Bound by my blood

Chapter ten

The first notes of The Wedding March echo through the patio, and my breath catches.

This is it.

I take a single, trembling step forward. The stone beneath my heels feels uneven, but it's not the ground that's making me unsteady—it's everything.

Babbo and the others had pushed the furniture aside, hastily arranging rows of mismatched chairs to create an aisle. It wasn't the lavish wedding that had been planned. No cathedral, no grand floral arrangements, no hundreds of guests watching with admiration.

But they had tried.

With what little time they had, they tried to make this feel special for me.

I clutch the bouquet in both hands, my fingers curling so tightly around the stems that the thorns prick at my palms. Red roses. The same ones that had been sitting on the dining room table just hours ago, repurposed as my wedding flowers.

Babbo steps up beside me, his warm, calloused hand sliding over my arm as he links it with his. A silent reassurance. A silent plea.

With lead in my limbs and a stomach in knots, I walk with him down the makeshift aisle.

Eyes are on me.

Some filled with warmth. Others with pride.

A few watching with the cold calculation that came with this life—the kind that never lets you forget that everything has a purpose.

As we approach the front, I spot an intimidating man sitting in a wheelchair. His face is unreadable, and when our eyes briefly meet, he gives me a short nod of acknowledgment before looking away.

Vincenzo's father.

We were supposed to meet tomorrow at the wedding rehearsal. We were supposed to exchange pleasantries, maybe shake hands—not meet like this.

A stranger at my wedding.

I swallow the lump in my throat and let my gaze drift to him.

Vincenzo.

Standing tall at the altar, dressed in an all-black suit that fits him like a second skin. His dark eyes glint under the warm glow of the patio lights, a sharp contrast to the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

My stomach churns.

Suddenly, the air feels too thick.

My skin feels too hot.

A slow, suffocating panic creeps in, squeezing around my ribs until I can barely breathe. I thought I could do this—I was wrong.

Babbo kisses my cheek softly before guiding my hand into Vincenzo's.

His grip is firm, fingers slightly calloused as they wrap around mine.

I feel tiny beneath his gaze.

Dizziness overtakes me, and my whole body trembles. My chest tightens like a vice, my pulse pounding in my ears. The air refuses to reach my lungs, no matter how hard I gasp for it.

The walls are closing in.

My fingers go limp, and the roses slip from my grasp, falling in a crumpled heap at my feet.

I stumble backward.

Then, before I even realize what I'm doing—I run.

The patio blurs as I flee, my veil whipping behind me. My heels skid against the stone, my dress tangling around my legs as I bolt toward the pond.

My throat burns.

The nausea rises so violently that I'm sure I'm about to throw up.

Collapsing onto my knees, I clutch the hem of my dress like it's the only thing keeping me from falling apart completely.