CHAPTER 6: Nicolas Pov

The four months leading up to November passed in a blur for me—an endless cycle of sleepless nights, emotional outbursts, and grueling workdays. Time seemed to stretch and compress at the same time, leaving me drained but determined to push through.

On the morning of my bachelor party, I crouched down in front of Daniele, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor, completely engrossed in an animated series on his iPad. His dark hair was a mess—tufts sticking out in the front, knots tangled in the back. Sybil had tried to brush it earlier, but Daniele refused to sit still, and I didn’t have the patience to force him. I figured I’d just buzz it all off after the wedding.

“Daniele,” I said, my voice firm but calm, hoping to get his attention. “I need to talk to you.”

He didn’t acknowledge me. His face was glued to the screen. I reached for the iPad, but he twisted away, glaring at me stubbornly.

“Give it to me,” I ordered, my tone hardening.

Daniele flinched slightly but held onto the device, his tiny shoulders curving inward, as if to protect it. I grabbed the iPad, pulling it from his grasp. “Soon, someone will be moving in with us,” I told him, trying to steady my voice. “She’ll be your new mom. She’ll take care of you and Simona.”

The words barely left my mouth before Daniele’s face twisted into a mask of anger. He launched himself at me, his little fists pounding against my legs. Frustration surged inside me, and my voice rose. “That’s enough!” I caught his wrists, holding him still.

But as I looked down at him, tears streaking his flushed cheeks, my anger evaporated, replaced by a wave of guilt. “Daniele,” I murmured, my voice softening.

I tried to pull him into a hug, but he squirmed away, retreating to his corner of the room. I sighed, letting him go. After Gaia died, Daniele had sought my comfort, but those moments of closeness were few and far between now. Resentment had built up, and whatever Gaia had told him before she died had left a scar I couldn’t seem to heal.

I placed the iPad back in front of him and stood, leaving the room without another word. I climbed the stairs to Simona’sroom, where the nanny quickly slipped out at my arrival. Soon, I thought. Isabella would take over their care once the wedding was over.

I bent over Simona’s crib and smiled as she gazed up at me, her wide eyes lighting up in a toothless grin. I slipped my hands under her tiny frame, lifting her against my chest. Her dark blond hair—Gaia’s hair—was soft beneath my palm as I stroked her head. Both she and Daniele had inherited their mother’s coloring, a constant reminder of what was lost. I pressed a kiss to her forehead, my mind drifting to the first time I held her, two days after she was born. Gaia had kept me away from the delivery room and kept me at arm’s length even after the birth. Anger flared at the memory, but Simona’s soft babble pulled me back to the present.

I kissed her forehead again before placing her gently back in the crib. Her cries tugged at my heart, but there was no time to linger—I had a meeting with Luca before the bachelor party Faro had planned for me.

 

 

An hour before the party was supposed to start, I sat in my office with Luca, who had arrived early with his wife, Aria. Luca’s sharp gray eyes scanned the room as we settled into armchairs. Despite Luca’s more subdued role in the family business since his marriage, his authority was still absolute.

“My aunt went all out with the wedding planning,” Luca remarked, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “She’s thought of everything, from doves and ice sculptures to silk bed linen.”

I tightened my jaw. White silk bed linen. Tradition demanded that the sheets be presented after the wedding night, stained with proof of my wife’s virginity.

“There won’t be a presentation of the sheets,” I said, setting my scotch down. “I won’t be sleeping with Isabella.”

Luca lowered his glass slowly, narrowing his gaze. “It’s tradition. It’s been that way for centuries.”

“I know,” I replied evenly. “And I honor our traditions. But there won’t be a presentation of sheets this time.”

His voice sharpened. “With your first marriage, you followed tradition without hesitation. You can’t just ignore this.”

My jaw clenched. “Last time, Gaia was my age. Isabella is almost fourteen years younger than me. She called me ‘sir’ the first time she saw me. She’s a child.”

“She’s of age,” Luca countered, his tone final. “Today is her birthday.”

I leaned forward, my frustration bubbling to the surface. “You know I do what’s asked of me. I’ve ruled Philadelphia without mercy, as expected. But I won’t force myself on a girl.”

Luca’s expression hardened. “No one is asking you to use force. But you will present sheets after your wedding night. No discussion.”

I exhaled sharply, my fist clenching around my glass. “And how do you expect me to do that?”

Luca’s voice dropped, calm but cold. “That’s up to you. I want to see bloody sheets. The rest is none of my concern.”

The implication hit me like a ton of bricks. Was Luca suggesting I fake the bloodstains? Or was this a test of my loyalty? My mind raced, weighing the consequences of either decision. To fail Luca meant risking everything—my position, my life, and the future of my children.

Finally, I nodded, my expression unreadable. “I’ll do what is expected of me.”

Luca inclined his head, but the tension between us lingered. I knew I had to tread carefully. Until I proved myself once more, every move I made would be scrutinized.

Faro handed me a flask, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “For you.”

I adjusted my tie with a sharp tug, ignoring the dig in his tone as I took the flask. “I’m not drinking hard liquor today.”

“I didn’t expect you to drink it,” he said, leaning back with that infuriating grin still in place. “Figured you might use it to knock some sense into yourself if you even think about refusing the bloody sheet tradition again.”

Shoving the flask into the inner pocket of my jacket, I cut him a sharp look. “Don’t start, Faro.”

The grin vanished as quickly as it came, his expression hardening. “Just promise me you’re not going to try that faking-blood nonsense again. Luca was baiting you—you know that. He’s the kind of man who’d go through with the tradition, even if his bride sobbed through it. That’s who he is. And let’s face it—you’re not so different. Stop pretending to be a saint because of whatever guilt Gaia left behind.”

That was the last straw. My hand shot out before I could stop myself, gripping Faro by the throat. “We’re friends,” I said in a low, dangerous voice, “but don’t forget who I am. I’m your boss. Show some respect.”

Faro’s eyes widened as he sputtered, his hands instinctively clawing at mine. “I’m trying to keep you alive,” he choked out. “Isabella’s of age. That’s all anyone cares about.”

I let go, shoving him back as anger rippled through me. “I’ll do what’s expected. Now drop it.”

Straightening his jacket, Faro rubbed his throat but still managed to smirk. “Do me a favor and enjoy it, will you? Tonight, you’ll have a tight, young—”

“Out.” My voice cut through the room like steel, my glare pinning him in place.

He chuckled, throwing his hands up in mock surrender as he backed out of the room. If he’d stayed a moment longer, I might’ve thrown him out myself.

 

 

The church was packed, the air heavy with the weight of tradition and expectation. I stood at the altar, Faro beside me, his presence an unwelcome reminder of the conversation earlier. Across from me, one of Isabella’s young friends fidgeted nervously, a stark contrast to the stoic façade I was forcing myself to maintain.

As the music began, my gaze shifted to the entrance. Felix walked Isabella down the aisle, her arm looped through his. Her dress was simple but elegant—a white gown with a lace bodice and sunflowers woven into her hair and bouquet. It was a touch of youthfulness that didn’t belong here, not today.

Her smile was faint, her posture stiff with nerves. When Felix handed her off to me, her hand trembled slightly in mine. Clammy fingers, trembling against my palm. Despite her efforts to appear composed, she couldn’t hide her age—or her innocence.

Her “I do” was firm, as if she were trying to convince herself this was her choice. But as the rings were exchanged and her fleeting glances met mine, I saw the uncertainty in her eyes. Whatever she was searching for—reassurance, understanding—she wouldn’t find it in me.

The priest’s voice rang out, breaking through the tension. “You may kiss the bride.”

Her eyes widened, the command clearly catching her off guard. I reached out, cupping the back of her head as I leaned in. Her body went rigid, her lips parting just slightly before mine brushed against hers. I’d expected formality, duty. What I hadn’t expected was the softness of her lips or the faint sweetness of her perfume.

For a moment, I let myself feel it. The kiss lingered longer than it should have before I pulled back, meeting her gaze. Her cheeks were flushed, her shy smile making her look impossibly young. I straightened, turning away before the moment could stretch into something more.

 

 

Faro was the first to approach after the ceremony, clapping a hand on my shoulder with his signature smirk. “And? How was the first taste of your young bride?”

I scowled, my silence enough of an answer. Undeterred, Faro turned his attention to Isabella, offering a playful bow. She returned his smile, open and unguarded. It was too easy to see her youth in moments like this—her naivety.

My eyes flicked to the sunflowers woven into her hair. They felt wrong, juvenile, a stark contrast to the diamond earrings I’d sent her. Leaning down, I spoke quietly, my tone firm. “Why didn’t you wear the earrings I bought?”

Her smile faltered, replaced by hesitation. “I thought these suited the dress better,” she said softly.

I straightened, my expression cooling. “Next time, wear what I choose.”

The words hung between us, a quiet but clear reminder of the role she now held. My wife. The wife of an Underboss. And there was no room for mistakes.