Vows of Darkness

Giorgia~

I sat in front of the vanity, staring at my reflection as the hairdresser pinned my curls into place. The silk robe clung to my shoulders, cool against my skin, but the heat crawling up my throat had nothing to do with the temperature.

We had arrived in Mexico two days ago, and ever since, the Rodriguez Manor had been a whirlwind of preparations and unfamiliar faces. The manor was everything I had expected - grand, imposing, drenched in history and power. The kind of place that forced you to shrink or drown in its presence. The wedding would take place on the front lawn, an open expanse of manicured perfection with archways wrapped in white roses and lanterns waiting to be lit. Somewhere outside, the guests were already gathering, their whispers and judgments floating through the halls.

I swallowed hard, gripping the edges of my seat as Wilma walked in. The moment I saw her, something in my chest twisted. She had been more of a mother to me than my own, always there, always herself - not cruel, not detached, just Wilma.

Her hands found my shoulders, warm, grounding. "You look beautiful, mi amor," she murmured, her voice softer than usual.

I blinked rapidly, my gaze dropping to my lap. "I don't feel beautiful. I feel like I can't breathe."

Her fingers squeezed gently. "Nerves are normal. But listen to me, Giorgia, you will be fine."

Fine. I almost laughed. If only she knew what waited for me after this wedding.

As if reading my mind, Wilma turned me toward her, her expression firm but kind. "Don't be afraid of tonight," she said quietly. "It feels impossible now, but it gets easier. It's just... a part of life, a part of marriage."

A part of marriage. A duty. The words pressed down on my chest like a weight.

I clenched my fists. "And what if I don't want it to get easier?"

Wilma's fingers grazed my cheek, her touch unexpectedly soft. "You fight in your own way, like you always have." Her voice carried the warmth of someone who had watched me grow, yet the weight of someone who knew what I was walking into.

She patted my head gently, lingering for just a second before stepping back. "Don't be afraid of tonight. It gets easier."

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. Easier. The word clung to me, but it did nothing to soften the edge of dread tightening around my ribs. Wilma gave me one last look - one that I couldn't quite decipher - before she turned and left, leaving me alone with my reflection.

A knock on the door barely gave me a moment to breathe before it swung open. Martina stepped inside, balancing a glass in her hand. "Brought you something," she said, lifting it slightly before setting it on the table beside me. "Figured you might need it."

She looked effortlessly put together, as always. Her deep emerald gown hugged her frame, the silky fabric pooling slightly at her feet. Against the dark green, her hazel eyes looked lighter, almost golden under the warm lights. A few freckles dusted her nose, partially hidden beneath a light layer of makeup, but her black hair - loose and wavy - remained untouched, framing her face with a careless elegance that only she could pull off.

I stared at the drink, my fingers twitching against my lap. "What is it?"

"Juice. Relax, I'm not trying to get you drunk before the vows."

I let out a small exhale, shaking my head, but before I could reach for the glass, she dropped onto the chair beside me. For a moment, she just looked at me, her usual teasing smirk absent. Then, a sigh escaped her lips.

"This is really happening, huh?" Her voice was quieter than I'd expected, almost as if she wasn't sure she wanted to say it out loud.

I met her gaze, and for the first time in a long while, I saw something raw there. Not just the usual recklessness or mischief - but something deeper.

"You're really getting married," she whispered.

The lump in my throat returned, heavier this time. "Yeah."

Martina chewed on the inside of her cheek, then leaned forward, resting her arms on her knees. "I always thought when this day came, we'd be celebrating. Laughing. Drinking way too much champagne. Not... this."

I didn't have an answer for her.

The door opened again, our Mother stepped inside, her expression as composed as ever. Her gaze flickered to me, taking in the wedding dress, the veil, the makeup.

"You look gorgeous," she said, and for a moment, I almost believed she meant it.

She walked toward me, her heels clicking against the marble floor, and placed something on the vanity in front of me. A garter. White lace with a tiny blue ribbon.

"It's tradition," she said simply, meeting my eyes in the mirror. "You'll need to wear it."

I stared at it, my fingers curling slightly on my lap.

She didn't say anything else. No words of reassurance. No warmth. Just duty. Always duty.

Then, as if she had completed her responsibility, she turned and left the room.

Silence stretched between Martina and me for a long moment before she scoffed. "Wow. A whole compliment. That's new."

I let out a breath, shaking my head. "Yeah. Guess miracles do happen."

Martina studied me for a moment before leaning back in her chair. "You know, I used to think weddings were all about love. But looking at all of this... it's more about control, isn't it?"

I didn't answer.

"You could run," she added, her voice barely above a whisper. "I mean it, Gia. You could still-"

"Stop." My voice came out firmer than I expected, surprising even me.

Martina sighed, tilting her head back. "Just saying."

I pressed my hands against my lap, trying to keep them from trembling. "Where's Antonio?" I muttered, more to myself than to her. "I haven't seen him in the past two days since we arrived here in Mexico. It's like he's disappeared."

Just as the words left my mouth, a familiar voice cut through the room.

"Who's disappeared?"

Antonio.

"Finally decided to show up?" Martina quipped, arms crossed as she leaned against the dresser. "I was starting to think you'd fled the country."

Antonio didn't even spare her a glance. "Didn't seem necessary."

He stepped inside, the heavy thud of his polished dress shoes sinking into the thick carpet. He was dressed in a sharp black suit, tailored to perfection, the crisp white of his shirt contrasting starkly against the dark fabric. His tie was undone, hanging loose around his collar, as if he'd put in only the bare minimum effort to look presentable. Typical.

Martina scoffed, rolling her eyes but didn't push it further. The moment he fully entered the room, silence settled between the three of us. No biting remarks, no sarcastic jabs - just an unspoken weight hanging in the air.

His dark gaze swept over me, slow and calculating, before he finally said, "You look beautiful."

My breath caught slightly, not because of the words themselves, but because they came from him. Antonio wasn't one for compliments, not unless they served a purpose. I searched his face, trying to read between the lines, but his expression gave nothing away.

Martina exhaled through her nose, a knowing look flickering across her features. "Well," she muttered, straightening, "I'll leave you two to...whatever this is." And with that, she slipped out, shutting the door behind her.

A moment passed. Neither of us spoke.

Antonio shifted slightly, rolling his shoulders as if something weighed on them. Then, without looking at me, he muttered, "Help me with this tie."

I blinked. Of all things he could've said, that was the last I expected.

Still, I stood, smoothing down my dress as I walked over to him. The tie hung loosely around his collar, a mess of expensive fabric waiting to be put in place. My fingers brushed against it hesitantly before I started fixing it, the motion surprisingly familiar.

The silence between us stretched, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was... heavy.

My hands moved instinctively, looping the fabric, pulling it tight, the rhythm bringing back something distant.

I used to do this when we were kids.

Not often, but I remembered it. When he was younger, before the weight of the Famiglia settled on his shoulders, before he learned to shut everything out. I used to fix his ties for him on rare occasions - when he was late for a family event, when our mother reminded him to look presentable. Back then, he used to fidget, tugging at the stiff fabric like it annoyed him.

Now, he stood perfectly still.

I glanced up at him. He was watching me, his dark eyes unreadable. There was something there, just beneath the surface, something I couldn't quite name.

I tightened the knot of his tie, fingers lingering on the silk.

"Do you remember?" Antonio asked suddenly, his voice quieter than before.

I looked up. "Remember what?"

"When we were kids." His eyes flickered with something distant, something buried. "You used to do this for me."

I huffed a small, breathy laugh. "Yeah. And you used to complain about it the whole time."

Antonio exhaled sharply - maybe the closest thing to a chuckle I'd ever get from him. "It was too tight."

"It was supposed to be tight," I countered, smoothing the fabric down. "You'd always loosen it the second I finished."

"I still do," he muttered, and I shook my head.

For a brief moment, it was just us - not the children of a Capo, not a bride and her brother on her wedding day, but two kids standing in front of a mirror, bickering over a tie.

But the illusion shattered as fast as it had formed.

A lump swelled in my throat, thick and suffocating. I swallowed it down, but it wasn't enough. A single tear escaped, streaking down my cheek before I could stop it.

Antonio's fingers caught it, brushing it away before it could fall any further. His touch was brief - hesitant, even - but in that moment, it felt like the only real thing in the room.

I let out a shaky breath. "I don't know how to do this."

Antonio held my gaze, silent.

"I don't know how to be what they need me to be," I whispered.

For a second, I thought he might say something dismissive. But then, he surprised me.

"You don't have to be anything for them," he said. "Just don't lose yourself."

My chest tightened.

Antonio wasn't the kind of brother who filled silence with empty words. He didn't comfort - at least, not in the traditional way. But right now, when I felt more like a pawn than a person, his words felt like an anchor.

He gave me one last look, then stepped back. "I'll see you out there."

And just like that, he was gone.

I stood still, my fingers still curled slightly as if trying to hold onto the moment, onto him. But there was nothing to hold onto.

Just don't lose yourself.

I inhaled deeply, straightened my shoulders, and turned back to the mirror.

Because if there was one thing I could do, it was pretend.

I exhaled slowly, my hands gripping the vanity table as I gathered myself. The moment Antonio left, the weight of it all came crashing down again.

One last touch-up. A deep breath. And then I stepped out of the room.

My parents were waiting for me.

My father stood tall, his suit crisp, his expression indecipherable—except for the pride gleaming in his eyes. The kind of pride that came not from love, but from duty fulfilled. His daughter was doing what every daughter should. His legacy remained intact.

Beside him, my mother was silent, as she always was. She had always been more of a shadow than a presence, and today was no different.

The hallway doors opened.

A hush fell over the guests as I stepped forward, my father's arm sliding beneath mine.

The aisle stretched before me like a path carved in stone, unrelenting and absolute. White rose petals lined the ground, a stark contrast against the dark wooden flooring. Candlelit chandeliers hung above, casting a golden glow over the grand, open-air courtyard. Rows of chairs, filled with guests dressed in the finest attire, framed the pathway.

The music swelled, each note pressing against my chest, making it harder to breathe.

I kept my eyes ahead but not on him. Never on him.

Javier stood at the end of the aisle, a shadowed figure in the periphery of my vision.

Martina was among the guests, her expression masked for once. Camila sat beside her, elegantly poised, though there was something softer in her eyes. The weight of hundreds of gazes burned into me, but the only one I refused to meet was his.

Step by step, the walls closed in.

The altar loomed closer.

And then, finally, we stopped.

My father turned to me, giving the briefest nod—approval wrapped in finality. Then, he placed my hand in Javier's.

His grip was solid, possessive. A silent declaration.

My hands felt ice-cold despite the heat pressing against my skin. I kept my eyes fixed on Javier's chest, unwilling—maybe unable—to meet his gaze. His suit was a deep, inky black, the kind that absorbed all light, with silk lapels that reflected the soft glow of the setting sun. The crisp edges of his jacket framed his broad shoulders perfectly, and the faintest scent of his cologne—something dark, something dangerously intoxicating—lingered in the air between us.

I could feel his eyes on me. Heavy. Intense. A silent force pressing against me, daring me to look up. My pulse thundered in my ears, drowning out the quiet murmurs of the guests, the distant rustle of the wind against the white drapes lining the altar. The priest's voice carried through the air, solemn and commanding, but his words blurred together, lost to the pounding in my chest.

The rings.

Victor handed Javier a sleek platinum band, simple yet imposing, like the man holding it. I barely registered when he took my hand, his fingers warm, firm—claiming. The cold metal slid onto my finger, sealing my fate, and my breath caught when his grip lingered for a fraction too long. Then it was my turn. My own hands trembled as I picked up the ring, a matching band, though somehow it felt smaller in my grasp, insignificant against the weight of what it represented. When I slid it onto his finger, Javier remained eerily still.

A beat of silence. Then the priest's final words rang out, sealing the ceremony.

"You may now kiss the bride."

My stomach twisted violently. Only then did I dare to look up, meeting Javier's gaze for the first time since I had walked down the aisle. His eyes—cold, sharp, unwavering—held me in place, a silent promise lurking behind them, something unspoken yet unmistakable. This wasn't just a kiss. This was a claim.

His hand came up, fingers grazing my jaw before tilting my face up to his. And then his lips crashed against mine. Resolute. Dominating. A kiss that left no room for hesitation, no space for resistance. It wasn't gentle, wasn't tender. It was possession. The world around us blurred, the whispers and applause nothing but distant noise as he took what now belonged to him.

When he finally pulled away, my breath was unsteady, my lips tingling with the force of it.

Javier didn't move, didn't let go, his thumb skimming along my jaw before he leaned in, his voice a quiet murmur against my ear.

"Mine."

A shiver ran down my spine, but I refused to let it show. I had known this was coming. I had known this was inevitable. And yet, standing here, wrapped in the weight of his presence, I felt something else creeping in.

Dread.

Because this was only the beginning.

The applause rang through the air, sealing the fate that had been decided for me long ago. My pulse hammered in my ears as I blinked against the golden glow of the chandeliers strung above the reception area. I barely registered the priest's final words, the murmurs of the guests, or the way Javier's hand still gripped mine—assertive, territorial, inescapable.

I forced myself to lift my gaze, scanning the faces in front of me. Martina stood off to the side, arms crossed, sulking, her lips pressed into a tight line. Her hazel eyes, flicked between me and Javier, unfathomable yet burning with unspoken words. Ivan and Victor, on the other hand, were the loudest in the room, clapping obnoxiously, whistling, and shouting things in Spanish I was sure were meant to annoy Javier more than congratulate us.

"Bravo, hermano!" Victor called out, smirking. Ivan elbowed him, his grin just as wild. "I'd say you finally settled down, but…" He trailed off with a knowing chuckle.

Javier didn't even acknowledge them. He stood beside me, his posture composed, his expression cool and impassive—except for his fingers, which had yet to release mine.

The reception began with a slow trickle of guests approaching us, their congratulations laced with underlying meanings I wasn't sure I wanted to dissect. My father was the first to shake Javier's hand, gripping it firmly before leaning in.

"You've gained something precious today," he murmured, his voice heavy with satisfaction. "Don't waste it."

Javier merely inclined his head. No words of agreement, no unnecessary flattery. Just silence.

Antonio came next. He looked at Javier, then at me, his lips pressing into a thin line. I saw the reluctance in his stance, but he extended his hand nonetheless. A brief handshake, stiff and formal, before he turned to me. He didn't say anything, but the way his fingers brushed against my arm as he stepped back told me enough. It was the closest thing to reassurance I would get from him.

One by one, they came. Camila, Lucia, and even her father, Esteban Salazar, a man whose presence alone was a reminder of the tangled alliances that had led to this night.

"You look stunning, querida," Esteban murmured as he took my hand, pressing a light kiss to the back of it. "May this union be prosperous for all of us."

I managed a small smile, but my mind was already drifting elsewhere—floating toward the inevitable.

The wedding night.

The thought curled in my stomach like a tightening fist, winding through my ribcage until it felt impossible to breathe.

I felt Javier shift beside me, and before I could stop myself, I turned my head slightly toward him. He wasn't looking at me, but I could feel his attention. Feel the weight of it, the way it burned through my skin without ever touching me.

"You haven't said a word," he murmured, his voice low enough that only I could hear.

I swallowed, forcing a breath past the tightness in my throat. "What is there to say?"

His lips twitched, not quite a smirk, not quite anything at all. "You tell me, Mrs. Rodriguez."

The name sent a shiver down my spine. A name that was mine now, whether I wanted it or not.

I clenched my fingers against my dress, my thoughts once again spiraling to the night ahead, to what would happen behind closed doors, when there would be no guests, no expectations—only him and me.

Only the imminent.

The reception had finally come to an end, but the night was far from over. The dinner was set under the open sky, the sprawling front lawn of the Rodriguez estate transformed into an elegant dining space. Round tables draped in ivory linen surrounded the long, central table reserved for the family. Golden candelabras flickered softly in the evening breeze, their light casting warm shadows over the polished silverware and crystal glasses. The scent of fresh roses and night-blooming jasmine mingled with the rich aroma of the food being served, but even that did nothing to stir my appetite.

Everyone took their seats, the quiet clinking of cutlery and murmured conversations filling the air. Javier was beside me, his presence steadfast, while the others settled around the table. The waitstaff moved gracefully, placing steaming platters of food in front of us, an extravagant mix of Italian and Mexican cuisine. Handmade ravioli drenched in a delicate sage butter, rich mole drizzled over slow-cooked meat, fresh ceviche garnished with citrus, and platters of antipasti arranged like works of art.

I barely glanced at the dishes. My stomach was tight, my appetite nonexistent, even though I hadn't eaten much all day. The weight of everything—the marriage, the expectations, the unfamiliarity of this place—pressed down on me.

Martina sat beside me, leaning in every so often to murmur something under her breath. Her voice was low, but the knowing edge in her tone made my pulse jump. I forced myself to keep my expression neutral, though the heat climbing up my neck threatened to betray me.

On the other side of Javier, Victor and Ivan were, unsurprisingly, causing a scene. Ivan had nudged Victor too hard, making him nearly spill his drink, and the two had spiraled into a hushed but animated bickering match, smirks tugging at their lips despite the glares from across the table.

Javier's presence beside me was something I was acutely aware of. The heat of him, the occasional brush of his arm against mine, the way his fingers toyed with the stem of his wine glass—it all unsettled me in ways I wasn't prepared for. He hadn't spoken much since we sat down, but every now and then, I could feel his gaze shift toward me. It made my stomach twist, though I wasn't sure if it was unease or something else entirely.

"Ivan, eat your damn food and stop running your mouth," Javier muttered, barely looking up from his plate.

But Ivan, as usual, wasn't one to listen. A mischievous grin spread across his face as he leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, his eyes glinting with trouble.

"So, Georgia," he drawled, stretching out my name like he was savoring it. "Since you're now officially Mrs. Rodriguez, tell me—what part of married life are you most excited about?"

I nearly choked on my wine. Heat shot up my neck, my fingers tightening around the stem of my glass as I turned to glare at him. Across the table, Victor was already shaking his head, chuckling under his breath.

"Ivan," Javier warned beside me, his tone edged with irritation.

"What?" Ivan feigned innocence, popping a piece of food into his mouth. "I'm just making conversation."

I pressed my lips together, refusing to respond. My face was already giving me away, warmth creeping across my skin, and judging by the way Ivan's smirk widened, he knew it too.

"Don't worry, hermano," Victor chimed in, nudging Ivan. "She doesn't have to say it. We all know what the answer is."

I felt Javier shift beside me, the air around him darkening with warning.

"One more word," he muttered, voice low and deadly, "and I'll personally make sure you two don't have teeth left to eat dinner."

That, at least, shut them up—for now. But I could still feel the lingering amusement in Javier's gaze as he glanced at me.

I refused to look at him.

Before I could fully recover, Martina leaned in, barely containing her laughter. "Oh my God, Georgia," she whispered, her voice dripping with amusement. "You're turning as red as the wine."

I shot her a glare, but it only made her bite her lip harder, her shoulders shaking.

"I mean, they do have a point," she teased, nudging me. "Which part are you most excited about?"

I gasped, mortified. "Martina!"

She burst out laughing, quickly covering her mouth when a few heads turned in our direction. "Relax," she giggled. "I'm just enjoying the rare sight of you speechless."

Javier sighed beside me, rubbing a hand down his face. "Great. Now there are three of them."

At the far end of the table, Omar Rodriguez rose to his feet, lifting his glass. His voice carried easily over the gathered guests, commanding without effort. "Tonight," he began, his tone measured yet laced with authority, "we celebrate the union of two powerful families. A future built on strength, on legacy." His gaze swept over the table, lingering briefly on Javier before shifting to me. "To my son, Javier, and to Giorgia—may this alliance bring prosperity."

Glasses lifted in unison, a chorus of murmured toasts following. I hesitated for a fraction of a second before lifting mine as well, the weight of expectation pressing against my shoulders. Across the table, Antonio and Stefano sat close, their conversation hushed, their expressions carved from stone. They weren't celebrating. They were strategizing.

The clink of glasses echoed through the night, but even as I sipped the wine, I couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't just a dinner. It was a chessboard, and every person seated around it was either a player—or a piece.