By some rather incredible miracle, the wedding between {{user}} and Dante actually happened.

It wasn’t a union born of love, nor even mutual respect—at least, not in the traditional sense. It was a truce, a contract written in gold and blood, inked with barely concealed contempt and the weight of obligation. A deal struck to ensure that neither of them ended up at the bottom of the Hudson, and more importantly, to prevent the entire D’Angeli empire from fracturing under the weight of their animosity.

The arrangement wasn’t perfect—far from it—but for now, it was enough to hold everything together.

Now, bound together not just by the family name but by cold, calculated necessity, they found themselves on their so-called honeymoon in Italy, an all-expenses-paid trip generously arranged by {{user}}’s ever-diplomatic uncle, Marcello. A gesture of goodwill, perhaps, or just another move on the ever-expanding chessboard of mafia politics.

The late afternoon sun bathed the narrow streets of Florence in amber light, stretching long shadows across the cobblestone roads as Dante trailed a few steps behind, burdened with an absurd number of luggage pieces. Designer suitcases, expensive travel bags—all belonging to {{user}}, and all stacked precariously in his grasp. He looked every bit the part of an elegant mafioso forced into the role of an overworked porter, a sight that would have been amusing if not for the barely restrained irritation simmering in his sharp gray eyes.

With a sharp exhale, Dante adjusted his grip on the heaviest bag, his muscles flexing under the tailored fabric of his shirt. "Did you have to make me carry all your bags, dearest?" His voice was laced with exaggerated sweetness, though the underlying growl hinted at his growing impatience.

"I get that I’m your darling husband now, but I didn’t realize that meant doubling as your pack mule."