The cathedral smelled of incense, lilies, and old blood.
St. Ignatius Martyr had been closed to the public for three days. Every pew had been scrubbed, every confession box emptied, every stained-glass window polished until the martyrs looked down in ruby and sapphire judgment. Outside, Manhattan crawled with black SUVs and men in tailored suits who carried guns the way other men carried rosaries.
Inside, five hundred of the most dangerous people on the Eastern Seaboard waited in silence.
They had come to watch the devil marry his queen.
Liliana stood in the bridal suite beneath the bell tower, hands steady as Dante fastened the last button at her spine. The dress was white (virgin white, because he had demanded the irony). Silk so fine it looked liquid, cut low in the back to display his brand and the collar that had become her crown. A thirty-foot train pooled around her feet like spilled cream. The veil was cathedral-length lace, edged in black diamonds that flashed like obsidian tears.
At her throat, the collar gleamed, no longer hidden. A new addition had been soldered on this morning: a tiny, perfect crown pendant hanging from the front ring, resting just above her heartbeat.
Dante's hands slid around her waist from behind, lips brushing the fresh bite mark he'd left on her shoulder an hour ago.
"Regina mia," he whispered, voice rough with possession and something softer. "You are the most terrifying thing I've ever seen."
She met his eyes in the mirror. "Good."
The veil went on last. He lifted it carefully over the crown he'd placed on her head the night she became queen, settling the lace so it framed her face like a dark halo.
A knock. Vittorio's voice through the door.
"It's time."
Dante offered his arm. She took it.
They walked the long corridor together (no father to give her away, because she had killed the only one she'd ever had). The organ began as they reached the nave: not the traditional wedding march, but Lacrimosa from Mozart's Requiem, slow and merciless and perfect.
Every head turned.
She walked down the aisle alone on Dante Moretti's arm, train whispering over blood-red rose petals scattered across the marble. The pews were packed with monsters in Brioni suits and women dripping diamonds worth small fortunes. Some stared in open fear. Some in hatred. All of them knew they were witnessing history.
At the altar waited Father Luca, looking ten years older than the last time she'd seen him in this church. His hands shook as he opened the missal.
Dante stopped at the foot of the steps and turned to her.
He did not lift the veil.
Instead he cupped her face through the lace and kissed her (deep, claiming, filthy) right there in front of God and every sinner in New York. When he pulled back, her lipstick was smeared across his mouth like fresh blood.
Only then did he raise the veil.
The congregation inhaled as one.
She was breathtaking. Terrifying. Perfect.
They knelt.
Father Luca's voice cracked as he began.
"Dearly beloved…"
The vows were not the standard ones.
Dante spoke first, voice carrying to the rafters without a microphone.
"I, Dante Alessandro Moretti, take you, Liliana Rossi, as my wife, my queen, my weapon, and my salvation. I vow to kill for you, to bleed for you, to burn cities at your command. Your enemies are my enemies. Your desires are my law. I will keep you in chains of my choosing and crown you with the bones of anyone who dares touch what is mine. Until death parts us—and even then, I will find you in hell."
He slid the ring onto her finger: white gold, black diamonds, and a single ruby carved into a tiny dagger.
Her turn.
"I, Liliana Moretti, take you, Dante, as my husband, my king, my monster, and my redemption. I vow to stand at your right hand in blood and fire. To wield the knife you place in my palm. To bear your children and teach them to fear nothing but disappointing us. I will wear your collar with pride and your crown with terror. Where you lead, I will follow—into darkness, into legend, into forever."
She slipped the matching band onto his finger.
Father Luca skipped the "speak now or forever hold your peace" part. Smart man.
Instead he moved straight to the pronouncement.
"By the power vested in me—by forces both holy and unholy—I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may—"
Dante was already kissing her again.
The organ exploded into the Dies Irae as they turned to face the congregation. Five hundred people rose as one, not in applause, but in the closest thing the underworld had to a standing ovation: silence and bowed heads.
They walked back down the aisle as Mr. and Mrs. Moretti, rose petals crushed beneath her train, Dante's hand possessive at the small of her back.
At the doors, he paused, turned her to him, and dropped to one knee in front of the entire city.
From his pocket he drew a new leash (white gold this time, thin as silk, unbreakable). He clipped it to the ring on her collar in full view of everyone.
Then he kissed the hem of her dress like a knight swearing fealty.
When he stood, he didn't remove the leash.
He led her out of the cathedral that way: his queen on a golden chain, smiling like the world belonged to her.
Because now it did.
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The reception was held in the old Rossi ballroom (the one place Dante had refused to burn).
Crystal chandeliers glittered over tables laden with black roses and white orchids. The string quartet played Bach's Toccata and Fugue while capos toasted with champagne older than most countries.
Liliana sat at the head table on a throne Dante had commissioned: black marble, carved with thorns and crowned with a tiny silver dagger at the apex. He sat beside her in a matching one.
They fed each other wedding cake with fingers stained red from the filling (raspberry reduction that looked exactly like blood). When it was time for the first dance, he led her to the center of the floor, leash still attached, and spun her beneath the chandeliers to a slowed-down version of "La Vie en Rose" played on minor keys.
Halfway through, he dropped to his knees again, pressed his face to her belly, and whispered something too low for anyone else to hear.
She laughed through sudden tears and pulled him up to kiss her.
Later, when the champagne had flowed and the old men were drunk on power and fear, Dante stood and raised his glass.
"To my wife," he said simply. "Who taught the devil how to kneel."
Every glass in the room rose.
Liliana stood beside him, crown on her head, leash in his hand, and felt the weight of an empire settle on her shoulders like it had been waiting for her all along.
At 2:00 a.m. they slipped away.
The bridal suite had been prepared in the old master bedroom of the Rossi mansion (the one room Dante had preserved). Rose petals on the floor, black candles flickering, the four-poster bed draped in crimson silk.
He locked the door, turned to her, and finally (finally) unclipped the leash.
Then he knelt again.
"Take the dress off me," she commanded, voice steady as a blade.
He obeyed.
Piece by piece he stripped her bare: the veil, the crown, the dress, the lingerie (white lace he tore with his teeth). When she stood naked except for the collar and rings, he pressed his forehead to her stomach.
"I'm going to worship you now," he said, voice raw. "Until you forget every name but the one carved into your skin."
He did.
For hours.
With his mouth, his hands, his cock (slow, then brutal, then slow again). He took her against the wall, on the floor, bent over the same desk her father had once used to sign death warrants. He made her come so many times she lost count, until she was sobbing his name and begging for mercy he refused to give.
When he finally entered her the last time, he did it face to face on the bed, her legs over his shoulders, crown back on her head, leash wrapped around his fist.
"Look at me," he growled as he moved inside her. "Look at your husband while you take what's yours."
She did.
They came together (shattering, perfect, eternal).
Afterward, he held her against his chest, fingers tracing the collar, the brand, the new wedding ring.
"Mine," he whispered into her hair.
"Yours," she answered. "Forever."
Outside, the city burned quietly in celebration.
Inside, the king and queen of New York fell asleep tangled together, crowned in blood and fire, already dreaming of the empire they would build.
And the children who would inherit it.