Page 11 of The Scars We Keep
And definitely not by Lorenzo De Luca.
Chapter Three
Lorenzo
Thisisn’tawedding.It’s a fucking performance.One big golden theatrical dick-measuring blowjob to legacy.And every smug bastard in a suit knows it.
A bridesmaid walks down the aisle, all satin, her tits bouncing with the desperation of a girl who thinks this gig might land her a husband.Blush pink dress so tight it might’ve been painted on.Her heels wobble with every step as if she was chosen for her legs instead of her brain.
That’s ten now.Maybe eleven.I’ve lost track.
What the fuck is this?A wedding or a casting call for desperate housewhores?
I glance at Arturo.Smug motherfucker in the front row, smiling like he just took power out back and fucked it.Surrounded by men who smile while figuring out how quickly they could gut each other.He’s loving this.Every second of it.Every eye in the room fixed on the procession, the spectacle, his daughter being paraded, polished, and handed over like a shiny fucking trophy to the last De Luca still standing.
The next four bridesmaids are no better.
All tits, teeth, and mascara applied so thick it flakes when they blink.Smiles stretched too wide.Steps rehearsed.They look thrilled to be here, thrilled to be seen.
The last bridesmaid takes her place among the others.
The music continues playing.
One beat.
Two.
Three bars too long.It doesn’t switch to the next track.It doesn’t fade out.It just loops.
And still, no one walks in.
Whispers snake through the rows, soft at first but then louder.Nervous laughs that don’t last.Others check their phones, maybe thinking they missed a memo.
One of the ushers mutters something to a Serrano soldier, who shrugs.Two bridesmaids whisper furiously behind their palms.And still… no Isabella.
Arturo Serrano leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, teeth grinding behind that perfect power smile.His eyes are fixed on the archway where his daughter should have appeared by now, as if he can will her to show up by staring hard enough.
But she doesn’t.
There’s no rustling of fabric, no sharp click of heels on the stone.Only a stretch of silence wrapped in the steady thrum of expectation.
Has she really done it?Said “fuck everything” and actually walked?
Arturo’s jaw twitches.His unclenched hand on the chair jerks slightly.One of his soldiers approaches, leans in close, gives a nod, before the soldier melts into the crowd, slipping away.
The guests shift, heads turning.
Someone to the left mutters something about tradition, about disgrace.But no one moves.They’re waiting for the spectacle.For the fall.
And today, I see it for the first time.
Arturo… that motherfucker is cracking.
A hairline fracture in Arturo Serrano’s carefully crafted kingdom.The absence of his daughter has done what bullets couldn’t… it’s shaken him.
One of the bridesmaids wipes her palms down her dress, eyes wide.
Another whispers something frantic to the girl next to her.
