Tied to My Ex

[Valentina’s POV]

* Five years ago *

The wedding dress is a mistake. I know this the moment I see myself in the mirror—all white lace and naive optimism, like I'm cosplaying as someone who has her life figured out.

The veil sits crooked on my head because neither Mama nor I know what we're doing with it. We're winging it. Story of my life.

"Hold still, tesoro," Mama says, fingers working the fabric. She's been adjusting this thing for ten minutes and it still looks like a decorative lampshade having an identity crisis. "There. Beautiful."

I turn to face her, and the look in her eyes makes my stomach twist.

It's the same look she had when Papa died. Like she's watching something precious slip away in slow motion while the universe refuses to hit pause.

"Mama, don't start."

"I haven't said anything." She smooths nonexistent wrinkles from my dress, which is Italian Mother Code for saying everything without breaking her silence streak.

It's like an emotional Morse code, and I'm fluent.

"You're thinking it so loud I can hear it from here. It's practically echoing." I catch her hands, stilling them. "I know what you're going to say."

"Do you?" She meets my eyes, and there's steel under the sadness. "Do you truly know who Dante Romano is, Valentina? What the Falcone family does?"

The way she says his name, like it tastes bitter going down, tells me exactly how this conversation is about to go.

"He's not like them," I say, and God, even I can hear how young I sound.

Twenty years old and absolutely certain I've cracked the code on fixing bad boys with my affection.

"He promised he'd leave the business after we're married, but he’s nothing important, just an enforcer, so it won’t be a big deal. We'll move away, start fresh…"

"And love conquers all?"

Mama's laugh is sharp enough to draw blood.

"You are twenty years old, figlia mia. You think love is a fairy tale with a guaranteed happy ending." She pauses. "You think a good heart and a pretty face can reprogram a man who was raised in blood and violence."

"He's different."

"He is a Falcone." She grips my shoulders, fingers digging in hard, which isn’t technically true, because he is a Romano, but I know she means the family. I’m just too nervous to try and not joke.

"Your father would have been so proud to see you like this. So beautiful, so full of hope. He also would have locked you in this room before letting you marry anywhere near that family."

The words land like a slap. I open my mouth to argue, to defend Dante, to explain she doesn't understand what we have—when a car engine rumbles outside.

I peek at the window and see it. Black and sleek and probably costs more than our house. Two men in dark suits step out, faces so expressionless they could be auditioning for the Secret Service.

It's time.

Mama's hands tighten on my shoulders before she releases me.

"It's not too late," she whispers. "You can still change your mind."

I kiss her cheek instead, cutting off whatever dire prediction she was about to make. "I love you, Mama. But I love him too."

I grab my bouquet with white roses and her hand in mine, leading us toward the door before my resolve can pack its bags.

Marco says nothing as he opens the car door. He’s one of the good ones, the rare breed in the family—he’s also done a lot of small things for me when Dante asked.

I’m even happy to see him. He smiles at me as the car starts to move, and I smile back, nervous, holding Mama’s hand.

The chapel is beautiful when we arrive, in that cold and intimidating way that makes you feel like the building itself is silently questioning your life decisions. Stained glass windows filter colored light across wooden pews filled with men in black suits.

Not family. Not friends. Just soldiers.

It's less wedding, more mafia board meeting with better acoustics.

Mama sits in the front pew, rosary beads wrapped around her knuckles like she's preparing for spiritual combat. She's praying. Probably for me to spontaneously develop common sense.

I take my place at the altar and wait. The priest gives me an awkward smile that screams I've-seen-this-movie-before-and-it-doesn't-end-well.

He's performed weddings for the Falcone family before, Dante said. He knows how these things go—fast, efficient, legally binding before anyone can reconsider their poor judgment.

Except Dante isn't here.

Five minutes pass. Then ten. The priest shifts his weight, glancing toward the door like maybe he missed a memo. I keep my eyes forward, smile fixed in place.

This is fine. He's just running late.

Probably got caught in unexpected traffic. Or stopped to rescue a puppy.

Fifteen minutes. Twenty. The men in suits check their watches with increasing frequency. Whispers ripple through the pews as Mama's eyes find mine across the space between us.

Her expression says what her mouth doesn't: I told you so.

Thirty minutes. The rain outside pounds on the whimsical windows.

An hour. My feet are killing me and I'm pretty sure my bouquet just filed for divorce.

The priest has abandoned all pretense and is now openly staring at the door like he's trying to summon Dante through sheer willpower. Guests—if you can call a room full of mobsters "guests"—start filing out.

They don't look at me as they leave. It's almost kind, actually. Like they're collectively agreeing to pretend I'm not standing here dressed like a rejected cake topper.

Mama approaches, her steps slow and careful, like she's approaching a wounded animal. "Valentina," she says gently. "We should go home."

"He's coming." My voice sounds strange, too high and thin. "Something must have happened. An emergency. He wouldn't just—"

"Tesoro…"

"He's coming."

Marco approaches us with his kind eyes, which seems like a design flaw for someone whose job description probably includes "menacing presence." His face twists with something that might be sympathy or the expression of someone who drew the short straw.

"Miss Moretti," he says quietly. "I'm sorry, but the wedding isn't happening."

The words don't make sense at first. They're in English, which I speak perfectly well, but my brain refuses to translate them into anything coherent.

"What? Why? Where's Dante? Is he hurt? Did something happen—"