Serafina

Walking down the aisle in a silk gown that costs more than most people’s cars while visibly pregnant with your ex-husband’s baby to marry his secret step-brother is definitely not how I imagined my second wedding would go.

But here we are.

The dress is perfection—cream silk that flows like water, cut to accommodate the small but definitely noticeable bump that’s been making my life interesting for the past few months. The veil is cathedral length because if you’re going to cause a scandal at your own wedding, you might as well look like an angel while doing it.

St. Patrick’s Cathedral is packed with every major family on the East Coast, which means I’m walking toward my future husband past about three hundred people who have opinions about my life choices. The whispers follow me like expensive perfume—some scandalized, some impressed, all desperately curious about how this particular soap opera episode ends.

Father’s arm is steady despite everything. He’s dying, we both know it, but he insisted on walking me down this aisle like the stubborn, magnificent bastard he’s always been.

“You sure about this, bambina?” he whispers as we make our slow procession toward the altar.

“Absolutely not. But I’m doing it anyway.”

His laugh is soft but genuine. “That’s my girl.”

Adrian’s waiting at the altar in a tuxedo that was definitely tailored by someone who charges by the thread. He looks like he stepped out of a magazine spread titled “Men Who Could Ruin Your Life in the Best Possible Way”—which, let’s be honest, is exactly what he did.

When he sees me, his hand actually trembles. Not the fake, performative kind of emotion you see at most weddings, but genuine holy-shit-I-can’t-believe-this-is-happening vulnerability. It’s the same expression he had when he refused the Verrelli fortune and gave it all to me instead.

The same expression he had three months ago when he told me he loved me despite the fact that I come with more baggage than a luxury airport.

The same expression he had last week when I asked him if he was sure about marrying a pregnant woman whose life reads like a rejected mafia movie script.

“More sure than I’ve ever been about anything,” he’d said, and the way he looked at me made my chest do that stupid fluttering thing that I’m pretty sure is love disguised as cardiac arrhythmia.

I catch a glimpse of the congregation as Father and I make our way toward destiny. The Torrinos are here, looking appropriately scandalized. The Russos brought their entire extended family, probably hoping for entertainment. Various other crime families fill the pews like this is the social event of the decade.

Father kisses my cheek when we reach the altar, whispers something in Italian that sounds like either a blessing or a threat, and places my hand in Adrian’s.

“Take care of her,” he says, and it’s not a request.

“Always,” Adrian replies, and the single word carries more weight than most people’s wedding vows.

The ceremony blurs together—something about sickness and health, richer and poorer, till death do us part. Standard wedding promises that feel surreal when you’re making them to someone you met while your life was exploding in real time.

But when Adrian slides the ring onto my finger—a simple platinum band that somehow feels more significant than the ostentatious diamond Matteo gave me—everything comes into sharp focus.

This is it. This is my choice. Not arranged by families or negotiated through business deals or manipulated by people who think love is a commodity.

This is me choosing someone who chose me back.

I lean closer to Adrian as he finishes sliding the ring into place, close enough that only he can hear what I’m about to say. Close enough that the microphone won’t pick up the words that sum up exactly how I feel about this moment, this choice, this beautiful fucking disaster of a life we’re about to build together.

“Let them gossip. I’d still pick you in every version of this life.”