Chapter 9 - The White Rose Wedding
The first of the month arrived with a sky so blue it looked like it had been washed by the hand of an artist. The rain had gone, the mud had dried, and the gardens of the Moretti estate were filled with three thousand white roses brought in from the valley by the river.
The string quartet was gone, replaced by the grand organ of the estate’s private chapel, its silver pipes throwing a massive, triumphant wave of sound across the high stone arches.
There were no three hundred guests this time. The hall was nearly empty, save for the seven remaining capos of the council, Bernardo standing by the door with his hands folded, and a single wheelchair parked in the front row.
David Vance sat in the chair, his legs covered by a simple wool blanket, his face pale from the long years in the hospital, but his eyes were clear, dark, and sharp—the same eyes as his sister. He looked at Aleandro as the boss walked down the aisle, and though he didn't smile, he nodded once—a treaty between two men who had both survived the same wolf.
Sophia walked down the aisle alone. Her dress was white—not the pale blue of the betrayal, but a heavy, raw silk that rustled against the stone floor like the wings of a great bird. Her veil was back, her face open to the light coming through the stained-glass windows, her dark hair long and free down her back.
She stopped at the altar, looking up at Aleandro.
The priest spoke the old words in Latin—the words of the church, the words of the law, the words that had bound the Moretti family to the soil of this state for a century.
When it came time for the rings, Aleandro did not take the diamond. He took his grandfather’s gold signet ring—the one he had worn on his pinky since his father died—and pressed it onto her thumb, the heavy gold fitting her skin like a shield.
"With this blood," Aleandro whispered, his voice for her alone.
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"With this house," Sophia replied, her voice steady, her eyes locking onto his with the final, absolute surrender of a woman who had found a king worth fighting for.
They didn't kiss with the soft, sweet romance of lovers in a storybook. They kissed with the hard, deep pressure of two soldiers who had survived the winter together and knew that the spring belonged to them.
