Chapter 2 — The Tense Wedding

Adrian

The Cathedral of Saint Benedetto loomed ahead, its Gothic spires clawing at the overcast sky like skeletal fingers. Adrian adjusted his cufflinks, the silver glint catching the dim light filtering through the tinted window of the black car. Each movement was deliberate, precise, as if control could somehow steady the weight tightening around his chest. Sacrifices were the currency of survival, and this—this union—was yet another transaction. But the bitterness curdling at the edges of his thoughts reminded him that peace, in their world, was a fragile, fickle thing.

The car rolled to a halt, tires crunching on the rain-slick gravel. Adrian caught his reflection in the window—a mask of calm, perfectly composed, yet thinner today, fraying at the edges. He stepped out as the driver opened the door, his polished shoes meeting the damp ground with a muted thud. The scent of wet stone and incense clung to the air, heavy and unrelenting, as if the cathedral itself mourned the ceremony about to take place. Straightening his tie, his fingers brushed the edge of his pocket watch through the fabric of his jacket. The familiar weight of it grounded him, a tangible reminder of structure and duty. He paused at the base of the cathedral’s steps, his gaze lifting to the towering structure.

A memory stirred, unbidden—a woman’s soft voice, the flicker of a candle’s flame. His mother’s hands, clasped in prayer at a quiet chapel, her whispered words lost to time. To her, marriage had been sacred, a covenant of love and devotion. Adrian’s jaw tightened. This was nothing of the sort.

Inside, the cathedral was a cavern of light and shadow. Stained-glass windows fractured the gray daylight into shards of color, scattering fractured rainbows across the polished stone floors. The faint scent of incense lingered, mingling with murmured prayers in Italian. Rows of pews stretched toward the altar, their occupants a sea of black suits and glittering jewels. Faces blurred together—family, allies, enemies cloaked in civility. Adrian’s gaze swept the room, cataloging exits, assessing threats. Instinct. Strategy. It was as natural to him as breathing. But today, he wasn’t just a strategist. He was a groom.

And then he saw her.

Valentina Russo stood at the far end of the aisle, framed by the arched doorway. The ivory fabric of her dress clung to her slender frame, its delicate lace sleeves tracing the lines of her arms. Her olive-toned skin glowed faintly in the muted light, but it was her eyes—piercing hazel, alight with fury and resignation—that held him. They locked onto his with unflinching defiance, daring him to look away. She was beautiful, yes, but hers wasn’t a soft beauty. It was sharp, honed, a blade reflecting the light. His jaw tightened. This was no pliant bride. She was a Russo, and that meant trouble.

The organ’s somber notes swelled, reverberating against the vaulted ceilings, and the congregation rose as one. Adrian’s gaze flicked to Marco Russo, who stood beside his daughter. The older man’s expression was carved from stone, his movements calculated as he walked her down the aisle. Adrian noted the subtle clench of Valentina’s fists at her sides, the tension radiating off her in waves. She didn’t want this union any more than he did, and unlike him, she made no effort to hide it. A faint, fleeting smirk tugged at the corner of Adrian’s mouth. She had spirit. That, at least, would make life interesting.

As they reached the altar, Marco took Valentina’s hand and placed it in Adrian’s. The gesture was ceremonial, but the grip was firm—a silent warning passed between them. “Take care of her,” Marco murmured, his voice low, edged with steel. It wasn’t a request. It was a command, a father’s final claim on his daughter even as he handed her over. Adrian met Marco’s gaze with calm, unflinching composure, his own grip steady. He’d been trained for this—negotiations, power plays, the art of dominance wrapped in the veneer of civility. Marco was a seasoned player, but Adrian wasn’t one to be outmaneuvered.

Valentina’s hand in his was colder than expected, her fingers stiff against his palm. She glanced at him, a flicker of fire in her hazel eyes. It wasn’t fear—it was challenge. Daring him to flinch, to falter. He didn’t. His stormy gray eyes held hers, steady and unyielding. There it was again, that defiance. It would complicate things, no doubt, but for a moment, he almost admired it. Almost.

The priest began the ceremony, his voice a low, measured drone that echoed through the vast space. Adrian caught fragments of Latin, the cadence of vows and blessings washing over him like white noise. His focus remained on the woman beside him. Her jaw was set, her gaze fixed just past the priest’s shoulder, her tension visible in the rigid line of her shoulders. He tightened his grip on her hand, a subtle reminder that she couldn’t pretend he wasn’t there.

The tension between them crackled, a silent battle of wills playing out beneath the cathedral’s soaring arches. Adrian felt his father’s gaze from the front row, sharp and unyielding, a weight pressing down on him. The elder DeLuca’s expectations were clear: this marriage wasn’t merely a union. It was a mission. An alliance. A strategy for survival. Adrian exhaled quietly, his expression betraying nothing. He wasn’t doing this for his father. He was doing it for the family. For survival. Or so he told himself.

When the moment came to exchange vows, Valentina turned to face him. Her voice was steady, clipped, each word a blade thrust into the tense air between them. “I vow to honor this arrangement.” The word arrangement hung heavy, deliberate, a pointed reminder of the cold reality they both faced. Adrian’s lips quirked in the faintest hint of amusement before he mirrored her tone, reciting his own vow with the precision of a contract being signed. The weight of their words settled over them, binding them in a union neither wanted but both needed.

And then it was time for the kiss.

Adrian stepped closer, his hand brushing her cheek. He felt the tension in her body, the way she held herself rigid, bracing for impact. For a brief moment, he hesitated. His thumb grazed her jawline, a fleeting gesture that could almost be mistaken for tenderness. Her hazel eyes burned into his, daring him to follow through. So he did. Leaning in, he pressed his lips to hers. It wasn’t a kiss of passion or affection—it was a challenge, a calculated move in their silent war. Brief. Controlled. Enough to seal the vows without giving too much away.

When he pulled back, her eyes remained locked on his, defiant and unyielding. She was daring him to speak, to react. But Adrian merely offered her his arm, his expression unreadable. As they turned to face the congregation, the applause that followed was muted, polite, a hollow echo in the cavernous space.

Descending the steps of the altar, Adrian’s gaze swept the room—and caught on a familiar figure leaning casually against one of the cathedral’s columns. Dante Moretti. The rival gang leader’s sharp features were illuminated by the fractured light, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. He inclined his head in mock respect, a sardonic smile playing at his lips. Adrian's grip on Valentina’s arm tightened, a subtle shift that didn’t escape her notice.

“What is it?” she whispered, her voice low enough for only him to hear.

“Not here,” Adrian murmured, his tone clipped. His mind was already racing, cataloging the implications of Dante’s presence. The man didn’t attend anything without an agenda, and Adrian doubted he was here to offer congratulations.

The ceremony was over, but the battle was only beginning.