Chapter 8 - THE CROWN WE CHOOSE
The wedding was not a public spectacle splashed across the gossip columns of the New York Post. It was an intimate, breathtaking affair held at a secluded stone estate overlooking the Hudson River, surrounded only by those who mattered most—Dante, Dr. Ricci, a few trusted members of the Castellano inner circle, and the strong, resilient women from the foundation who had found their freedom through the doors we had opened together.
I wore a gown of delicate white lace that cascaded softly to the floor, simple and elegant, completely free of the invisible chains of my past. When I walked down the stone pathway lined with white roses—the exact same flowers that had filled the lobby of Castellano's the night I ran into the dark—Antonio was waiting for me at the altar.
He wore a classic black tuxedo, his dark hair combed back, his expression a mixture of profound awe and fierce, unyielding devotion. As I reached his side, he took my hands in his, his grip warm, steady, and unbreakable.
"You take my breath away," he murmured as the officiant began to speak.
"You're not so bad yourself," I whispered back with a teasing smile.
May you like
When the vows were exchanged and the rings slipped onto our fingers, there was no hesitation, no shadow of doubt. When the officiant pronounced us husband and wife and Antonio leaned down to kiss me, the applause of our small, fierce family echoed out over the river, blending with the sound of the wind rustling through the trees.
We had both survived wars of our own—he against the violent underbelly of the city, I against the suffocating terror of domestic abuse. But together, we hadn't just survived; we had conquered.
