The moment was overwhelming with anticipation, fear, and a glimmer of hope. The weight of the day pressed down on both Andrea and me as we sat side by side in front of the ornate dresser. Its detailed carvings seemed to mirror the complexity of our emotions—trapped in a gilded cage, yet bound by expectations and the uncertainty of what lay ahead. Dad had spared no expense, making sure that every detail of the wedding preparation was flawless. If only the same effort were applied to ensuring our happiness.

Andrea was already an image of perfection. The woman with pink hair was meticulously applying makeup, highlighting her natural beauty in ways I hadn't seen before. The soft pink on her eyes blended seamlessly with the contours, sculpting her face into something ethereal. She looked breathtaking, far from the defiant version of herself she had shown to Raffaele the last time they met. That day, she'd intentionally worn too much makeup, an act of rebellion against him, making herself look less than her true self. But today was different. Today, she looked like an angel, her face soft and serene, as if holding on to a fleeting hope that perhaps, Raffaele would see beyond the duty of their union.

The woman working on her hair twisted and pulled her locks into an intricate bun, so beautifully adorned with delicate ornaments, the perfect complement to her dress. Each strand was placed with purpose, every pin secured with care. Andrea had always been the more reserved one between us, but her appearance today exuded a quiet strength—an inner fire she kept hidden from the world but would unleash to protect those she loved.

My own makeup artist, a young woman in her mid-20s, worked with a different approach. She drew thick lines of eyeliner around my eyes, emphasizing the blue that often sparked curiosity and gave away every emotion I tried to hide. It was heavier than what I was used to, but it made me look bold, even if I didn't feel it inside. If I had my way, I would have let Andrea do it—her touch was softer, more understanding of who I was. But today was not about choices; it was about duty, appearances, and the unknown future that awaited us.

A man in his 50s styled my hair, curling it loosely and letting it cascade down my back. Unlike Andrea's, my hair wasn't bound or restricted; it was free, in soft waves, reflecting the openness of my heart. I had always been the peacemaker, the one to smooth over tensions, to avoid conflict. But deep down, I knew my own softness might become my downfall. If my husband turned out to be cruel, would I have the strength to fight back like Andrea? Or would I simply endure?

Three long hours later, we were finally ready. Andrea, as expected, began to complain about the heels she was forced to wear. She had argued with Dad about it earlier, and his response had been swift and brutal. The bruise on her wrist was a cruel reminder of his authority, hidden now under layers of expertly applied makeup. But the pain was still there, invisible to everyone but us. I despised how Dad and Matteo treated us, like possessions instead of daughters or sisters. It was unbearable to think that our futures might hold the same suffering, just under different hands.

As we stepped into our dresses, each gown reflected our personalities perfectly. Andrea's was elegant and understated, a reflection of her reserved nature but with a fierceness woven into the fabric—a silent declaration that she was not to be underestimated. My dress, on the other hand, was open and flowing, like my spirit. I wore my heart on my sleeve, always trying to see the best in people, always hoping for peace.

But today, as we prepared to meet our future husbands, all I could hope for was that they would treat us with some semblance of kindness. I wasn’t asking for love, not yet. I just didn’t want to live in fear anymore—not of being hurt myself, and not of having to watch Andrea suffer. It was a small hope, but one that I clung to as the final preparations were made.

Tonight, we would finally know. Would our lives after marriage be a nightmare, or could they, in some small way, be different? Better?

Only time would tell.

The music swelled as the ceremony began, echoing through the grand hall. My heart pounded in rhythm with each step as Dad led Andrea and me down the aisle. I could feel the pressure of his arm gripping mine, though his face remained as stoic as ever, a mask of pride and control. Andrea walked gracefully beside him, her face set in quiet determination. I wished I could share her strength, but my nerves threatened to betray me.

As we moved closer to the altar, my gaze landed on Michael. He stood tall, rigid in his stance, his expression completely unreadable. His face was a blank canvas, devoid of any emotion. The hope I had carried with me—the small sliver of optimism that maybe, just maybe, he would be different—began to waver. The coldness in his eyes reminded me of the world we were stepping into, one where love was a luxury few could afford.

Michael was dressed immaculately in an elegant grey suit, perfectly tailored to his broad shoulders. The red tie and the delicate brochure on his chest added a touch of formality, but none of it softened the hardness in his demeanor. Next to him, Raffaele waited, standing just off the stage. His beige suit contrasted sharply with Michael’s, but his face was equally stern, giving nothing away. Andrea would have her turn soon enough, but the way the day had unfolded, it seemed my vows would be said first.

My steps slowed as we reached the altar, and Dad’s grip tightened briefly before he placed my hand into Michael’s. For a fleeting moment, I was struck by the warmth of Michael’s hand—a warmth that surprised me, given the icy expression he wore. But warmth in a hand meant little when I didn’t know the man’s heart. Would it be as warm, or would it mirror the coldness of his face?

Then came his vow.

"I, Michael Luciano, take you, Christina Caravello, to be my wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy law, and this is my solemn vow."

His voice was steady but utterly devoid of emotion. Every word was spoken with precision, like he was reciting something he'd memorized, a duty he had to fulfill. There was no affection in his tone, no hint of tenderness. He slipped the ring onto my finger, a stunning diamond flower set delicately into a thin band. Its beauty did little to calm the anxiety building in my chest.

When it was my turn, my mouth felt dry, and my heart raced with uncertainty. I recited the vow, though my voice quivered with the emotions I could barely hold back.

"I, Christina Caravello, take you, Michael Luciano, to be my husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy law, and this is my solemn vow."

The words felt heavy, like chains locking me into an uncertain future. My voice betrayed the fear I tried to hide—the fear of the unknown, of being bound to a man I barely knew. What if he was as cold and ruthless as his demeanor suggested? What if I was stepping from one prison into another, just as harsh, just as unforgiving?

The priest’s voice cut through my thoughts. "I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."

I froze. I had forgotten about this part. The kiss. The final seal on this lifelong contract.

Michael, sensing my hesitation, moved gently. His hand brushed my arm as he pulled me closer, not roughly, but with enough force to guide me to him. He leaned in, his lips barely grazing mine, a ghost of a touch that was over before I could fully register it. It wasn’t a kiss of passion or affection—just a necessary formality. And yet, his touch, as brief as it was, left me with more questions than answers.

He led me down the stage, his hand still warm against mine, but my heart felt heavy. The weight of what had just happened, of what my life had now become, settled over me like a cloud. I was no longer Christina Caravello. I was now Christina Luciano—wife of Michael Luciano, the future Enforcer of the Italian Mafia.

This was the beginning of a new chapter, but it wasn’t the fairy tale wedding I had dreamed of as a child. There was no love here, only duty. The world I was entering was one of power, violence, and control, and my place in it was yet to be determined. Would I find some measure of peace with Michael? Could there be kindness hidden behind his cold exterior? Or would I be forced to endure a life of fear and submission, just as I had feared?

As I stood beside Michael, the weight of my new title pressed down on me. Christina Luciano. It felt foreign on my tongue, like it belonged to someone else entirely. I glanced over at Andrea, whose time was fast approaching, and wondered if she felt the same. If she, too, was trapped in this world, waiting to see if her new husband would be any kinder than the men who had raised us.

For now, all I could do was wait and hope, even as that hope began to dim.