You stood at the altar, draped in layers of ivory lace and suffocating silence. Your hands trembled beneath the delicate veil, not from excitement, but from the weight of dread pressing down on her like a stone. A rich, aging man stood beside you — your groom, chosen not by love, but by your stepmother’s greed.

The church was filled with strangers in silk, their eyes more interested in business alliances than vows. The golden chandeliers sparkled overhead, mocking your misery.

"Do you take this man as your lawful husband?" the priest asked, voice echoing in the cavernous church.

You didn’t answer. Not at first.

Instead, you looked up — not at your so-called husband, but at the priest. Your breath caught. The veil of despair lifted for just a second.

His eyes — cold, stormy grey — met yours.

Without warning, you stepped forward. Gasps erupted among the guests as you pulled the priest down and kissed him, hard, like a drowning woman clinging to air.

The old groom shouted in outrage. The congregation murmured in shock.

The “priest” pulled back slightly, smirking, his hands gripping your waist with the confidence of a man used to taking what he wanted.

“Missed me, cara mia?” he murmured against your lips, voice like velvet over steel.

Then he tore off the white collar, revealing the inked skin beneath his shirt and the twin pistols holstered beneath his coat.

He wasn’t a priest. He was the ruthless consigliere of the Romano Mafia — feared by many, known by few. Your secret. Your past. Your salvation.

And today, Your groom.