Chapter 2 The Wedding

Salvatore Beaumont

The church is full.

The most important event of the year: my older brother’s wedding.

Victor and I are only a year apart. He is the Beaumonts’ legitimate son, the natural heir to our clan. The head of our organization.

We run the operations: handling drug distribution for the cartels and keeping the trade routes between Italy and Russia running.

Our main enemy is the Mexican cartel. The rivalry with them goes back years, long before we were born. It was already a war, built on blood, betrayal, and broken promises.

Victor took control ten years ago, after our father’s death.

Even though we don’t share the same mother, Lily has always cared for me as if I were her own son. I imagine it couldn’t have been easy for her to accept the presence of a bastard child, another woman’s son, inside her home. But even so, she endured it.

For years, she lived with my father and all his demons—demons he tried to exorcise at the end of his life. On his deathbed, he asked her forgiveness for everything. Maybe it was fear of hell that drove him to seek redemption, but I don’t think his soul escaped the devil.

There are three of us siblings: Victor, the firstborn; me, the middle one; and Scarlett, the youngest.

Scarlett… she has the aura of a little witch. Maleficent, I’d say, and with complete conviction. She lives on the edge of what’s expected, always a little outside the lines. She’s territorial, jealous, a bit spoiled at times, but all of that is part of her charm… her peculiar way of loving. As difficult as she can be to deal with, I know she would do anything for us.

Just as we would do anything for her.

I try to look happy. I am happy, in a way.

He’s my brother. And I’ll stand by his side to celebrate his victories, his achievements, and his joys… even if today he’s marrying the woman I once believed, for one brief and unbearable moment, could be mine.

The church bells ring.

Victor throws me a glance over his shoulder, a look that says:

"Bring my bride to me. Safe and sound."

I nod and swallow hard. It’s difficult to understand how they ended up at this wedding.

The Ivy I knew despised Victor’s very existence. His name was poison to her. Her father died branded a traitor, and my brother, a man known for never forgiving that kind of crime, showed mercy that day.

He could have eliminated her along with the rest. In Victor’s logic, when someone betrays, blood and surname carry the price. A traitor’s family pays as traitors. But he spared Ivy and her sister.

At the time, I was put in charge of making sure they stayed alive—and invisible. The order was clear: keep them safe and off the radar. Officially, Ivy and Nina were dead. For all intents and purposes, she and her sister had disappeared.

During that time, I visited her. She lived a quiet, ordinary life: taking care of her younger sister, studying, working as a waitress in a small, unremarkable coffee shop. Whenever I could, I found a way to show up, to remind her she wasn’t alone.

Unexpectedly, Ivy needed help, and instead of coming to me—to me, who had always been there—she went to Victor.

I don’t know if it was desperation, wounded pride, or some irrational impulse, but she chose to trust the very man she claimed to hate.

I didn’t think about intervening. I never told her how I felt. I prefer to believe I can get over this. That seeing her by his side will make this illusion disappear.

She’ll be like a sister to me.

I won’t have eyes for her anymore.

I won’t look at her with desire or regret.

I’ll understand that, for her, the best thing is to become the wife of the clan’s leader.

I walk down the church steps, my shoes leaving invisible traces behind me. My eyes fall to my watch: the final minutes before the inevitable.

The black limousine stops in front of the entrance.

The car door opens.

Ivy’s dress glides across the ground as if it were floating. A few bridesmaids surround her, adjusting the fabric with their hands.

She looks at me with a small, hesitant smile. Seeing her makes my heart race, but I order my conscience to make it stop.

I extend my arm and focus on my task.

The bride takes it.

Her brown hair, tied back in a ponytail, highlights every feature of her face.

The train of her dress trails across the floor.

She’s beautiful. Beautiful exactly the way a bride is expected to be.

I don’t look at her for more than a few seconds. I take a deep breath and force my feet to move. A hand stops me, pulling me back.

"One minute."

I turn to face her again.

"Is something wrong?" I ask, concerned.

"I need to talk to you."

I shake my head.

This is my brother’s day. I won’t ruin it with my fragile feelings.

"You don’t need to explain anything to me," I say, trying to put an end to it. "You don’t owe me anything. We… we had nothing."

"We had an almost… doesn’t that count?" She tries to smile, but her voice falters, betraying the tension behind the attempt at lightness. "Logically, you would’ve been the perfect husband for me. And I know that someday, some woman will get to know that side of you… the side I knew."

"Ivy…" I try to interrupt her. This is not a conversation to have in front of a church, with her wearing that white dress.

"Just… don’t hate me." She lets out a deep sigh.

"I don’t hate you. I’ll keep being your friend, like I always have. You’re going to be part of my family… and everything that happened between us… it will have to be forgotten." I choose my words carefully.

Her blue eyes drop to the floor.

"I hope you can forgive me."

"Just forget it." I lift my hand to her chin, tilting it upward.

The corners of her eyes are wet. Her flawless makeup threatens to crumble, and with it, the little control she still seems to have.

"Let’s go inside before someone notices we’re taking too long." My tone comes out cold—not because that’s how I feel, but because it’s how I want to feel. "I don’t want anyone imagining anything… Come on, Ivy."

I let go of her chin slowly. My fingers brush lightly over her made-up skin, hesitating for a second before pulling away completely.

We return to the proper position, side by side, and start walking toward the church.

The music announces our entrance.

I lead her to the altar.

Her body is tense, as if every step toward her future husband is a sentence.

She smiles at the guests with the right expression, but I know her too well. Her mind is far away.

The guests rise as we pass. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of a figure in the second row.

Wavy black hair, dark as night. Lizzie.

She looks at me. I look back.

A beautiful backless dress hugs her body, making her look delicate.

We don’t exchange smiles. Just one discreet glance.

We reach the altar.

I hand Ivy over to my brother.

Then I step back and head toward the pew where Lizzie is sitting.

Second row, right beside her. My obligation. My responsibility since Frank’s death, my friend.

She grimaces the second she sees me, tossing her hair over her shoulder in a dramatic gesture. Classic Lizzie.

Annoying.

But predictable.

The girl blames me for being in control of her life. And I understand. For her, at twenty years old, having been raised only by her father, having someone impose limits on her is something new.

The ceremony begins.

The priest speaks the sacred words.

I let my attention drift.

I look up at the cross hanging high in the church, as if I might find some answer there.

I don’t look at Ivy. Not at Victor.

Not at the aisle covered in red petals.

"Aren’t you the best man?" Lizzie murmurs beside me. "You should be sitting in the front."

"I’m better off here," I answer in the same low tone, without taking my eyes off the cross.

I hear footsteps approaching between the pews.

Someone stops beside Lizzie. I can feel the presence.

I shift my gaze, alert, just as Damien sits down next to her.

His mere presence irritates me.

I know she’s engaged. I know the wedding preparations are already underway—less than a month and a half left.

It was Frank himself, before he died, who arranged this alliance.

He wanted to make sure his daughter would have someone by her side… a decent man. Someone reliable when he was gone. But Frank was wrong.

Damien is not that man.

I know about his visits to our nightclubs, about the women he takes to his bed. One man knows another man’s intentions. He should respect Lizzie, respect what was promised to him.

When he’s with her, he plays the lamb. Behind her back… he’s all wolf.

Damien is the capo of Chicago, always dividing his time between there and Philadelphia. Being engaged to Lizzie might have something to do with those trips, but honestly, I don’t believe that’s the reason, though I could be wrong. I have a bad feeling about him. Something tells me he isn’t someone you can trust completely.

I notice Lizzie leaning in his direction. Before she can, I move instinctively, placing my body between them.

She stares at me with wide brown eyes.

Her mouth moves as if she’s about to say something, and I answer with a single look:

We’ll talk at home.

Damien smiles at me, a crooked grin he probably thinks is charming. I don’t share his arrogance.

I keep my face closed off. I give him a look of pure contempt.

Their relationship has remained as chaste as possible. I continue to respect what Frank established before he died: a period of supervised courtship so they can get to know each other before the wedding.

I allow them to sit in the garden at my house, to talk freely for an entire afternoon.

They can hold hands. Nothing more than that. No contact beyond what’s acceptable.

Not out of puritanism. But because I know Damien. And I worry about Lizzie—about her innocence, the way she still sees the world, how hopelessly in love with him she seems to be.

I don’t want her giving herself to him too soon.

Human flesh is weak. The fire of desire is often unbearable. I know exactly how it would end.

She would surrender herself, and he… he would discard her. Without remorse. To Damien, Lizzie is just a trophy. A beautiful fiancée to show off. I understand him perfectly. His intentions are predictable.

As time passes, I keep watching the two of them, and every day I become more convinced that this marriage will be an irreversible mistake. He won’t make her happy, and she will inevitably regret it. If Lizzie belongs to him, I won’t be able to protect her—or fulfill what her father asked of me.

In the mafia, marriages are treated like political alliances: far too bureaucratic to be undone, sealed by pacts that do not break without consequences. Even if we are the kings of this hierarchy, we are still bound by the rules that hold this empire together.

So even if I want this engagement to end, it won’t be broken… unless Damien gives Lizzie up of his own free will.