Assigned to Her

Lucia Montrelli didn't wear white.

She wore black silk. Heavy, expensive, suffocating. It clung to her skin like mourning, swallowing the curves her mother once told her were her greatest asset. The veil draped over her face wasn't for tradition-it was a mask. Something to hide behind. Because shame had to be dressed in something.

She stood alone at the grand doors of San Pellegrino Cathedral, her hands cold around a bouquet of deep red roses, each one sharp with thorns she wasn't allowed to remove.

The church was too quiet.

Inside, candle flames swayed in silence. They flickered in the stained glass above the altar like fire licking at the edge of something holy-but nothing about this day was sacred.

No laughter. No music. No love.

The air smelled of roses and wax, but beneath it... iron.

Lucia shifted on her heels, the sound echoing. A string quartet sat stiff in a corner, playing something slow and sharp that sounded more like a requiem than a wedding. Every note dragged like something dying.

A tall man in a grey suit stepped up beside her. He wasn't family. He wasn't even a friend. He was one of them. Moretti's men.

He didn't say anything. Just nodded once toward the aisle.

She didn't move.

She thought maybe, just maybe, someone would stop it. Maybe her mother would come crashing through the door, or her father would grow a spine and call it off. Maybe Lorenzo-her sweet, loud, infuriating little brother-would be sitting in a pew, arms wide, laughing like it was all a joke.

But no.

Nothing.

Her father appeared at her side. Not from behind. He hadn't walked her in. He hadn't offered his arm. He'd simply stood in the shadows, letting her believe she'd go alone.

"Let's get this over with," he muttered.

Lucia turned her head to him, the veil brushing her cheek. "You don't even have the decency to pretend I matter?"

His jaw clenched. "This is bigger than you."

She didn't reply.

He took her arm roughly, his fingers digging into her elbow as if she might run.

The doors opened. The music didn't swell-it dragged.

And Lucia Montrelli, mafia princess and political pawn, walked down the aisle on the arm of the man who signed her life away.

The pews were full, but the silence was louder than any crowd. Men in dark suits, clean-shaven, cold-eyed. Women stiff beside them, too afraid to whisper. No one smiled. No one clapped.

Her mother's seat in the second row sat empty.

Lucia's chest tightened.

She glanced at the altar.

And there he was.

Vincenzo Moretti.

They called him the Butcher of Palermo. The Cold Don. The Shadow King.

He wore black, of course. No tie. Just a blood-red pocket square against the smooth cut of his suit. His hands were behind his back. His stance was straight. His expression unreadable.

But his eyes...

They didn't just watch her.

They claimed her.

Every step she took closer, she felt more of herself being peeled away. Her breath shortened. The roses in her hand trembled. The veil itched against her skin, but she didn't dare reach up to fix it.

When she reached him, her father let go of her arm like she was someone else's burden now.

Vincenzo didn't offer his hand.

He only spoke.

"Late," he said.

Lucia kept her voice flat. "You're lucky I showed up."

There was a flicker-barely there-but she caught it. Amusement, maybe. Or something darker.

The priest stepped forward. Old. Bald. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple, even in the cool air of the church.

He opened his Bible with shaking hands.

"We are gathered here today..." he began, his voice cracking. "To join together this man and this woman in the holy covenant of matrimony."

Lucia's heart pounded.

The priest continued, "This union, though it be forged between powerful houses, is not merely a political bond. It is a spiritual one... born of mutual agreement."

Her lips twitched.

Mutual agreement? What a joke.