Married To My Enemy's Spy

The air of the cathedral was suffocatingly sweet, with the perfume of the white lie lilies that hung from the marble columns in great swaths of pristine beauty.

I had come here to die; not to wed. The dress, a relic passed down through generations of the Veritas family, was made of heavy, black lace, reminiscent of a funeral gown.

Luca stood waiting at the altar. His sleek black suit, cut to perfection, was a stark contrast against the pure white marble. His gaze held no warmth, just the cold, calculating satisfaction of an unspoken victory.

"You look beautiful," he whispered, for the benefit of those in the front row.

"Absolutely stunning."

"I hope your dreams of me are nightmares you can never awaken from," I replied, plastering on a false smile.

There was an odd chanting going on in the background. In reality, it was the monotone droning of the priest performing the marriage ceremony. In my head, there was a list forming of the enemy forces that surrounded me: Thorne sitting three rows back with hungry eyes, the De Luca capos scattered throughout the pews.

"I am going to kill you for what you have done to him," I thought, meeting Luca's piercing gaze when we exchanged the rings. The ring was like a ball and chain around my finger, chilling and weighty.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife."

The flashes from cameras sounded like gunshots. Luca brought me closer and put one hand on the small of my back, pressing me against his strong torso. Touching him sent an unpleasant electric current of loathing through me. We looked like a match made in heaven before the whole world. The truth was that we were two vicious predators playing our games.

The reception was a chaos of fake smiles and drinks. It was hard to keep up with acting, and I had a headache from pretending to enjoy all of it. The minute a camera turned away, my face would fall apart into a cold expressionless mask.

"Your stamina is fading, wife," Luca whispered in my ear when we were standing at the marble steps of the cathedral for some pictures.

"My tolerance for hypocrisy is wearing off."

His grip tightened on my waist, his thumb digging into my hip through the silk. He leaned down, his lips brushing my temple, his breath hot against my skin.

Luca whispers: "Smile. Or I will make you."