Page 3 of Brutal Union
"I object."
His voice cuts through the cathedral like a blade through silk, two words that rewrite everything. But then he adds more that make my knees weak:
"She's mine."
2 - Marco
“The bride is mine by right of conquest.”
My voice carries through the cathedral like a blade through silk, invoking laws older than this city. Laws written in blood before Chicago had a name. The ancient right of a stronger family to claim what the weak cannot protect.
Silence follows my words. The kind that comes before violence.
I stride down the aisle with the confidence of a man who's already won. My brothers emerge from the pews like shadows given form. Dante on the left, silent and lethal in his dark suit. Luca on the right with that unsettling smile. Alessandro near the back doors. Nico by the windows. My soldiers shed their sheep's clothing, revealing the wolves beneath. Sofia rises from her seat near the bridesmaids, her yellow silk dress hiding the blade I know she carries.
The cathedral erupts in whispers, then movement. Hands reach for weapons. Safeties click off. The Bernardi soldiers look to their boss for orders while the Irish scramble to understand what's happening. They expected a wedding. They're getting a war.
But my eyes stay locked on Valentina.
She stands frozen at the altar in her grandmother's dress, all that vintage lace making her look like something out of a fever dream. Her dark eyes are wide with shock, but I see the exact moment surprise shifts to fury. Her spine straightens. Her chinlifts. There's my principessa. The one who threw wine in my face rather than accept my authority.
The dress clings to her form perfectly, highlighting every curve I've imagined since that night two years ago. The vintage lace speaks of tradition, of generations of Bernardi women bound by duty. Soon she'll understand what it means to be bound to me instead.
"You can't do this," Alonzo Bernardi's voice cracks across the space. "This is 2024, not 1924. The old laws…"
"The old laws were never revoked." I don't look at him. Can't take my eyes off his daughter. "Just forgotten by men too weak to enforce them."
Valentina's hands clench around her bouquet. White roses and baby's breath, traditional and pure. Nothing like the woman holding them. I remember her in my conference room, that red dress clinging to curves that haunted me for months, her voice passionate as she argued for territory that would never be hers.
She was magnificent that night. Standing in my office like she had the right to challenge me. No fear, just pure conviction. It was the first time in years someone saw me as a man instead of a monster. I've been chasing that feeling ever since.
Now she'll be mine instead. Along with everything else her father thought to bargain away.
"Like hell."
Alonzo reaches for his gun, but his hand freezes halfway. Dante has materialized beside him, close enough to whisper, close enough to kill. My brother doesn't need words. Never has, since that night he lost his voice. His presence alone is threat enough.
"You planned this." Alonzo's face drains of color as understanding dawns. "Your men were already here."
"Control is my religion." I continue my approach, each step measured. "Did you really think I'd let an Irish-Italian alliance form in my city?"
Liam O'Brien finally finds his spine, stepping forward. "She's my bride…"
The words die as Dante's hand closes around his throat. Not squeezing, not yet, just resting there with promise. The Irish prince goes pale beneath his spray tan. Behind him, his father's men reach for weapons, but they're outnumbered three to one.
"Your bride?" I laugh, the sound sharp enough to cut. "You were borrowing her, O'Brien. A political prop for a doomed alliance."
Sofia glides between the pews with lethal grace, her sweet smile never wavering as she positions herself behind the Irish contingent. The blade appears in her hand like magic. There, then gone, just enough for them to see. My baby sister, who everyone underestimates because she looks like she stepped out of a fashion magazine. They don't know she's killed more men than Luca.
"This is sacred ground," the priest stammers. "You cannot…"
"We're all Catholic here, Father." My voice carries dark amusement. "We've been desecrating sacred ground for generations. One more sin won't damn us any deeper."
Valentina finally finds her voice. "You arrogant bastard."
There she is. There's the fire that made me decide she'd be mine. Two years since she made me feel anything beyond cold calculation. Two years of wanting to destroy her and taste her in equal measure.
I reach the altar. Close enough to see the rapid pulse at her throat. Close enough to smell her perfume. Something French and expensive. Church incense clings to her skin, mixing with that perfume. Sacred and profane. She smells like sin in a confessional.
