reminder

I had played my role a little too well if she thought I wasn’t already hers.

The old priest’s voice droned on, weaving vows steeped in tradition, yet my mind barely registered his words. My focus remained on the woman before me—on every shift in her expression, every flicker of uncertainty that passed through those striking hazel eyes.

Aurora’s brow creased ever so slightly, a fleeting frown that anyone else might have missed. But I saw it. She had caught the small hesitation in my grip when Nico placed her hand in mine.

I squeezed her fingers, a silent reassurance. She needn’t doubt—she would never have to doubt.

She took a steady breath and repeated the vows, her voice clear, unwavering. A queen in her own right. The priest’s words carried through the grand hall, echoing the tenets we held sacred. Family. Loyalty. Power.

“I, Aurora Vittoria Luciano, take thee, Lucian Antonio Boncini…”

My jaw clenched at the name. Luciano. Her mother’s name. Her grandfather’s name. The name I had insisted upon, knowing full well what it meant. Everyone in attendance knew, too. They understood the weight of it, the history entwined with that bloodline.

Her fingers trembled when she slid the band of white gold onto my hand, but she did not falter. I saw the question in her eyes as they lifted back to mine, a silent demand for an explanation. I stroked my thumb over her knuckles in response, a barely perceptible shake of my head. Later.

For now, all she needed to know was that she belonged to me.

When the priest pronounced us husband and wife, I took her face in my hands, tracing the soft curve of her cheek before capturing her lips in a kiss that left no room for doubt. She melted against me instantly, her hands slipping around my neck as the room erupted into applause and whistles.

I barely heard them.

All I knew was the warmth of her, the rapid flutter of her pulse beneath my fingertips, the way she surrendered so easily—so perfectly—to me.

It was only when she pulled back, breathless, that I remembered where we were. Her cheeks were flushed, her gaze locked on mine, but she hesitated as if only now realizing we weren’t alone.

“That’s enough of that, you two!”

Giulia’s sharp voice sliced through the moment, dragging us both back to reality. My sister stood a few feet away, arms crossed, watching us like an exasperated chaperone.

“You can spend the rest of the night doing that,” she teased, arching a brow. “Hell, the rest of the year if you want. But right now, you have a reception to get to.”

Aurora let out a soft, embarrassed laugh, dropping her gaze as she slid her fingers back between mine. I smirked, tugging her after Giulia as we moved toward the gardens where the celebration awaited.

My wife.

The thought settled deep in my chest, an unfamiliar but undeniable weight.

As we stepped onto the polished dance floor under the golden glow of lanterns, Aurora gasped, her eyes widening as she took in the scene before us. The sprawling lawn had been transformed into something out of a dream—floral arrangements draped in soft candlelight, tables glinting with fine crystal, and a string quartet playing a delicate waltz.

“Dance with me,” I murmured against her ear, pulling her close.

“They’re all staring,” she whispered as I led her into the first step.

“Of course they are,” I said, smirking. “My wife is a goddess.”

The corners of her lips twitched, but she said nothing, simply letting me guide her across the floor.

I had expected her to be hesitant, unsure, but she moved effortlessly with me, following my lead with natural grace. I had no doubt she’d been trained for this, raised to navigate the world of power and expectation with practiced ease.

Still, there was something unguarded in the way she looked at me now—something real beneath the carefully poised exterior.

“Why did the priest call me Luciano?” she finally asked, her voice quiet, meant only for me.

I had been waiting for the question.

“I thought you might prefer not to hear your father’s name on our wedding day,” I said smoothly. “Just for today, I wanted us to forget that he even exists.”

She blinked up at me, processing my words. Then, to my surprise, she nodded.

A small smile played at the corners of her lips, but her eyes held something deeper. A silent understanding. Perhaps even gratitude.

I let my fingers trail up her spine, enjoying the way she shivered under my touch.

“Just wait until I get you alone tonight,” I murmured, my voice rough with promise. “I’m going to make you forget every name anyone has ever called you—except for mine.”

Her breath caught, and for a moment, I saw the hesitation in her gaze melt into something else. Something I intended to explore in great depth once this night was over.

When the waltz ended, I pressed a lingering kiss to her knuckles before leading her through the crowd. The line had already begun to form—guests eager to offer their congratulations, their respect.

I accepted their words with practiced ease, murmuring my thanks, my attention only half on the procession of faces. I was far more interested in watching the way Aurora carried herself—the way recognition dawned in the eyes of our guests as they registered her name.

Luciano.

It was spoken in hushed tones, repeated with reverence and curiosity.

Then, Don Andrea Morelli stepped forward.

The room shifted. The air grew heavier.

“My father was very close to your grandfather, Patrizio, while he was still king of our beautiful city,” Andrea said, his voice warm as he took Aurora’s hand, brushing a kiss to her knuckles. “Your mother and I practically grew up together.”

Aurora stiffened beside me.

Those wide hazel eyes snapped up to meet his, shock rippling through her expression.

I said nothing.

I had expected this. I had orchestrated this.

She glanced at me briefly before returning her gaze to Andrea, waiting for him to continue.

“That was before she met your father, of course,” he added, his expression softening. “I was devastated to hear of her passing.”

Aurora barely breathed.

Then, slowly, I saw it—the fire behind her gaze, the sharpness that replaced her initial surprise.

The name Luciano wasn’t just a formality. It wasn’t just something I had chosen on a whim.

It was a reminder. A statement.

I had tied her to a legacy far older, far more powerful than the one she had left behind.

And whether she realized it yet or not, it was only the beginning.

"Thank you," Aurora's voice is barely above a whisper, hesitant, almost uncertain.

When I glance back at her, I catch the way her lips press into a thin line, her expression unreadable. It seems she already knew. Perhaps not all of it, but enough. Before I can say more, Andrea nods at me and strides back into the crowd, leaving me with nothing but the weight of unspoken words.

I take a slow breath, steadying myself. The night is far from over, and I know I won't make it through the rest of this reception without addressing what’s really on Aurora’s mind. I reach out, cupping her cheek gently, my thumb brushing against her skin.

"I will explain," I murmur. "Not right now, but I will."

Her gaze lingers on mine, searching, questioning, but she nods. For now, that is enough.

From across the room, Andrea’s voice cuts through the hum of conversation.

"Your wife carries a formidable legacy, Don Lucian. Though I’m sure you knew that already."

I enclose his outstretched hand in a firm grip, the weight of his words settling deep in my chest.

"I am proud to call her mine, Don Andrea," I reply, voice steady. "She is every bit Patrizio’s blood."

Andrea’s expression darkens for the briefest moment, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes before he shakes his head.

"My father would never speak of her."

A bitter truth. But before I can respond, we are interrupted again—this time by the one man who has been testing my patience long before this evening even began.

"Well, well, Lucian," drawls Riccardo Agosti as he approaches, his presence like a rot creeping into the celebration. "At last, the grand plan is revealed."

He doesn’t even spare Aurora a glance, his smirk dripping with derision.

"If you think digging up some long-lost Luciano daughter is going to bring more allies to your table, you are sorely mistaken. Luciano’s legacy is dead, and all you’ve done is tie yourself to an irrelevant, nameless—"

His words barely leave his mouth before my fist collides with his jaw. The sickening crack of bone silences the entire room.

Riccardo stumbles back, clutching at his face, eyes wide with fury and pain. The crowd around us has gone deathly quiet, every pair of eyes fixed on the unfolding scene.

Blood rushes in my ears, drowning out everything but the sharp inhale of my wife standing beside me.

Aurora moves before I can react, stepping in front of me, her hands pressing against my chest. Her touch grounds me, pulls me back from the razor’s edge of violence. I stare down at her, my breath still ragged, my pulse hammering.

"Your father was a casualty of his own hubris, Riccardo," I say, my voice like steel. "Just like Patrizio."

Riccardo’s lips curl in a sneer, but he’s smart enough to hesitate. He shoves his hand into his jacket, withdrawing a small envelope, tossing it in Aurora’s direction with pure arrogance.

"Consider it a wedding gift."

Aurora doesn’t move to take it, her gaze locked onto mine instead. Her hand finds my arm, squeezing slightly. A silent plea.

I exhale sharply, unclenching my fists.

"I suggest you leave," I bite out, tone leaving no room for argument. "I'd rather not kill anyone on my wedding day."

For a moment, I think Riccardo might actually challenge me. But then his eyes flicker to Aurora, to the way she still stands before me, her hands pressed against me as if she alone can keep me tethered. And maybe she can.

His cronies step in behind him, urging him back.

With a final venomous glare, he turns on his heel and stalks out, escorted by my men who will make sure he leaves without further incident.

Only when he’s gone do I finally let out a breath.

I look down at Aurora, my principessa, the woman who just stopped me from making a spectacle out of our wedding. Her hands are still on me, her eyes glistening.

"Forgive me, principessa," I murmur, lowering my forehead to hers. "I did not intend to ruin our night."

She shakes her head, whispering softly, "There is nothing to forgive. You punished a man for disrespecting you. I would expect nothing less of my husband."

Something in my chest tightens at those words—my husband.

I straighten, pressing a kiss to her fingers before turning to face the stunned crowd.

"I apologize for the commotion, ladies and gentlemen," I announce, voice steady, commanding. "Bring a dozen criminal families together for a party, and you’re guaranteed at least one broken jaw."

A ripple of laughter spreads through the room, cutting through the tension like a blade.

I reach for a glass of champagne, raising it high.

"To Aurora," I toast, voice ringing through the air. "I am overjoyed to call you my wife."

The guests cheer, voices rising in celebration. But as I lower my glass, I look back at her, at the fire in her eyes, the quiet strength in the way she stands beside me.

I bend down, capturing her lips in a kiss, sealing the moment with something deeper than words.

Tonight is ours. And so is everything that comes next.