When Villains Rise (Anti-Heroes in Love 2)

A moment later, the groom appeared flanked by his best man, Damiano Vitale, and the priest. He looked ridiculously handsome clad entirely in his requisite black, but the starkness made his skin startlingly pale.

I doubted anyone would notice, because a moment later there was a clamor outside the doors to the church and then they swung open to reveal the bride escorted by Rocco himself.

She was a vision of frothing lace, the train extending four feet behind her, a traditional, handmade veil draped over her head to partially obscure her face and torso. There was a murmur of approval from the guests at her beauty as organ music played powerfully in the background, her steps timed perfectly to the march.

It seemed to take her ages to reach the altar, but maybe that was my own perception, mottled by the way my heart beat too fast and hard in my chest, mocking the rhythm of the wedding song.

When I was a girl, I’d imagined something like this for my wedding. This was long before Seamus and the mafia taught me to hate my own country, before Christopher made me hate myself enough to think I deserved a small, civil ceremony or just a common-law relationship like I had with Sinclair.

I dreamed of lace and silk, feminine and almost old fashioned, like the brides in the magazines Mama had from her youth. I wanted everything traditional, from the Millefoglie wedding cake to my future husband buying me my bouquet, a custom most modern brides eschewed.

I hadn’t believed in those dreams in so long, they seemed dusty and antiquated when I thought of them then.

Or maybe it was because if I ever married Dante, that wasn’t the kind of wedding we’d have. We had hardly been together long enough to have conversations about such things, but in my heart of hearts, I imagined us eloping to some beautiful, foreign land, just the two of us.

Not because I didn’t love my family, but because our relationship was the center of my new universe, the spoke on which my life revolved.

Loving Dante had made me realize how self-centered I’d been, mired in my own bitterness and misery until I didn’t even know how unpleasant I was to be around half the time. He reminded me that life was worth living and love was worth giving.

So, maybe just us, somewhere romantic, but even that didn’t matter to me the way it once had.

I’d marry Dante in a back alley or a parking lot if it meant being his legally.

The paperwork didn’t matter either, not the way I thought it had when I was with Daniel.

It was about the symbolism.

I wanted to be his lottatice, regina, and moglie.

His fighter, his queen, and his wife.

Even though we had a plan, it was still disconcerting to watch this ceremony. It made me aware of how little rights I had if Dante was ever imprisoned again. I couldn’t be his lawyer if I was his lover and I wasn’t his wife.

Torre squeezed my hand as if sensing my inner turmoil, pulling me back to the moment at hand.

When Mira finally reached the front, Rocco handed her off with ceremonial words to Dante who accepted her hand and tucked it into his arm as they turned to face the priest.

It was all so civilized.

Not for one second did Dante appear to be anything other than a suitably chuffed groom about to marry the love of his life.

Rocco turned to take his seat in the front pew and caught my eyes. His grin was a pennant of victory flying in the face of my hopes and dreams.

I win, his sparkling eyes proclaimed.

Underestimate me, I channeled back with a tightly curled smile, I dare you.

Italian ceremonies took forever, but after a long forty minutes of service, the priest declared Dante Edward Salvatore and Mirabella Ianni, now Salvatore, man and wife.

A famous local soprano appeared on the dais to sing Ava Maria as the couple turned to face the crowd and began their walk down the aisle.

It was impossible to watch them walk by without feeling my heart like a lead ball in my stomach. Everything hinged on this wedding going off without a hitch.

Before we could leave the pew to follow the happy duo out the doors like the others were, ready to throw rice in celebration over their heads, Rocco stopped me with a hand on my arm.

“This is the way things work here,” he told me condescendingly.

He didn’t understand that this wasn’t my first interaction with the mafia.

It wasn’t even my one hundredth.

He just saw a pretty girl and imagined I’d been sheltered my entire life, that I had no brain in my head and that, because I wasn’t born with literal balls, I lacked a spine.

“Arranged marriages?” I asked meekly.

“That,” he agreed, but his fingers grew tight on my arm. “And whatever I say goes. It has been this way for years. It was this way even six years ago when I sold your sister to Alexander Davenport.”