Page 19 of Married to the Ruthless Mafia Heir

Someone in the crowd gasped. "The bride fell!"

Everyone stared. Curious. Amused. Because the Don married a maid—once word got out, we'd be a joke.

"Can't even handle this?" Dante didn't offer his hand. Just mocked me coldly, then walked away toward his spot at the end of the aisle, leaving me on the ground.

My hands balled into fists. The dress was too tight, the heels too high. I couldn't stand on my own. Then Alfredo appeared in a crisp suit and hauled me up.

"Today, I'll stand in for your father and hand you over to Dante." His words were cold, like I wasn't a person but cargo he was transporting.

My heart bled.

The violinists started playing. Guests took their seats. Every eye landed on me. I avoided their gazes, held Alfredo's arm, and didn't look at Dante or the guests. Just stared at the red carpet beneath my feet.

This was the path to misery.

Worse—I chose it myself.

Alfredo led me to Dante. He placed my hand in Dante's with a serious expression. Dante wore an elegant, handsome smile. His eyes held no joy.

My hand rested in Dante's palm. The red marks where he'd grabbed me earlier formed a deep ring. I trembled.

The old priest read the vows, asked the question meant to symbolize love and loyalty. "Dante Moretti, do you take this woman to be your wife, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, until death do you part?"

Dante looked at me. Performed being in love for everyone watching. I heard his deep voice say, "I do."

The face turned toward the guests was infinitely gentle. The half facing me carried bone-chilling cold. When my turn came, Dante squeezed my wrist hard again. I pushed through the pain and answered in a shaking voice. "I do."

"Now, exchange rings."

Two rings engraved with each other's names sat on a small tray. Dante slipped the ring bearing his name onto my finger, then kept squeezing my knuckles. He said, "Perfect fit."

I nearly passed out from the pain. With shaking hands, I picked up the other ring and slid it onto Dante's finger. His hand was large and elegant. After I finished, I gently stroked his finger.

His expression darkened. He yanked his hand back, face black as murder.

I forced a smile. Dante knew nothing about my deal with Salvador. I was a victim of this transaction. But wasn't Dante one too? Even if he hated me, hurt me—I couldn't blame him.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife." The old priest looked at us kindly. "You may kiss the bride."

Dante froze for several seconds. I saw the struggle in him. So I lifted the veil myself, stood on my toes, and leaned toward his lips. Dante instinctively turned his face away, repulsed by my closeness.

My heart clenched.

"Salvador's watching," I whispered.

He turned back, eyes burning with undisguised fury. Then his hand cupped the back of my head. He pressed a warm kiss to my lips. It lasted one second. He pulled back, wiping his mouth with his fingers casually.

He was disgusted by me. Utterly.

My throat turned bitter. I reminded myself again—this was just a transaction. Once I gave him an heir, this suffering would end.

Next came the reception. Lucia took me back to change into a new dress—a gold, form-fitting gown. Lucia saw the obvious finger marks on both my wrists. She gasped. "My God, Elena, what happened?"

"Nothing." I covered the bruises, found some scarves, and wrapped them around my wrists. They hid the red marks and looked decorative.

In the ballroom, Dante was nowhere. But I had to work the guests, accept blessings—genuine or fake—from people I didn't know. I did well. Greeted everyone. Made conversation. Salvador couldn't come downstairs because of his condition, but I knew he was watching.

I needed to please him.