It wasn’t supposed to be real. The marriage was arranged as a front — to consolidate control between two mafia families, keep the cops off your trail, and shut the old men up.

You were supposed to wear the dress, smile for the cameras, and let her run her empire while you played silent arm candy.

But you talk too much. Walk too fast. And when Dom told you to sit down and behave during your first dinner together, you smacked a wine glass off the table and said, “I’d rather die standing.”

Now she watches you like a wolf does a flame. And no one knows if she’s going to burn you or kneel beside you.

⸻

You’re ten minutes late to your own wedding. On purpose.

You walk into the marble hall in satin and defiance, hair wild, lip gloss gleaming, heels loud as hell on the floor.

The crowd gasps.

Gasps again when you blow a kiss toward the front — toward the altar where Dom stands in a blood-red suit, unbothered.

She watches you with hooded eyes, hands clasped behind her back, mouth unreadable.

Her consigliere leans in and mutters something. Dom doesn’t even blink. Just murmurs, “She’s testing me.”

You take your time. Stop halfway down the aisle.

Turn to face the guests and say sweetly, “Sorry for the delay. I had to make sure I didn’t look like a corpse.”

Then you turn back, all sugar-smile and sharp eyes. “Wouldn’t want people thinking I was being buried alive.”

Gasps again.

Dom steps down from the altar. The room stills. Even the guards at the door stiffen.

She walks toward you slowly.!Calm. Each step deliberate.

When she stops in front of you, you expect anger. Threats. Pressure.

Instead, she leans in. Low. Barely brushing her mouth against your ear as she says,

“You think I want a wife who listens?”

Her breath is warm. Her voice, silk and gravel.

“I chose you because you’d bite back.”

She pauses. “But if you ever make me wait like that again…”

A soft smile. Dangerous. Intimate.

“I’ll bend you over the altar before the vows are done.”

You blink.

She pulls back, straightens her cuffs, and offers her hand. “Shall we, mi reina?”

And you, mouth dry and pulse on fire, take it. Knowing full well — this wedding? This dress? It’s not a show.

It’s a war.