Chapter 3 The Taste Of Submission

Marcella's POV

The morning arrived, gray and cool.

I dressed slowly. The ivory silk felt heavy, like armor. The veil came last, a light shield that dropped over my face. I looked like a bride, but I was carrying a burden of vengeance that outweighed any silk or lace.

The limousine that arrived for me was long, black, and silent. Two of Lorenzo’s men were waiting. They were enormous and humorless. They ushered me into the car with cold, careful respect. They didn't speak.

The drive was long, taking us from Palermo toward the coast, where the air grew sharper with the smell of salt. We drove for an hour, the scenery turning from city to rugged, rocky terrain.

Finally, we stopped at an ancient, dark stone church. It was small, remote, and it looked as if it had stood there for centuries, since the time of the Sicilian Kings. The perfect place for a king to take his prize.

The men guided me inside. The church was dark and cool, heavy with ancient incense. Only a few people were there, a handful of intimidating men in black suits and a few very well-dressed, frightened-looking society figures. No family except my Uncle Giovanni, standing nervously by the first pew.

The priest was waiting at the altar. But my eyes were fixed on the man standing beside him.

Lorenzo De Luca.

I stopped walking. My breath caught in my throat. I had seen photos, but they were nothing compared to reality.

He was massive. Taller and broader than I expected. His black suit looked molded to his dangerous body. His dark hair was slicked back, accentuating the harsh lines of his face. He was still. Absolutely still, radiating a controlled power that made the air feel thick and heavy.

His eyes, fierce and gray, were fixed entirely on me.

I began to walk again, every step a deliberate act of will. Giovanni was beside me, but I didn't feel his presence. I only saw Lorenzo. The killer. The man I was walking toward.

I gripped the roses, feeling the hard metal beneath my fingers.

When I reached the altar, Giovanni shoved my hand toward him with nervous haste.

Lorenzo took it. His grip was firm, warm, and possessive. It felt like a handcuff locking around my wrist.

He did not look at the priest. He looked only at me, his gaze penetrating the thin lace of the veil.

He leaned close as the priest began the formal Latin chant, his mouth near my ear.

"You have beautiful eyes, moglie," he murmured, his voice a low, rough rumble.

Then he whispered the words that confirmed everything I had feared.

"I'm going to enjoy watching the hatred in them turn into something else entirely."

I jerked my hand back, a sudden, sharp, purely visceral rebellion.

He didn't let go. He only tightened his grip, his smile slow, dark, and utterly self-satisfied.

He knew.

The priest's voice droned on in Latin, but I barely heard it. My attention was focused entirely on the rough, possessive heat of Lorenzo De Luca's hand locked around my wrist.

The wedding ceremony was a sham, a political contract dressed up in lace and lies. Every word the priest spoke about love, honor, and devotion felt like a fresh wound. I made the responses. I gave the required nods. I did it all with the practiced, vacant obedience of a woman completely defeated.

Let him believe he won.

My heart hammered a heavy beat against my ribs, a drumbeat of pure, cold malice. My vengeance was coiled tight, ready to spring the moment I stepped inside his walls.

The ring. It was a thick, heavy band of platinum. He slid it onto my finger. It was cold at first, then warmed by my skin, a constant, weighty reminder of my captivity. My hand looked small and frail under his large, dark one.

When the priest finally finished and declared us husband and wife, Lorenzo didn't kiss me. He didn't even lift my veil. He simply tilted his head, his gray eyes burning into mine through the lace. It was a look of cold, calculating ownership.

"Let's go, moglie," he murmured, his voice low enough that only I could hear it. He used the Italian word for wife again. A command, not a term of affection.

He finally released my wrist only to slip his arm around my back, guiding me down the aisle. The procession was silent, formal, and intimidating. No rice, no cheers, only the quiet rustle of expensive clothes and the heavy footfalls of his security men.

My uncle Giovanni looked pale and relieved to see the ceremony finished. He was the only Vale present. A few small clusters of people offered polite, hurried congratulations. Everyone was clearly terrified of the groom.

The reception was held at a huge, beautiful villa nearby, one of Lorenzo's properties. It was lavish, cold, and quiet. There was rich food, endless wine, and no celebration. It was a gathering of wolves.

I stood beside Lorenzo as guests approached. They offered their respects to him and brief, curious glances at me. I was a cipher, a new accessory.

I smiled when required. A thin, cold smile that didn't reach my eyes. I accepted the limp handshakes and nervous well-wishes. Every time I reached for the thick bouquet of white roses, my fingers reassured themselves with the hidden knife handle taped to the stem. It was the only real comfort I had.

Lorenzo was a master of silent command. He never raised his voice, but every person who approached him acted with nervous haste. He was polite, remote, and completely terrifying. He introduced me simply as "Marcella, my wife," his hand resting possessively on the small of my back.

During a brief moment when his consigliere, Salvatore Greco, pulled him away, I managed to slip a few feet toward the massive buffet table. I needed a moment to breathe, to stop feeling the heat of his gaze.

Elena had been right. He was impossibly dominant. The hatred that had been my armor was starting to feel brittle under his overwhelming presence.

A stout woman, glittering with too many diamonds and worry in her eyes, approached me. "You are very beautiful, Signora De Luca. You make a lovely couple."

"Thank you," I said, forcing a smile.

"I hope you will be very happy in your new home. Casa della Lucertola is quite isolated, but safe. The safest place in Sicily, perhaps." She leaned closer, her voice dropping. "He is difficult, the Don. You must be obedient. It is the only way."

I nodded, feeling a chill. She was warning me. She knew what he was. Everyone here did.

Lorenzo returned quickly, his hand immediately replacing itself on my back. His touch was an electrical current that I couldn't ignore.

"My wife is tiring quickly," he said, cutting the conversation short with a smooth finality that brooked no argument.

He steered me away from the crowd toward the center of the large ballroom floor. The music shifted to a slow, formal Italian song.

"The first dance," he stated, not asked.

This was a moment I had dreaded. Physical closeness. The last thing I wanted was to be held by the man who destroyed my world.

He pulled me into his arms. One hand settled on the small of my back, holding me firmly against him. The other took my hand, the one wearing his ring.

We moved slowly, formally. He led, and I followed, rigid in his grip. The movement brought us close, too close. I could smell the sharp, clean scent of his expensive cologne and the faint, coppery scent of the danger that clung to him.

I kept my head down, staring at the front of his tailored black shirt. I focused on the knife handle in the roses, the only thing keeping me steady.

"Look at me, Marcella," he commanded, his voice low, private.

I lifted my eyes slowly, forcing them to meet his fierce gray gaze. His face was only inches from mine.

"You look beautiful," he said. It wasn't a compliment. It was a statement of fact, of ownership. "But the fire in your eyes is still burning."

My stomach dropped. I tried to pull back, but his grip tightened, pulling me flush against his hard chest.

"I don't know what you mean," I lied, my voice quiet but level.

He leaned in, his lips brushing my ear. His breath was warm against my skin.

"Oh, I think you do," he murmured. "You signed the contract. You dressed up. You know exactly who you married, and you know what I am. That look of cold vengeance you have mastered is almost perfect."

My blood ran cold. How could he know? Had Giovanni betrayed me? Had he guessed?

"It's grief," I whispered, the lie feeling weak and thin. "I just lost my family."

He chuckled, a low, unsettling sound. "Grief doesn't usually buy a one-way ticket to the killer's bed, Signora De Luca."

He stopped moving, holding me pinned in the middle of the dance floor. The few other couples had faded away, leaving us alone in a circle of silence.

His gray eyes locked onto mine, hard and demanding.

Then he whispered the words that broke my carefully built composure.

"Tell me, Marcella. Did you bring a weapon to our wedding?"

My breath hitched. My heart tried to beat its way out of my chest. I stared at him, words caught in my throat, my body frozen in place.

He knew. Somehow, he knew I was armed.

The realization hit me: this man was not just a killer. He was a predator, always three steps ahead.

"Don't worry," he continued, his smile slow and chilling. "I'll find out soon enough."

He dipped his head then, his mouth finally finding mine. The kiss was not sweet or tender. It was hard, demanding, and utterly possessive. A formal, public claim of ownership.

I stood rigid in his arms, feeling the cold weight of his ring and the terrifying proximity of the man who meant to break me. I tried to return the kiss with loathing, but a sliver of something else, something terrifyingly reluctant, slipped through my defiance.

He released my lips, his thumb tracing the curve of my jaw.

"Now," he said, his voice husky. "Let's go home."

He led me off the dance floor, his hand never leaving my body.

I walked out of the reception, out of the light, and into the darkness of my new life as His Vengeful Bride.