Chapter 1 - THE SILENCE OF THE WOLVES
The air in the cathedral was so still that I could hear my own blood rushing through my veins,
like a river of ice water flowing beneath my skin.
Dante Moretti stood in the center of the aisle,
his presence swallowing the light from the flickering candles,
and his shadow stretched long across the marble floor.
He did not look like a guest at a wedding;
he looked like a judge presiding over a trial where the sentence had already been decided.
The coat he had draped over my shoulders felt heavy,
smelling of expensive tobacco and the sharp,
clean scent of a winter storm.
It was a shield against the hundreds of eyes that were currently trying to peel away what little dignity I had left.
Nathan,
my groom,
finally took a single step forward,
his hand reaching out as if he were trying to catch a bird that had already flown away.
“Dante,”
Nathan said,
his voice thin and reedy compared to the silence that gripped the room.
“This is a family matter,
please,
let’s just get through the ceremony.”
Dante didn’t even glance at him,
treating the man I was supposed to marry as if he were nothing more than a ghost in the room.
His eyes remained fixed on Veronica,
who was now trembling so violently that the champagne-colored fabric of her dress was rustling.
“I asked a question,”
Dante repeated,
his voice dropping an octave,
vibrating through the floorboards like distant thunder.
“Who touched her dress?”
The bridesmaids shifted their weight,
looking like a flock of colorful birds trapped in a cage.
Veronica tried to speak,
her mouth opening and closing,
but no sound came out except for a small,
choking gasp.
I felt the warmth of Dante’s coat seeping into my skin,
grounding me when the rest of the world felt like it was made of smoke.
I looked at Nathan,
the man I had known since we were children,
and realized I didn't recognize the coward standing at the altar.
He wasn't angry that someone had humiliated his bride;
he was angry that the scene was making his family look bad in front of the press.
“It was just a thread,”
Veronica finally managed to squeak out,
her voice high and brittle.
“I was only trying to help Elena,
I swear,
it must have been a mistake in the sewing.”
Dante’s lip curled into a sneer that didn’t reach his eyes,
which remained as cold as a mountain lake.
“A mistake in the sewing does not result in a surgical cut through lace and satin,”
he said,
taking a step closer to her.
The guests in the front pews leaned back,
terrified of being caught in the crossfire of his gaze.
Then,
without a word,
Dante turned back to me,
ignoring the priest,
the groom,
and the thousands of dollars of flowers that now looked like funeral arrangements.
“Elena,”
he said,
using my name with a familiarity that made my heart skip a beat.
“You are not getting married today.”
May you like
It wasn't a suggestion,
it was a declaration of war.
