The priest’s voice echoes like a dirge, each word chaining me tighter to the man beside me. My hands tremble in Vincent Moretti’s grip—cold, unyielding, marked by a serpent tattoo that coils around his wrist. The cathedral is packed with men in black suits and hollow eyes, all watching me like vultures circling prey. \n\nI didn’t choose this. One moment I was running my father’s bookstore, the next I was handed over like collateral. 'For the good of the family,' they said. Now, the ring slides onto my finger, heavy and suffocating. Vincent leans close, his breath warm against my ear. 'Smile, cara. The cameras are rolling.' \n\nAs the final blessing falls, a woman slips me a crumpled note—her fingers trembling. I glance down: He killed his last wife. Don’t trust the wine. My pulse hammers. Do I confront Vincent now, risk everything in front of his men? Do I play along and investigate later? Or do I make a run for it before the reception even begins?