Chapter 6

Dontello's POV

I stood in front of the mirror, fixing my cufflinks. The black suit sat well on me, sharp and clean. One last look, and I pushed back a strand of my dark hair that had fallen over my face. I was ready to be married.

I went to stand by the window. Outside, Marco moved with his phone on his ear, barking orders at the men. They worked fast, checking weapons, securing the cars, making sure everything was in order before we left for the church.

The sun was starting to rise and the ceremony would start soon. A few men stood near the gates, eyes scanning the streets, fingers twitching near their holsters.

I lit a cigarette and put it in my mouth, slipping one hand into my pocket. The first drag hit deep. I exhaled slowly, watching the smoke twist in the air. My eyes followed Marco as he ordered the men around.

Marco knew what he was doing. That’s why he was my right hand.

I sat back in the leather chair and it made a loud creak in the quiet room.

A soft knock came at the door. “Come in,” I said in a low voice. I already knew it was Marco, here to tell me it was time.

“Everything’s ready now, Don,” he said.

I dropped the cigarette into the ashtray, stood up, and glanced at the mirror one last time. My green eyes stared back. No hesitation.

Marco and I headed downstairs. He pulled open the car door, and I slid into the passenger seat. The men took their positions in different cars. Some in front, some behind, and in a convoy, we sped off to the church.

When we pulled up to the church, the place was locked down tight. Black cars lined the street, men in dark suits standing by them, eyes sharp, hands never too far from their weapons. Marco stepped out first, scanning the area before nodding at me. I adjusted my suit and got out. There was tension in the air and honestly, that was expected. It was my wedding anyway.

The church itself was nice—high ceilings, tall stained-glass windows that cast colored light over the polished floors. Heavy wooden pews stretched down both sides, packed with familiar faces. Mafia families from all over sat quietly and they were all dressed in their best. The men wore dark suits, their wives in beautiful dresses and nice hairdos.

The air was filled with the scent of burning candles mixed with expensive cologne and cigars.

As I walked in, heads turned. The room shifted. One by one, they stood. Some nodded, some tipped their hats slightly.

Respect like this could not be bought with money. I’d earned it! I’d fought my way up to be number one in the city’s underground world. So their bows were a silent acknowledgment of who I was.

In return, I gave them a slow nod back, maintaining a straight face.

Then, near the front, I saw an old business partner. Francis Marona. He controlled some of the largest casinos in Vegas. The old man sat with his back straight, dressed in a sharp three-piece suit. He had been in this life longer than most, his reputation as solid as his word. He met my eyes and tipped his hat, a small smirk playing on his lips.

I stopped for a second, just enough to let him know I saw him. Then I kept walking.

I walked to the altar and spotted the LaRosa family in front but I tried not to pay too much attention to them.

The minister stood there, eyes darting around like he was looking for an escape. I saw how his hands fidgeted with his stole, and when he finally greeted me, his voice cracked. I was sure that he just wanted this over with because he wasn’t comfortable being in the same room with dangerous men.

My gaze moved over the crowd, scanning every face. The weight of my gun pressed against my waist. I slid a hand to my holster, fingers brushing over the handle. That calmed me.

The wall clock ticked, each second dragging as I waited. Then, the doors swung open with a loud creak. The pianist struck the first note, the bridal march filling the church. The room went dead silent.

I heard heels clicking against the floor. Everyone was watching, but I didn’t turn around. I didn’t need to.

Soon, the bride was in front of me—Miranda, veiled and standing tall. Taller than I remembered. Maybe it was the heels. I shrugged it off, trying not to think too much about it.

I glanced back. Marco stood behind me, very alert with one hand resting on his gun.

The minister cleared his throat and started the ceremony. His voice was steady, but I could see the sweat forming at his temple.

"Dearly beloved, we gather today to witness the union of Donatello Morano and Miranda LaRosa in holy matrimony. Let us pray for God's guidance, wisdom, and blessings upon their love and commitment to each other.”

I barely listened. My mind stayed sharp, scanning the room, reading every movement.

Then came the vows.

"Do you, Donatello Morano, take Miranda LaRosa to be your lawfully wedded wife, to love and cherish her, through all the joys and challenges of life?"

“I do,” I said without hesitation.

"And do you, Miranda LaRosa, take Donatello Morano to be your lawfully wedded husband, to love and cherish him, through all the joys and challenges of life?"

Silence.

The air in the church felt heavy.  Everyone was waiting. I narrowed my eyes at her and then glanced at her family. I hoped they knew that I didn’t mind putting a bullet in her if she dared to embarrass me.

She cleared her throat, once, then again. The microphone hovered near her lips, but no words came.

"I do,” she finally said.

Something about her voice made me pause. It was a little deep—too deep.

The minister nodded and then turned to me. “You may unveil the bride.”

I stepped forward, reaching for the veil. But before I could touch it, she took a step back.

My brows pulled together. What the hell was this?

I scanned her closely. Her gloved hands trembled, gripping the gown too tightly. Something was off.

I turned slightly, catching Marco’s eyes. A small tilt of my head was all it took—stay sharp.

Then I moved in again, slower this time. My frown deepened, but she didn’t move. Just stood there, stiff as stone.

I grabbed the veil and pulled it back in one swift motion.

My breath caught when I saw who I was marrying.

It wasn’t Miranda!

It was a man! I was getting married to a fucking man in a wedding dress!

Sharp jaw, blue eyes, and a cold expression. His lips pressed into a thin line, his Adam’s apple bobbing slightly. The dress hung awkwardly on his shoulders and that’s even when I noticed that the gloves were too tight around his fingers.

A hush fell over the church.

I noticed Marco’s grip on his gun tightened.

“What the fuck is this?”

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