Paying My Father's Debt

Chapter 15:

The dress was beautiful.

Ivory silk, high-necked, long-sleeved, the bodice embroidered with intricate lace and beading that shimmered softly in the low light. It fell like water to the floor, pooling around her feet like liquid virtue. A cathedral-length veil trailed behind her, trimmed in pearls. She looked like a ghost from a holy painting. A saint on the altar.

And she hated every inch of it.

Mary stood in front of the mirror, unable to recognize the woman reflected back. Her hair was pinned up in soft waves, her skin pale against the white, her body corseted into the shape of tradition. Of obedience. Of purity.

Purity.

She almost laughed.

There was nothing pure left. Not after William had touched her. Taken her. Used her like she belonged to the world he ruled with blood and lawless hands.

This dress — this whole performance — was just theater. A white lie stitched from silk and silence.

The door creaked behind her.

Ben stepped inside, moving slow, careful. He was still bruised — eye swollen, lip split, walking with a limp — but he wore a dark suit that fit well enough and a tie someone had clearly forced him into. His face cracked into a smile when he saw her.

“You look like your mother,” he said, voice rough. “Only meaner.”

Mary turned, throat tightening. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I told him I’d walk you,” he said. “And he kept his word.”

He came closer, gently took her hands in his. “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. I just wish—” He stopped. Shook his head. “I wish you didn’t have to be brave like this.”

Mary blinked, then leaned forward and hugged him.

Despite everything, she was still his daughter.

And for a moment, it was like nothing else existed — not the violence, not the lies, not the pain of being torn between two men who’d both betrayed her in their own ways.

Then came the knock.

Felicity stood in the doorway, composed as ever, dressed in charcoal gray.

“It’s time.”

Ben turned his head slightly. “One second, Felicity.”

Mary raised a brow. When did they meet? But she didn’t have time to ask.

She was already being ushered forward, veil slipping over her face as if that final layer might somehow hide what she’d become.

The chapel was gilded and ancient, candlelight flickering across gold leaf and velvet pews. Don Millefiore sat in the front row, flanked by guards and men who smelled like war. Guests turned to watch her enter, whispering as she passed.

“She’s so modest.”

“A proper bride.”

“Pure blood. Clean lines. The Don must be pleased.”

Mary kept her chin high, her expression unreadable. Her arm hooked through her father’s, and together they walked the length of the aisle, every step a sacrifice. Every breath a rebellion in disguise.

Then she saw William.

He was waiting at the altar in a tailored black suit, dark tie, silver cufflinks flashing like tiny blades. But it wasn’t the clothes.

It was the way he looked at her. As if the room disappeared.

As if she was the only thing that existed.

There was something like awe in his eyes. Something unguarded. And against every instinct, every buried emotion, Mary felt her cheeks flush.

He couldn’t stop staring.

She hated how much that meant.

They stood together now, hands barely brushing. The priest spoke in Latin, then English. Mary barely heard a word — her heart was pounding too loud, too fast. She stared straight ahead, into William’s cold eyes.

Then came the line.

“If anyone here knows of any reason why this couple should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace—”

Bang.

The sound split the room in two.

A masked figure burst through the side door, gun raised, black clothes blending with the shadows. There was no hesitation. No words.

The shot rang out.

The bullet was headed straight for the altar.