Chapter 3 VOWS AT DAWN

Lucia had never worn anything so fine.

The silk of the wedding gown whispered against her skin like a secret-smooth, cool, impossibly delicate. It shimmered in the soft morning light filtering through the arched windows of the bridal chamber, the ivory fabric catching every golden ray. The dress hugged her curves modestly but with intention, and the lace sleeves framed her shoulders like they'd been stitched for her alone.

She stared at herself in the mirror and barely recognized the girl who looked back.

She wasn't the barefoot peasant from Castello Verde anymore.

She was about to become a De Luca.

Her stomach turned.

"It suits you," came a soft voice.

Lucia turned to see Giulia standing just inside the door, leaning slightly on a carved cane. The matriarch looked thinner than she had yesterday, paler, but her eyes still glinted with fire.

Lucia smiled faintly. "It's beautiful. But it's not really me."

"Perhaps not yet," Giulia said. "But it will be. Power fits awkwardly at first, like new shoes. In time, you'll walk like you were born in them."

Lucia looked down. "That's what I'm afraid of."

Giulia moved slowly across the room and reached for her hand. Her skin was paper-thin, veins visible, but her grip was surprisingly firm.

"I know you're scared," she said. "So is he. But I promise you this, Lucia-no matter what happens, this day will change your life. For better or worse."

Lucia nodded, a lump forming in her throat. "It already has."

The door opened again, and the wedding planner stepped in, clipboard in hand, headset in place, panic behind her perfect smile. "It's time. The groom is waiting."

The De Luca chapel was a masterpiece of art and faith, tucked between the villa's west wing and the family crypt. Sunlight poured through stained glass windows in soft hues of rose and gold. Fresh white roses lined the aisle. Candlelight flickered along the pews, though there were only a few guests: board members, distant relatives, family friends who all smiled with polished teeth but whispered behind gloved hands.

It was a show.

And Lucia was the centerpiece.

As she stepped into the aisle, every head turned. But her eyes sought only one figure.

Matteo De Luca.

He stood at the altar in a dark tailored suit, pristine white shirt open at the collar, no tie-defiant even now. His posture was impeccable, every muscle taut. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes locked with hers the moment she appeared.

Lucia's steps faltered only slightly as she walked toward him, her heart hammering with every click of her heels.

He didn't smile.

Neither did she.

When she reached him, Matteo offered his arm. She hesitated for half a second before slipping hers through his. His body was warm, steady. And distant.

The priest cleared his throat and began the ceremony in elegant Italian.

Lucia barely heard a word. Her thoughts raced as she stood next to the man who, in moments, would be her husband in name.

He hasn't even touched me, she thought. Not a kiss. Not a brush of fingers. Just silence and shadow.

"...to have and to hold," the priest said. "In honor and duty, in partnership and peace."

Matteo's voice was firm as he repeated the words. "I do."

The priest turned to Lucia.

She opened her mouth-then stopped. Her mind flashed to her brother in the hospital bed, her grandmother working the land with blistered hands, the foreclosure notice tucked in a kitchen drawer.

"I do," she whispered.

The priest smiled and turned the page.

"With these rings..."

A servant stepped forward with a small velvet box. Matteo took the ring first and slid it onto her finger. The metal was warm, heavy. Final.

When it was her turn, Lucia's hands trembled slightly. She looked at his hand-strong, calloused, no doubt used to hard decisions. She slid the ring onto his finger, whispering the words: "With this ring, I bind you."

The priest raised his arms.

"By the power vested in me by the Church and the De Luca legacy, I pronounce you husband and wife."

A hush fell.

Then silence.

Lucia looked up at Matteo. Their eyes met again.

The priest cleared his throat. "The kiss, Signor De Luca."

Matteo leaned forward slowly, his hand brushing her jaw. His lips touched hers lightly, too briefly for anyone to call it passion-but not brief enough for her not to feel something stir.

Electricity. A warning. A promise.

Then he pulled away, his face expressionless.

The applause began.

Back at the villa, a small breakfast reception unfolded in the grand dining room. Sunlight poured through the tall windows as servers moved between tables with champagne and fresh fruit. String music played softly in the background. Laughter floated through the air-but it felt distant, detached.

Lucia sat beside Matteo at the head table, barely touching her plate. The ring on her finger felt like a brand.

Across the room, one woman caught her attention-a brunette with crimson lips and an emerald dress that hugged every curve. She was watching Matteo with an intensity that made Lucia's skin prickle.

"Who's that?" she whispered.

Matteo didn't look. "Carla."

Lucia raised an eyebrow. "A friend?"

"She was... involved," he said flatly. "Briefly. It's over."

Carla's gaze flicked to Lucia then, her smile sharp and cold. Possessive.

"I'm not sure she agrees," Lucia murmured.

Matteo turned to her now, his tone cool. "It doesn't matter what she thinks. We're married."

Lucia sipped her champagne. "Yes. So we are."

They didn't speak again until the final toast was made, and Giulia rose, her glass trembling slightly in her frail hand.

"To my grandson, Matteo," she said, voice clear. "And to his bride, Lucia. May your marriage bring the peace and strength our family needs-and may your hearts find each other, even if your minds resist."

All eyes turned to them.

Lucia stood with Matteo, forcing a smile as she raised her glass.

Inside, her heart was a hurricane.

Later, in her new bedroom-his wing of the house, not hers-Lucia stood at the window in her wedding gown, watching the sun dip behind the vineyard. The sky bled pink and gold across the hills.

The door opened behind her.

She didn't turn.

Matteo's voice was low. "You can stay here tonight. Or I can have the guest suite prepared. I don't expect anything."

Lucia exhaled. "Thank you."

He crossed the room and stood near her, not touching. The silence was more intimate than words.

"You're not what I expected," he said.

She looked at him. "Good. I'm not here to meet expectations."

He actually smiled. Briefly.

"I'll be in my office," he said, stepping back. "If you need anything, there's a phone."

When he left, Lucia leaned against the window, heart heavy.

She was married.

Not to a man she loved-but to a stranger with haunted eyes and walls thicker than stone.

But as the moon rose over the hills of Tuscany, she whispered to herself,

"I'm not here for love. I'm here to survive."