The silk of my wedding gown felt like a shroud against my skin, each delicate stitch a reminder of the gilded cage I was willingly stepping into. Or, more accurately, being shoved into. Tonight, I, Carmela Esposito, was to become the wife of Diego Moretti, nephew of my godfather and head of the Chicago Outfit. A marriage of convenience, they called it. A strategic alliance. I called it a life sentence.
The church was a grotesque display of wealth and power. Stained-glass windows depicted scenes of saints, but I knew the real religion practiced here was that of loyalty and bloodshed. The air was thick with the scent of incense and unspoken threats. My father, a ghost of the man he once was, stood beside me, his hand trembling as he squeezed mine. He knew what this meant for me. For us.
"Are you ready, carla?" he whispered, his voice hoarse.
Ready? No. Resigned? Absolutely. "As I'll ever be, Papa," I replied, forcing a smile.
The organ music swelled, and the heavy oak doors creaked open. The sea of faces turned toward me, each one a mask of indifference or veiled curiosity. I walked down the aisle, my chin held high, trying to project an image of strength I didn't feel. Diego stood at the altar, a statue carved from granite. His dark eyes, the color of midnight, met mine, and for a fleeting moment, I saw something flicker within them. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the cold, calculating gaze I had come to expect.
He was handsome, undeniably so. Sharp jawline, a strong nose, and lips that looked as though they were permanently set in a scowl. He was a man built for war, and tonight, I was his prize.
The ceremony was a blur of Latin phrases and forced smiles. I repeated the vows, my voice barely a whisper, promising to love, honor, and obey a man I barely knew. A man who represented everything I despised.
"You may kiss the bride," the priest droned.
Diego's hand found the small of my back, and he pulled me close. His lips were firm, possessive, and devoid of any warmth. It was a kiss meant to be seen, a declaration of ownership. When he finally pulled away, his eyes held a warning.
"Welcome to the family, Carmela," he said, his voice a low rumble.
The reception was a lavish affair, held at the Moretti estate. The grounds were sprawling, the mansion a monument to excess. Guests mingled, champagne flowed, and the air buzzed with gossip and speculation. I was paraded around like a trophy wife, introduced to every capo and consigliere in the Outfit. Each handshake felt like a brand, each forced smile a betrayal.
As the night wore on, I found myself increasingly isolated. Diego was busy with his own affairs, his attention divided between me and the endless stream of men vying for his favor. I watched him from across the room, studying his every move. This was my mission, after all. To observe, to gather information, to report back to my godfather. I was to be his eyes and ears within the Moretti organization.
But the closer I looked, the more conflicted I felt. Diego was a complex man, a paradox of brutality and charm. There were moments when I saw a flicker of humanity in his eyes, a hint of vulnerability beneath the hardened exterior. And despite myself, I found myself drawn to him.
Later that night, as I sat alone in our opulent bedroom, the weight of my decision crashed down upon me. I was trapped, caught between loyalty and desire. My duty was to my family, but my heart… my heart was beginning to betray me.
A knock on the door startled me. Diego entered, his tie undone, his eyes dark with exhaustion. He looked at me, and for the first time, I saw a hint of uncertainty in his gaze.
"It's late," he said, his voice softer than I had ever heard it. "You should get some rest."
I nodded, unable to speak. He turned to leave, but then hesitated, his hand resting on the doorknob.
"Carmela," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "This wasn't my choice."
And with that, he was gone, leaving me alone with my thoughts. His words echoed in my mind, a seed of doubt planted in the fertile ground of my conflicted heart. This wasn't his choice? What did that mean?
As I lay in the massive bed, surrounded by silk sheets and the ghosts of my shattered dreams, I realized that I was no longer just a spy. I was a pawn in a much larger game, and the rules were about to change.
The first twist came sooner than I expected. A phone call in the dead of night, a hushed voice on the other end, revealing a plot against Diego. My godfather, the man I was supposed to be loyal to, was planning to eliminate his own nephew. And I, Carmela Esposito Moretti, was caught in the crossfire.
My mission had just become a whole lot more complicated.
The voice on the phone was raspy, urgent. "They're moving tonight, Carmela. Don Carlo wants Diego gone. Said you'd be…compensated."
Compensated. As if my life, my soul, could be bought with blood money. Fury, hot and sharp, coursed through me. My godfather, the man who held my father's life in his hands, had just signed my death warrant. Because if Diego died, I was as good as gone too.
I hung up, my hands shaking. I had to warn him. But how? Trust was a luxury I couldn't afford. Yet, inaction meant certain death for both of us.
I found Diego in his study, the air thick with cigar smoke. He looked up, his expression unreadable. "Something wrong, cara?"
"I…I need to talk to you," I stammered, my heart pounding against my ribs.
He raised an eyebrow, a silent invitation to continue. I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what I had to say. "There's a hit. Tonight. Don Carlo…"
His eyes narrowed, the room suddenly colder. "My uncle? What are you saying?"
"He wants you dead, Diego. I just found out." The words tumbled out, a desperate plea for him to believe me.
He stared at me, his gaze piercing. I could see the gears turning in his mind, weighing my words, assessing my loyalty. "And why would you tell me this, Carmela? What's in it for you?"
It was now or never. I met his gaze, my voice firm despite the fear that threatened to consume me. "Because if you die, so do I"