteo.”
“And neither am I.” I glance back at him. “What happened is unfortunate, but you still got what you wanted. The Davacalli name. Our resources. They’re yours now. The picture may not look exactly how you imagined, but you know me, Marcello. I’m not a man who would ever dishonor your daughter or shame her. She’s in good hands. Trust is a rarity in our world, but I’m asking you for it—just this once.”
I turn my head fully to look at him—and he meets my gaze.
As a father, I understand him.
And as a mafia boss, he understands me.
My intention with this union is to ease the guilt weighing down my chest for taking his son.
And his is to protect the last of his blood.
We may not like each other, but we need each other to reach our goals.
“I will never fully trust you, Matteo,” he says slowly. “But I trust my daughter. And I trust that if she ever needs to, she’ll make the call—and I will get her out of this marriage. To hell with what may come after. She is the last of my blood, and I will not allow her to suffer because of this world.”
His words carry conviction—unshakable, clear.
“You make a single tear fall from her eyes, or you harm a single hair on her head… I will personally hold the gun that puts a bullet in the middle of your eyes.”
I hold his stare. “I will honor her as I did my last.”
I try to keep the image of a smiling Beatrice out of my head. I haven’t thought of her in a while—work usually keeps me busy enough that my mind is never idle. It’s only in the thick of the night, when the silence presses in, that I feel the void in the shape of her.
We sit in the weight of silence. Neither of us dares to speak first.
We both know.
No matter what is promised in a moment like this, it’s the heavens that decide what happens next.
I will honor Maria.
She is my wife. I made a vow.
My word is my bond—and I’ll uphold that part of the bargain.
She’ll never have to worry about a wandering eye. She’ll never need to fear a scandal or a divorce. She will have my loyalty, and she will have my protection.
But one thing she will never be able to claim is my heart.
That has been locked away… for all eternity.
