Mary had just lied through her teeth, and now she stood there, chin lifted, trying not to show how badly her legs wanted to give out beneath her. Her palms were slick with sweat, but her gaze stayed steady on his, because she knew if she blinked, if she faltered even a little, the illusion would collapse. She prayed—not to God, not exactly, but to something—to hold the lie in place long enough to make it real.
Mary swallowed hard, then said it before she lost her nerve.
“You say I’m your wife,” she murmured. “But I’m not. Not in the eyes of God.”
Will’s eyes narrowed, just slightly — not in anger, but in something more like curiosity. Or doubt.
“You think that matters?” he asked, stepping closer, voice low. “After everything?”
“It matters to me,” she said. “And it matters to them. The famiglia. The Church. Everyone who sees us and waits for a reason to tear it apart.”
Will’s jaw tightened. Then, after a beat, he nodded once.
“Then I’ll give you a real wedding,” he said. “One no one can question. One even God can’t deny.”
Mary blinked. “What?”
“A church. A priest. Vows. Witnesses. A real ceremony.”
Her mind scrambled for footing. “Why now?”
“Because you’re right,” he said. “If you’re my wife, then you stay in the game. And if you’re in the game, you need to be untouchable.”
She searched his face for irony, but found none. The idea of marriage as protection. As strategy. As another move on the board. It was grotesque. It was brilliant. It was exactly the kind of logic he lived by.
Still, she hesitated.
“Then there’s one thing,” she said, keeping her voice quiet but firm. “One thing that has to happen.”
He tilted his head, cautious. “What is it?”
“My father has to walk me down the aisle.”
That made him still.
“I’m Catholic,” she said, more forcefully now. “If you want it to be real, if you want the Church and the famiglia to see it as valid, then my father has to give me away.”
“You think they care that much about faith?” he asked, voice low, a little amused.
“I don’t care what they think,” she replied. “I care. It matters to me. And it’ll matter to Carmela. To the Don. To the old ones who still kiss their rosaries before they order executions.”
He looked at her for a long time. No blinking. No mocking smile. Just silence stretching thin between them.
Then, finally, a nod.
“Okay,” he said. “If that’s what it takes.”
Mary’s heart thudded once—loud enough to feel in her ribs. She hadn’t expected him to say yes. She wasn’t sure what she’d do if he said no. But now that the door had cracked open, she pushed, careful but certain.
“Then we need to find him,” she said. “Alive.”
William’s eyes sharpened. “You think he’s still breathing?”
“I have to,” she whispered. “And if you want your wife to walk into that church, you better hope I’m right.”
He stepped closer until she could feel the warmth of him again, his hand reaching up—not to grab, not to control—but to trace her jaw with the back of his fingers. Gentle. Dangerous. Like a promise written in gasoline.
“Then we find your father,” he said. “And we make this wedding unforgettable.”