Page 25 of Cruel Deception
I step out, the gown’s train whispering across the marble floor.
The grand hall is a cathedral of power, its vaulted ceiling draped in black velvet, chandeliers casting a golden glow over rows of guests—underworld titans, their tailored suits hiding bloodstains only the initiated can see.
The air crackles with danger, every smile a blade, every glance a calculation.
My father stands among them, his presence a stain on the opulence.
I scan for Luca and spot him by the groom’s side, murmuring to men in dark suits, his face unreadable. Is he ever free from his empire?
The seating follows Moretti tradition: the groom’s family in the front row, the bride’s—strangers I don’t know—in the second, and guests, a sea of mafia elite, filling the rest.
All eyes pin me, the bride, a lamb in silk among wolves.
My father approaches, his smile as fake as the diamonds on my veil. “Finally getting married, huh?” he says, his voice oily, performative.
I lean close, my whisper sharp. “I’ll find Vincent and Mom. You’ll confess where you’re hiding them, or I’ll make you.” I pull back, forcing a polite smile, my eyes cold.
His face flickers—anger, fear?—but he masks it, offering his arm.
I loop mine through his, my fingers stiff, as he leads me to the bride’s seat, my bridesmaids trailing like shadows.
My maid of honor, a stunning woman I’ve never met, is another arranged piece in this farce.
The bride’s family section is filled with unfamiliar faces, hired to play a role.
A string quartet plays Pachelbel’s Canon, its notes soft, deceptive, cloaking the room’s menace in civility.
Luca approaches, flanked by a man I don’t recognize—his father, maybe, or another hired prop.
His groomsmen follow, their faces hard, eyes scanning for threats. I search for Cassian, expecting him as best man, but he’s nowhere, and the absence twists my gut, a warning I can’t name.
Luca takes my hand, kissing its back, his lips cool. “You look radiant, my bride,” he says, his voice smooth, public.
I blush despite myself. “You’re handsome too,” I murmur.
His charcoal suit is impeccable, his dark hair sleek, but as he takes his seat, his face shifts—cold, focused, whispering to his men.
The priest, a wiry man with silver hair and a face etched with secrets, steps forward, his black robes stark against the altar’s gold crucifix.
His voice carries the weight of someone who’s blessed blood money and buried bodies. “Welcome,” he intones, his eyes scanning the crowd like he knows their sins.
He reads a hymn, its Latin cadence alien to me, then delivers a brief sermon on marriage—duty, sacrifice, loyalty—words that feel like warnings in this den of vipers. “Let the bride come forward,” he calls.
The room stills.
I rise, my gown rustling, the veil clouding my vision.
It’s time for the vows, the heart of this ritual.
I glance at Luca’s seat, but it’s empty.
His men are sparse now, scattered. My heart lurches. Did he ditch me for mafia business on our wedding day? Humiliation burns, but I walk to the altar, head high, my maid of honor trailing.
The priest’s brow twitches. He clears his throat, still trying to keep the sanctity intact. “Will the groom step forward?”
The room holds its breath. I stare at the empty seat, willing Luca to appear, my pulse hammering.
One minute. Two. Silence stretches, taut and unnatural, the guests’ murmurs dying into a void. Then, gasps ripple from the back of the hall.
