Bound To My Mafia Husband

Chapter Five The Wedding That Wasn’t Meant to Be

The morning of the ceremony arrived with a strange, oppressive quiet. The city outside was alive, indifferent, and yet within the Giordano estate, time seemed suspended. Every second carried weight, every glance was calculated, every breath seemed shared with an audience I couldn’t see.

I sat before the mirror, my hands pressed to my lap, fingers trembling slightly. The gown was beautiful — a pristine white silk, heavy but elegant, designed to impress, to intimidate, to declare my place. And yet, it felt like a costume, a cage disguised as couture.

The stylist fussed over my hair, curling strands just enough to soften my face but not so much as to betray the reality: I was a bride in name only, a bargaining chip in a dangerous man’s world.

I glanced at my reflection. The eyes staring back at me weren’t just nervous; they were alive with defiance. I wasn’t just a pawn. I refused to be just collateral.

⸻

“Time,” Luca’s voice said from the doorway, calm and sharp. I flinched slightly at the sound, even though I had expected him.

“You’re ready?” he asked. Not a question, really. More an observation.

I nodded, standing. The gown swirled around me, a delicate armor I would wear into the battlefield that was this ceremony.

“You’ll be the center of attention,” he said, stepping closer. The air between us was charged, taut, almost magnetic. “Behave as required. Speak only when necessary. And do not—” His eyes darkened. “—give them an excuse to question you. Or me.”

“I understand,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

The drive to the venue was silent, the car moving through the city streets like a dark whisper. I couldn’t stop my eyes from studying Luca. His jaw was tight, hands gripping the wheel, eyes fixed on the road. Not angry, not soft, just… present.

Every inch of him radiated control, authority, and danger. And for reasons I couldn’t name, my pulse betrayed me, hammering faster than fear alone should account for.

The venue was opulent but cold. Marble floors reflected chandeliers that gleamed like frozen fire. Men in tailored suits and women in dresses that could cut glass whispered as we passed, some curious, some wary. They all knew who we were. They all knew whose family I had married into.

Luca guided me with a hand at my back, close enough that the warmth from him brushed my spine, but never touching inappropriately. Every inch, every movement, was controlled, precise, calculated.

I wanted to tell him I hated him. I wanted to tell him I didn’t belong in this world. And yet, even as I walked beside him, I felt… alive in a way that scared me.

The ceremony itself was brief, formal, devoid of the emotion one might expect from a wedding. The officiant recited words that felt hollow and surreal. I repeated my vows, not out of love — I couldn’t claim that yet — but out of survival.

“I, Elena Rossi…” My voice shook once, barely audible over the echoing hall. “Take you, Luca Giordano…” I swallowed hard. “…as my husband.”

Luca’s hand was at my side, not holding, not touching — just present, like a shadow. His voice, when he spoke, was low and certain. “I, Luca Giordano…” Each word cut the air, deliberate and deliberate. “…take you, Elena Rossi…” He didn’t hesitate. “…as my wife.”

When the vows were over, the room held its breath. No applause, no laughter — just the faint murmur of acknowledgment. The Giordano family didn’t celebrate; they observed. And I felt the weight of that observation pressing down on me.

After the ceremony, the formalities continued. Photos were taken, handshakes exchanged, eyes measured, whispers flitted like shadows. I tried to keep my composure, but every glance from Luca reminded me that he was the center of this storm, and I was now tethered to him.

Finally, the crowd dispersed, leaving us alone in a quiet hall. Luca turned to me, eyes dark, unreadable.

“You survived your first trial,” he said, voice soft but carrying that edge that could slice through steel. “Do you understand what that means?”

“I… think so,” I said cautiously.

“It means that this,” he gestured to the hall, the family, the empire we had just publicly joined, “is only the beginning. And that you are no longer free.”

I swallowed, feeling a strange mix of fear and something else — something I didn’t want to name. “I know.”

He stepped closer, close enough that the warmth from him was undeniable, brushing against me, and my pulse betrayed me again. “Elena,” he said quietly. “You’re part of this family now. And I protect what is mine — but understand this: your survival depends on obedience, on understanding, and on… loyalty.”

His gaze lingered, dark and intense, and I felt the air between us thicken. My throat went dry. There was an unspoken promise in the way he looked at me — not of love, not yet, but of danger, power, and inevitability.

I wanted to hate him for it. And somehow, I realized I couldn’t.

That night, in my room, I sat on the edge of the bed, gown discarded, hair loose around my shoulders. The day had been surreal — formal, controlled, and terrifying. I couldn’t stop thinking about Luca, about the way he had watched me, about the tension that had simmered between us all day.

I hated him. And yet, I didn’t.

The thought terrified me more than the ceremony ever could.

Because I knew, deep down, that this was just the beginning.

And in Luca Giordano’s world, beginnings were always dangerous.