After the Vows

The cars waited outside the church, sleek and black, engines idling with a low, patient purr. Bodyguards flanked the perimeter, suits sharp, eyes sharper. A few men lingered near the stone steps, cigars already lit, smoke curling lazily into the night air as if nothing irreversible had just taken place.

Bella slid into the backseat, the hem of her gown brushing the leather. Luca followed a second later, the door closing with a final, hollow thud. The seatbelt clicked into place with mechanical precision.

For a long moment, neither spoke.

The air between them was stretched thin, taut with disbelief, confusion, and the unspoken knowledge that nothing would ever return to what it had been an hour ago.

Finally, Bella exhaled, barely louder than a breath.

“So… that happened.”

Luca stared straight ahead, jaw tight, hands folded in his lap like anchors.

“Yes.”

His voice was controlled, even, but his shoulders betrayed the tension he refused to name.

They exchanged a brief glance. Just long enough to confirm that neither of them was imagining this. Then silence swallowed them again.

The cars pulled away, gliding through quiet streets. City lights slid across the windows, indifferent, unaware that alliances had shifted and futures had been rewritten behind tinted glass.

Neither wanted to speak, yet the silence pressed hard. Bella adjusted her veil, the small movement doing nothing to calm her thoughts. Luca’s gaze flicked toward her, then away. Their hands rested inches apart, close enough to feel, too far to touch.

It was the kind of quiet that screamed. Too much had changed. Too fast.

When the cars arrived, the grand hall rose before them in velvet and stone. Gilded columns. Crystal chandeliers burning warm and heavy above. Outside, the night was flawless. Inside, control was absolute.

Security parted smoothly. A few men stood near the entrance, cigars glowing between their fingers, murmured conversations punctuated by smoke and the clink of glasses.

The grand doors opened, and they stepped in together. Luca led, his hand wrapped lightly around Bella’s, guiding her through the polished marble hall. Guests turned, polite smiles and murmured congratulations following their every step. The faint scent of cigars curled through the air, mixing with champagne and perfumed silk, a smoky haze lending the room an edge of danger beneath its elegance.

Every eye was on them, yet the couple seemed almost frozen in place. The world continued, but they moved through it in slow motion, shock and disbelief keeping their faces still, their bodies tense.

Luca’s grip on her hand was firm but gentle, a silent anchor. Bella’s other hand brushed the folds of her gown as she followed him, her veil slightly lifted, catching the warm chandelier light. Neither spoke; the words would have felt absurd in the quiet storm of emotions between them.

Guests whispered quietly, some laughing softly, the clink of glasses punctuating the murmur, while the lingering scent of cigars reminded everyone of the latent danger even in celebration.

Luca gestured toward a velvet settee at one end. “Sit?” His voice was low, measured, still under control.

Bella hesitated, then lowered herself gracefully onto the couch, her gown spilling around her like liquid silver. Luca hesitated, then took the edge of a nearby chair.

Silence settled again. Not hostile. Just heavy. A pause carved out of chaos.

From the billiard room came the muted clack of a cue striking a ball. Somewhere nearby, a lighter flared, followed by the slow exhale of cigar smoke.

They were married. And utterly unprepared for what that meant.

Bella broke the silence, voice low.

“So… this is it.”

“Yes.”

Another pause. Another glance. Something eased, just slightly. Not comfort. Not peace. Just the quiet recognition that whatever this was, they were standing in it together.

Guests began to trickle in, their polite murmurs and soft footsteps filling the hall. Bella drifted toward a cluster of familiar faces, offering a small nod here, a soft smile there. Luca’s attention was drawn to his father, who approached with careful precision, and soon they were engaged in a measured conversation, words low, expressions controlled.

Across the room, Bella’s interactions were equally deliberate, small talk masking the whirlwind in her chest.

Slowly, almost unconsciously, they gravitated toward the opposite ends of the hall. Bella sank onto a velvet settee, breath finally catching up with her body, while Luca lingered near the billiard table, glass of whiskey in hand.

Their eyes met once more. Brief. Electric. Unresolved.

Bella’s mind raced, her heart thudding in disbelief: I should have been marrying Alessandro… and yet here he is. Luca. Somehow… this is real.

Marco, perched on the edge of the billiard table himself, noticed instantly. He had been watching Bella and Luca, reading every twitch, every hesitation, every fraction of a glance. The game was elegant. The hall was polished. And yet, these two—the heirs of powerful families—were emotionally paralysed.

Marco stood, walking toward Luca, his shoes silent on the marble and leaned against the table.

“So,” he said calmly, “are you his double… or did you install some kind of emotional firewall?”

Luca frowned. “What?”

Marco smiled thinly.

“If you’d moved like this when bullets were flying, you’d be dead.”

Luca stared into his glass. “I’m still trying to understand what just happened.”

“I figured.” Marco nodded toward Bella. “Funny how the chemistry disappears when the danger does.”

He stepped back, voice lowering.

“That’s my sister. She’s yours. And right now, you’re the only person who can make this not destroy her.”

The words landed hard.

Marco added quietly, “You’re not her cage. But if you don’t move, someone else will.”

Luca’s eyes flicked toward him. He inclined his head slightly. “Understood.”

“Good,” Marco said. “Now go act like the man she married.”

Luca gave a brief nod, then stepped away from the billiard table. His gaze lingered on Bella for a fraction of a second before he moved toward the balcony.

Marco, lingering in the shadows by the table, lit a cigar, the glow briefly illuminating his face. He drew in a slow breath, letting the smoke curl around him, eyes fixed on Luca. Come on… be that Santoro again. The one I saw in the shooting. The one with fire, with presence, with her. Don’t waste this moment.

The night air sliced clean through the tension coiled in Luca’s chest. The city stretched below him, indifferent and alive.

He lifted the glass and took a long, deliberate swallow.

Not a sip.

Not for show.

A real drink.

The burn hit hard, grounding him, dragging him fully back into his body. He exhaled slowly, resting his forearms against the cold stone railing, letting the alcohol settle where control had failed.

“Okay,” he muttered. “Focus. Get it together.”

She’s here. She’s mine. Something I never imagined could happen… and yet, somehow, it has.

He straightened, jaw set, gaze steady. Fire returned—controlled, deliberate, unmistakable.

Inside, Bella had finally caught her breath. A sip of champagne had loosened the tight knot of disbelief in her chest, and she allowed herself a small smile. Don Giovanni stood nearby, calm but watchful, while Don Vittorio’s sharp gaze tracked his son like a hawk. Bella found herself laughing quietly at some trivial remark, the first unguarded moment since the hall had opened its doors.

Her father leaned in slightly. “You okay?”

Bella nodded, fingers tracing the delicate embroidery on her dress. “I… think so. Just… processing.”

“Processing?” Vittorio’s eyes flicked to Luca. “You’re not the only one.”

The irony was not lost on her. The entire day had been orchestrated, a web of strategy so dense that not even she or Luca had seen it coming. And yet, the pull between them—the one no strategy could contain—was still there, quietly burning beneath the surface.