Page 20 of His to Destroy

I sit in front of the vanity mirror now, alone except for the quiet hum of anticipation from beyond the heavy doors. My face is unrecognizable. Flawless. Hollow. Painted to perfection. I barely blink, barely breathe.

Luca was here earlier. His little legs swung from the edge of the bed while I got my hair pinned back. He kept looking at me like I was someone unfamiliar—someone beautiful.

“You look like a princess, Mama.”

I almost cried.

But I didn’t. Because today, I can’t afford to be soft. I can’t let the weight of all I’ve sacrificed undo me.

The car that brings me to the cathedral is a black Rolls-Royce. The kind you see in movies or royal processions. It hums like it knows its importance. Gaspare has spared no expense, not even for the illusion. If this is a chess move, it has to look like victory.

I sit stiffly inside the vehicle, gripping the bouquet tighter than I should. Calla lilies and gardenias—white, innocent, ironic.

Outside the stone cathedral, I hear the murmuring of a crowd before I see them. The media is everywhere. Flashing lights. Soft clicks. Someone calls my name—my real one. Someone else calls me “Mrs. Colosimo.”

The guards open the door and extend their gloved hands. I take them.

When I step out, the world swells with noise.

“Look, there she is!”

“She’s gorgeous—where has she been hiding?”

“That’s the Spadafora girl, right?”

“Didn’t think she was real.”

“And the boy—that’s her son?”

“Is the boy Gaspare’s?”

“Might be the reason this is happening, eh?”

“The Colosimos really pulled this off... it’s a statement.”

Every word lands like a pin against my spine. I don’t respond. I don’t make eye contact. I walk with measured, practiced steps. A puppet. A queen being crowned in a kingdom of men.

Luca is holding my hand tightly. He’s dressed in a miniature tuxedo and glowing. For him, this is all magic. A fairytale. For a seven-year-old boy who spent most of his life dodging shadows, this attention feels like sunlight. And I let him have it. Because he deserves something good.

Even if the good came wrapped in teeth.

The cathedral doors open and music starts—an organ, heavy and melodious. The moment I step inside, my breath catches.

The room is awash in candlelight and polished gold. White roses line every pew, perfectly arranged. The chandeliers glint like constellations above our heads. It’s overwhelming, majestic, and cold.

And at the end of the aisle, Gaspare.

He stands tall and composed, dressed in midnight black with a silver tie that catches the light. His eyes are fixed on me, unreadable, unwavering. His hands are clasped in front of him like he’s keeping them from reaching out.

He doesn’t smile.

Neither do I.

Step by step, I walk down the aisle. The hem of my dress glides silently. My heartbeat is loud in my ears. I pass the rows of powerful men and glittering women. Some nod in approval. Some watch with suspicion. Some with awe.

And still, Gaspare never looks away.

This isn’t love. We all know that.

---