Page 26 of Cruel Deception
I turn, and a figure emerges—a giant in a black Tom Ford suit, moving with a predator’s grace, his presence sucking the air from the room.
A black veil, a Moretti tradition, obscures his face, but the aura is unmistakable: power, danger, a storm in human form. He strides down the aisle, parting the crowd like a blade through silk, every step a claim on the space.
My heart pounds, relief mixing with unease. Luca showed. Thank God. But as he nears, something’s off.
He’s taller, broader, the suit fitting like it was forged for him. I focus on the altar, willing the ceremony to end, desperate to escape the weight of a hundred eyes.
His scent hits me—cedar, leather, gunpowder—and my chest tightens, my breath catching. Why does he smell like Cassian?
He stops before me, his presence overwhelming, and lifts the veil with deliberate slowness. Time crawls. His jaw emerges first, sharper than Luca’s, carved like a weapon.
Then his cheekbones, high and lethal. Finally, those blue eyes, burning with a cruel, familiar fire.
My heart stops. Cassian. My knees buckle, the world tilting, but I catch myself, gripping the altar’s edge.
“What are you doing?” I hiss, my voice low, trembling. “Where’s Luca? I’m marrying him.”
He smirks, dark and wicked, his eyes stripping me bare. “There’s a bomb under the altar,” he murmurs, his voice a low, chilling promise. “You’re marrying me, Charlotte, or everyone in this room dies.”
The air vanishes from my lungs.
His blue eyes don’t blink. They burn through the silk veil, through me. A dare. A warning.
Gasps ripple across the hall. The underworld elite—men who aren’t supposed to flinch—now sit frozen, their polished masks slipping, revealing fear.
My fingers curl around the edge of my veil, knuckles white. The Vera Wang gown that once felt regal now clings to me like a trap. The silk organza sticks to my skin. The Chantilly lace bodice presses against scars I never wanted anyone to see.
Cassian takes a single step forward.
His black Tom Ford suit absorbs every ounce of light.
“You can cry later. Right now, you’re mine. So stand there, wear the ring, and lie through your teeth like a good little wife.”
The priest's face pale, he adjusts his stole with shaking fingers. “Let no man put asunder,” he mutters under his breath. “Shall we begin the vows?”
His eyes dart to Cassian, fear naked in them.
The guests shift, their whispers a low hum, but no one moves. They know the Morettis—cross them, and you don’t walk away.
My heart hammers, “I can’t,” I whisper, my voice breaking, but Cassian’s hand grips my wrist, his touch iron, his eyes promising worse than death.
“You will,” he says, his voice a velvet blade. He nods to the priest, who flinches, clutching his Bible like a shield. “Continue.”
The priest’s voice quavers as he recites the vows, each word a nail in my coffin.
“Do you, Charlotte, take Cassian Moretti to be your lawfully wedded husband?” My throat closes, my vision blurring.
I think of my mother, trapped in Chicago’s underworld, of Vincent, missing, of Grandfather’s wish binding me to this family. Cassian’s my only lead to her, but this? This is a cage.
“I...” I falter, my eyes locked on Cassian’s, searching for a crack in his cruelty. There’s none. Just fire and possession.
“Say it,” he growls, his grip tightening, pain shooting up my arm.
“I do,” I choke out, the words ash on my tongue.
The crowd exhales, a collective release, but the tension doesn’t break—it thickens.
Cassian’s smirk widens, triumphant, as the priest stumbles through the groom’s vows.
