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I open my mouth to say… something, anything. But nothing comes out. All I can do is stare at the man I’m supposed to marry. A part of me wants to tell him I’m not pleased with the match either. But I know that’s just my pride rearing its head, so I ignore it.

“No.” Paolo wrenches his arm free, and then he walks down the aisle I just crossed to get to him.

He has one hand shoved in his pocket, his shoulders loose like he’s heading out for a drink, not abandoning his bride at the altar of a Catholic church full of men who kill people for less.

I wordlessly watch him go, unable to fully process what I’m seeing. He’s leaving. He’s actually leaving. The groom is walking out of his own wedding, and I’m standing here with my bouquet raised like an idiot, like a statue of a bride someone abandoned mid-casting.

The doors of the church open and daylight cuts across the aisle, and then he’s gone. I’m still standing here with red roses in my hands and my heart hammering. What am I supposed to do now? God, I need this marriage to save Mom.

The silence is absolute. No one breathes. Father Joseph’s mouth hangs open, mid-word, his hand frozen in a gesture of blessing that he will never complete.

At a loss for what to do, I look at my dad. Though when I see the deep, mottled red that means rage color his face, I wish I hadn’t.

“This is your fault,” he hisses. His voice is low enough that the front row might not hear, but I feel every word like a slap. “You useless little… you couldn’t even keep him interested until the ceremony was over?”

“Dad, I…” I flinch as he raises his hand, already knowing what comes next.

“Useless fucking bitch,” he snarls. “I guess your mom’s life doesn’t matter to you.”

Unable to answer, I close my eyes as I wait for the hit I know is coming. Except… it never comes. When I open my eyes, Domenico DeLuca stands between us. His left hand is closed around my dad’s wrist, suspended in the air where the slap would have connected with my cheek.

He’s good looking. The thought comes unbidden, unwelcome. His jaw is strong, shadowed with permanent five o’clock stubble, and his cheekbones look like they could cut glass. His eyes are a dark and intense shade of blue.

“Mr. DeLuca,” my dad gasps. His wrist is still caught, still suspended. I can see Domenico’s fingers digging into the skin there, whitening with pressure. “I was just… she embarrassed us, she…”

“She’s done nothing.” Domenico’s voice hasn’t changed. Still low, still controlled, still carrying the weight of absolute authority. “You, however, just made a huge mistake. You don’t have permission to hit what’s mine,” he growls.

“She’s not yours—”

“I paid for her,” Domenico snarls. “That makes her mine.”

Dad laughs nervously, like it’s all just a big misunderstanding. “But she was supposed to marry into your family, and she didn’t… so I—”

“I. Still. Fucking. Paid.” Domenico’s tone is icy, and I watch as he increases the pressure on Dad’s wrist. “Or are you going to offer to return my money and pretend you didn’t already gamble most of it away?”

“O-of course,” Dad stammers. “She’s yours to do with as you please.”

As soon as he stops speaking, Domenico twists his hand, breaking Dad’s wrist. The crack is sharp. Clean. My dad collapses to the floor, cradling his wrist, sobbing about mercy.

Domenico doesn’t look at Dad, he looks at me. Those blue eyes travel down my body, taking in the dress he chose, the heels he sent, the exposed skin, and my trembling hands. Suddenly, I feel ridiculous as I stand here dressed like a bride, but without a groom.

“It’s bad luck to kill the bride’s dad on her wedding day,” he says to my dad, without looking away from me. “That’s the only reason I’ll allow you thirty seconds to get out of here.”

“But, Mr. DeLuca—”

“Now!” he shouts, still not looking away from me. “If you’re still here in twenty seconds, I’ll allow my men to use you for target practice.”

My dad scrambles backward and clumsily gets to his feet. He doesn’t look back at me—doesn’t even say goodbye. He just disappears through the side door, and then he’s gone, too.

And I’m standing at the altar with a man who terrifies me more than my dad ever could.

“Let’s get on with it,” Domenico says, turning to Father Joseph.

He blinks. His mouth opens, closes, opens again. “But Mr. DeLuca left. The younger Mr. DeLuca, I mean. He… he abandoned the ceremony. There is no groom.”

Domenico laughs, the sound cold. “There’s another Mr. DeLuca right here.” He steps closer to me. “I said, get on with it.”

Father Joseph opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. And I’m just as confused as he is. None of this makes any sense.