The sun hung low, casting long shadows across the manicured fairway as Santo gripped the golf club with focused intensity. His eyes tracked the white ball resting silently on the grass, its stillness a stark contrast to the storm of thoughts raging inside him.
"Santo!" Dante’s voice sliced through the quiet for the tenth time, tinged with both impatience and amusement. "The bridal shop’s going to close before we even get there if you keep this up."
Santo spared his best friend a sharp glance but said nothing, his mind busy calculating the precise force needed to sink this final putt. He wasn’t here for the game; he was here to distract himself from the looming reality of his forced union.
"Do you even want to get married?" Dante pressed, lowering his voice but persistent. The question hung in the air, heavy and unavoidable.
“More than anything,” Santo replied automatically, the lie tasting bitter on his tongue. His voice lacked conviction, but he made no effort to soften it.
The club connected with the ball in a neat stroke, sending it rolling smoothly until it disappeared into the hole. Santo’s lips twitched in a rare moment of satisfaction. "Perfect," he muttered under his breath.
Golf was a game of patience and precision, mental discipline and quiet endurance. Not a sport for a man like him, whose temper flared as easily as the sun dipped beneath the horizon. Yet, it calmed the violent impulses that often bubbled beneath his surface.
Dante’s interruptions were grating, but necessary. Without them, Santo feared his darker thoughts might have spiraled beyond control.
“I had no idea you were serious about someone,” Dante said with a teasing grin. “Engaged, even?”
Santo’s smirk was cold. “Sorry I didn’t give you the full rundown on all my indiscretions.” He dragged another ball closer with his club, ignoring the unspoken challenge in Dante’s eyes.
“I’ve seen the parade of women you bring around,” Dante countered, puzzled. “But never her. How did the daughter of Enzo Mariano suddenly become your fiancée?”
“Guess you haven’t seen all of them,” Santo said cryptically, lining up for his next shot.
He didn’t want to admit this was all a business arrangement. Dante, with his endless faith in love, would never believe it anyway. Maybe if Santo played the part of a man in love, Dante would stop pestering him.
“So, what’s she like?” Dante asked, voice softer now. “What made you choose her?”
Santo exhaled sharply, dabbing sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. “Dante, are you here to golf or interrogate me?”
His friend grinned, club still untouched. “Both. Now answer.”
“She’s obedient,” Santo said bluntly.
Dante laughed, incredulous. “That’s your big selling point? You’re marrying her because she follows orders?”
“What else am I supposed to say?” Santo snapped, irritation flaring. “She doesn’t make my heart race or anything. From what I’ve heard, she’s spoiled and insufferable.”
He clenched his jaw, thoughts darkening. His father’s deal with Enzo Mariano had thrust this on him—a marriage he never wanted. Now he was burdened with someone else's child, and the weight of a legacy he’d rather reject.
“You’re playing with someone’s heart,” Dante warned quietly. “If you don’t love her, don’t do this.”
Santo’s silence was his only reply. He knew Dante meant well, but his friend’s optimism felt like a thin shield against the brutal reality he faced.
“Isn’t it too fast? What’s the rush?” Dante pressed. “You haven't even introduced her to your family or us.”
“You’ll meet her at the wedding,” Santo said flatly.
“You didn’t get her pregnant or anything, right?” Dante’s tone was half-joking, half-serious.
“Of course not,” Santo retorted, eyebrows raised.
“I’m just looking out for you,” Dante said earnestly. “Their family and ours aren’t exactly allies.”
Santo nodded, despite the knot twisting in his stomach. He appreciated Dante’s loyalty—they’d been inseparable since childhood. But no matter who she was, Santo wasn’t afraid.
He set his club down with a sigh. “Enough golf for today.”
Later, inside the quiet sanctuary of the bridal boutique, Santo and Dante found themselves surrounded by racks of delicate lace and shimmering fabrics. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and old wood, the hushed whispers of other clients mingling with the soft click of heels on polished floors.
“You sure you don’t want her here picking out her dress?” Dante asked nervously, scanning the room where curious women threw sidelong glances their way.
“You know the tradition,” Santo replied, voice low. “The groom chooses.”
“Since when do you care about tradition? Jaz picked her own dress.”
Santo shrugged, feeling out of place among the pink tulle and satin. His usual world was one of control and command, not delicate fabrics and frills.
Before he could protest further, a young attendant approached, her smile warm but professional. “Mr. Valentino, can I help you find something?”
“Yes,” Santo said, relief washing over him. “A wedding dress.”
She chuckled gently. “We only sell wedding dresses here, sir. Could you be more specific?”
“White,” he answered confidently.
Dante facepalmed, and Santo shot him an incredulous look. What was his problem now?
“What style?” the attendant pressed. “Ball gown, mermaid, sheath, A-line…?”
“I don’t know,” Santo admitted, shifting uncomfortably. The thought of choosing a dress for someone he barely knew was daunting.
“What’s your bride like? How does she dress?”
“I don’t know either,” Santo said, irritation creeping into his voice.
Dante raised an eyebrow. “In love, and you don’t know her style?”
The attendant pursed her lips thoughtfully. “What about her body type? That can help narrow it down.”
“I don’t know that either,” Santo snapped, feeling the pressure mount.
Dante suggested, “Why don’t we bring in some of the girls to help?”
“I can’t. This is the only time I have,” Santo said firmly.
“Send her pictures and let her decide,” Dante proposed.
Santo shook his head. He didn’t even have her number.
He moved down the rows of gowns, fingertips brushing soft silk and intricate lace. For a moment, he let himself imagine her—maybe delicate, maybe strong, maybe a mix of both. He ruled out anything too plain; she wouldn’t settle for invisible. Nor did he want something so extravagant it overshadowed her.
His gaze settled on a dress that balanced elegance with subtle strength. He pointed without hesitation. “That one.”
The attendant nodded approvingly. “Excellent choice, sir.”
“Not bad for a guy who usually wears suits,” Dante quipped, earning a rare smirk from Santo.
For the first time that day, Santo felt a flicker of satisfaction. This wasn’t his world, but maybe, just maybe, he could navigate it—for the sake of the promise he'd been forced to make.
As they left the shop, the evening air cool against their skin, Santo’s mind churned with uneasy anticipation. The path ahead was uncertain, littered with shadows and secrets. But he was determined—no matter the cost—to face whatever lay ahead, bound by a vow he never wanted but could no longer deny.