Chapter 13: The Wedding
We married in December.
Not in a cathedral. Not in a ballroom. Not in front of hundreds of strangers with champagne they hadn't earned and smiles they didn't mean.
We married in Dante's garden. Just us, a judge, and the closest people we had—his right-hand man Carlo, my assistant Maya, and the winter roses blooming impossibly in the cold.
I wore ivory. Simple. No veil, no train, no ostentation. Just a woman choosing her own future.
Dante wore black, because of course he did. But his eyes—God, his eyes when I walked toward him. They were softer than I'd ever seen them. Vulnerable in a way he allowed no one else to witness.
"You're sure?" he murmured as I took his hands. Even now, giving me an exit.
"I've never been more sure of anything."
The vows were short. We'd both lived through enough empty words to know their worthlessness. What mattered was what we'd already proven—through fire, through betrayal, through the dark months of rebuilding.
After, we sat together in the warm kitchen of the penthouse that was now ours, eating pasta he'd made from scratch, drinking wine that cost more than my old monthly allowance from Marcus.
"Sera Corsetti," I said, testing it. "Sounds dangerous."
"It should." He refilled my glass, that subtle smile on his lips. "It is."
We talked about the future that night. Not survival—we were past that. But building. Langford Industries was thriving under my leadership. Dante's organization was shifting—legitimate investments, real estate, the kind of legacy that didn't require blood.
"My brother would have liked you," Dante said suddenly, staring at the fire. His voice was rough. "He always said I needed someone who could match me. Someone fearless."
I leaned into his side. "I'm not fearless. I was terrified the whole time."
"That's what makes it courage." He pressed his lips to the top of my head. "Fear is nothing. It's what you do while afraid that defines you."
The next morning, I woke to sunlight and warmth and the sound of Dante making coffee in the next room. For a disorienting moment, I thought I was back—back in Marcus's house, back in that other life, back in the body of the woman who was too afraid to fight.
Then I felt the ring on my finger. The weight of it. The promise.
I was Sera Corsetti now. And this life—this impossibly beautiful, hard-won life—was mine.
But the world doesn't stop just because you find happiness.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. An unknown number.
I answered.
"Mrs. Corsetti." The voice was accented. Cold. "Your husband destroyed our business. Your testimony put our associate in prison." A pause. "The Volkov family does not forget."
The line went dead.
I sat there in the morning light, the phone cold in my hand, and felt the old familiar ice creep through my veins.
It wasn't over.
---
Not in a cathedral. Not in a ballroom. Not in front of hundreds of strangers with champagne they hadn't earned and smiles they didn't mean.
We married in Dante's garden. Just us, a judge, and the closest people we had—his right-hand man Carlo, my assistant Maya, and the winter roses blooming impossibly in the cold.
I wore ivory. Simple. No veil, no train, no ostentation. Just a woman choosing her own future.
Dante wore black, because of course he did. But his eyes—God, his eyes when I walked toward him. They were softer than I'd ever seen them. Vulnerable in a way he allowed no one else to witness.
"You're sure?" he murmured as I took his hands. Even now, giving me an exit.
"I've never been more sure of anything."
The vows were short. We'd both lived through enough empty words to know their worthlessness. What mattered was what we'd already proven—through fire, through betrayal, through the dark months of rebuilding.
After, we sat together in the warm kitchen of the penthouse that was now ours, eating pasta he'd made from scratch, drinking wine that cost more than my old monthly allowance from Marcus.
"Sera Corsetti," I said, testing it. "Sounds dangerous."
"It should." He refilled my glass, that subtle smile on his lips. "It is."
We talked about the future that night. Not survival—we were past that. But building. Langford Industries was thriving under my leadership. Dante's organization was shifting—legitimate investments, real estate, the kind of legacy that didn't require blood.
"My brother would have liked you," Dante said suddenly, staring at the fire. His voice was rough. "He always said I needed someone who could match me. Someone fearless."
I leaned into his side. "I'm not fearless. I was terrified the whole time."
"That's what makes it courage." He pressed his lips to the top of my head. "Fear is nothing. It's what you do while afraid that defines you."
The next morning, I woke to sunlight and warmth and the sound of Dante making coffee in the next room. For a disorienting moment, I thought I was back—back in Marcus's house, back in that other life, back in the body of the woman who was too afraid to fight.
Then I felt the ring on my finger. The weight of it. The promise.
I was Sera Corsetti now. And this life—this impossibly beautiful, hard-won life—was mine.
But the world doesn't stop just because you find happiness.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. An unknown number.
I answered.
"Mrs. Corsetti." The voice was accented. Cold. "Your husband destroyed our business. Your testimony put our associate in prison." A pause. "The Volkov family does not forget."
The line went dead.
I sat there in the morning light, the phone cold in my hand, and felt the old familiar ice creep through my veins.
It wasn't over.
---