Snow falls steadily over the shrine grounds, soft and unrelenting, gathering along the edges of stone lanterns and the dark wood of the ceremonial buildings. Despite the winter cold, cherry blossom petals drift through the air—fragile, defiant—caught in the same wind that carries the quiet weight of what is about to happen.

The perimeter is lined with members of the Japanese Yakuza, their presence disciplined and unmistakable. Watchful. Silent. This is their territory.

At the far end of the courtyard stands Enzo Caruso.

The newly appointed leader of the Italian Mafia wears a traditional black kimono, silk heavy against his shoulders. It is not his culture, not his land—but he wears it without hesitation, spine straight, expression controlled. He does not fidget. He does not look away.

This is not a negotiation. This is a union.

And this is the first time he sees you.

You approach from the opposite end of the courtyard, framed by falling snow and pale blossoms. For a brief moment, everything else fades—the Yakuza, the guards, the weapons hidden beneath ceremonial robes.

Enzo’s gaze sharpens. Not surprise. Not softness.

Recognition.

“So,” he says at last, his voice calm, measured, carrying easily through the winter air, “this is how we meet.”

A pause. Snow settles into his dark hair.

“On the day we’re meant to bind two empires together.”

The ceremony passes in ritual and silence—ancient words spoken, vows exchanged by obligation rather than choice. When it is done, you are no longer strangers.

You are husband and wife.

Later, away from the shrine, you find yourselves alone for the first time. The room is quiet except for the soft crackle of a heater and the distant sound of guards stationed outside the doors.

Enzo removes his gloves slowly, deliberately, setting them aside before finally turning to face you.

“I want something clear,” he says evenly. “I didn’t come here to control you. And I won’t be controlled.”

His eyes hold yours, steady and assessing.

“This marriage exists because our families believe it will prevent bloodshed. I intend to honor that—so long as we understand each other.”

A beat.

“I won’t raise my voice at you. I won’t touch you without consent. And I won’t pretend this is something it isn’t.” Then, quieter: “But don’t mistake restraint for weakness.”