The Valentini estate had never looked so original. Chandeliers dripped gold and crystal, fresh lilies perfumed the air, violins floated melodies across the marble floor, and servants hurried like ants under the watchful eyes of mafiosi dressed in tuxedos that barely concealed the steel beneath. It wasn't a wedding. It was theatre — a show of power, wealth, and untouchable arrogance.
The brides — in white lace that sparkled under candlelight, and her trembling bridesmaids — floated down the aisle like sacrificial lambs, half-smiling, half-terrified. Cameras flashed. Cigars smoked. The guests murmured gossip about alliances, vendettas, and who'd end up bleeding first.
But the real air wasn't romance. It was gunpowder eagerly waiting for a match.
Dante adjusted his cufflinks at the altar, jaw tight, eyes like razors. Beside him, Alessandro leaned lazily against the seat, sipping wine like it was holy water. His smirk was the kind that said: try me, and I'll bury you under the damn church.
The priest hadn't even cleared his throat when the double doors slammed open.
And in walked Giovanni De Santis.
Not alone, he was never alone. His men stormed in first, twenty deep, leather coats brushing, guns swelling under fabric, boots pounding like war drums. Giovanni followed, black suit sharp as a blade, hair slicked back, fury already written on his face.
"Madonna," someone whispered.
The music screamed to a halt.
Dante didn't flinch. He leaned one elbow on the altar, like the whole thing was a joke. "Giovanni. I thought you didn't RSVP."
Giovanni's laugh was ugly, hollow. "Cut the shit, Dante. We both know what this is. You're spitting in my face, marrying under my nose, thinking I wouldn't know? Thinking I wouldn't come?"
The crowd stiffened. Half the guests reached for their guns under the tablecloths. The other half pretended they were deaf.
Alessandro's voice cut in, smooth as whiskey:
"Giovanni, my boy. You've got balls, I'll give you that. But let me teach you something. Balls are useless if you don't know how to clean up your mess. And you…" — he waved a finger like a schoolteacher — "you don't wipe anything clean."
Laughter rippled through the Valentini men. Giovanni's face flushed scarlet.
"Bastardo!" Giovanni jumbled. He jabbed a finger toward the brides. "That girl belongs with me. You think you can parade her down the aisle and humiliate me?"
Dante finally pushed off the altar, swagger in every step. He got nose-to-nose with Giovanni, voice low, venom dripping:
"She doesn't belong to you, coglione. She chose me. And the fact that you showed up here, in front of God and everyone, begging like a dog for scraps? That's humiliation. Not me. You."
Gasps. Some guests smirked. Giovanni's men shifted uneasily.
Alessandro clapped his hands once, the sound cracking through the silence like a gunshot.
"Enough foreplay. Bring him in."
The doors opened again — this time, two Valentini soldiers dragged in a man, beaten to pulp, blood staining his shirt. The spy.
"Recognize him, Giovanni?" Alessandro's grin widened. "This little rat's been hiding in the woods, watching us, reporting back to you. Cute hobby. But the dumb fuck got caught."
The spy groaned, head slouching.
Giovanni's eyes flickered, betraying recognition.
Alessandro leaned forward, voice turning into a blade:
"See, Gio? That's your problem. You play the big man, but you let pigs like this do your watching. And they squeal. Loud."
One of Alessandro's men pulled a pistol, shoved it against the spy's temple.
The crowd collectively held its breath.
Giovanni stiffened, but he couldn't move. Couldn't stop it.
BANG.
Blood sprayed the marble. The brides screamed.
The spy's body crumpled like a ragdoll. Servants rushed forward with mops like this was routine.
Alessandro wiped a fleck of blood from his sleeve, unbothered. "That's how you wipe a mess clean, Giovanni. Quick. Efficient. No loose ends."
The room went dead silent except for Giovanni's ragged breathing. His face was stone, but his eyes — they burned with humiliation. Rage. And fear.
Alessandro raised his glass, toasting casually. "Now, Gio. You can stay, drink some wine, clap for the happy couples. Or you can crawl back to your hole and lick your wounds. But either way… this wedding continues."
Dante slid his arm around his bride, smirking at Giovanni like a wolf flaunting stolen prey. "You hear him? The vows ain't waiting. And neither am I."
Giovanni's fists clenched so hard his knuckles cracked. He wanted to scream, to draw, to unleash hellfire right there. But the eyes on him — hundreds of them, half armed, half mocking — were daggers.
For once, Giovanni De Santis did nothing.
He turned, stiff, every step echoing with disgrace. His men followed, silent, faces blank with the weight of defeat. The doors closed behind him with a finality that rang louder than a bullet.
Inside, Alessandro chuckled, low and cruel. "That, gentlemen, is the difference between us and them. We bury, they bark."
And with that, the priest cleared his throat again, hands trembling, and the wedding resumed — over blood, over humiliation, over the corpse still warm at the foot of the aisle.
For the Valentinis, it was the perfect day.
For Giovanni? It was the day his balls got cut off in public.