THE BRIDE EPILOGUE

The Bride
Epilogue

Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two
bodies.
-Aristotle
Marco Orsini’s POV
It’s been exactly five weeks since my wife Francesca
fell in the trap Nonna laid on us after or impromptu
wedding in Las Vegas. After she ruthlessly used her
tears to convince my wife to have the wedding she
always wants for me.
So here I am standing at the altar of the cathedral in
Rome waiting for my bride to walk down the aisle
for our church ceremony with almost hundreds of
guests in attendance inside the cathedral. Almost
every pew was filled with guests.
“It’s not too late to run in the hills, file mou.” The
sarcastic comment came from my side. I glanced
dryly at the Greek man who was looking powerful in
his tuxedo.
I shook my head in resignation. “Funny, Nikos. I am
already married to my bride remember?”
“Oh, right.” The Greek billionaire reflected almost
innocently. “You did marry her in Las Vegas over a
month ago. I was there.” He threw a meaningful
looked at our good friend the duke.
“Marco,” Lucca warned with a twitch of smile in his
aristocratic face. “Kindly inform your friend over
there to stop being an a-s or I will smack that smirk
off his handsome face.”
“Try me.” Nikos invited gamely, eyeing the duke with
devilish glint in his pale blue eyes. “I am always a
good fighter. Want to try? Just like old times in
Harvard, file mou.”
“Will you stop that? Can you please behave this is
my wedding. I don’t want you two idiots ruined it.” I
told them with slight irritation. Really, making them
as my best men was honestly a very bad idea.
Nikos gaped at my openly. “Can you hear yourself,
Orsini? I can’t believe you will say something like
that. Before you’re the mastermind in ruining
someone’s wedding we attended. Who are you?
Give back my friend.”
“How humorous, Nikos.” I said dryly. “When you
don’t gossip about the events of my life to Lucca you
try to be comedian.”
“Oh hell,” He muttered wryly. He shot a looked to
Lucca. How I really want to punch him right now.
“Why did you corrupt our good friend with your
club?”
“My club?”
Nikos smirked. “Jealous husbands club.”
Lucca shook his head and said nothing. He happened
to glance at his beautiful wife and he winked at her.
Tatiana shook her head but pretty blush spread
through her cheeks. Nikos made a sound of snort at
the sweetness between the duke and his wife.
This man needs a woman in his life, I thought with a
private smile.
At last, the wedding march sounded at the huge
cathedral. The guests stood from the pews and look
at the door. My wife who did not I saw since
yesterday march down the aisle. My heart lurched at
the sight of my very beautiful pregnant wife.
Last night they did this little party in the vineyard with
her bridesmaids, her mother, Nonna and the
duchess. They gave her something for a good luck
they said. Something old: Francesca wore my
grandmother’s veil on her wedding over fifty years
ago. Something new: Lianna bought her only
daughter a French lace wedding gown from Paris the
gown accentuated her slight baby bump. Something
borrowed: Tatiana lent her one of her tiaras.
Something blue: My wife wore the sapphire jewelry
set I bought her in Las Vegas in the night of our
wedding. All in all, my Francesca looked radiant.
Finally, she arrived at the altar beside me. I took her
hand and squeezed it slightly. She smiled in my
direction and my heart melted.
*
“I love you,” I whispered to her softly.
She smiled in my direction. “I love you too, Marco.”
“We are gathered here to witness the union of two
people…” The archbishop started. Honestly, I couldn’t
concentrate on what he was saying. I am too busy
ogling my wife. Nikos shot me a disbelief look.
“…do you Marco, take Francesca Valenti Marcolini to
be your lawfully wedded wife for better or for
worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in
health, to love and to cherish; from this day forward
until death do you part?”
“I do.” I said with a grin in my face.
The Archbishop now looked at my wife. “Do you
Francesca, take Marco Alessandro Orsini to be your
lawfully wedded husband for better or for worse, for
richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love
and to cherish; from this day forward until death do
you part?”
“I do.” She answered softly.
I hide my smile. Finally, we were near the end of this
grand ceremony my grandmother had planned. And
my most awaited part of the ceremony the
Archbishop said. “You may kiss the bride.”
I removed her veil from face and dipped her back
again and kissed her soundly like I did in our first
wedding. Francesca blushed furiously as the crowd
erupted with cheers and whistle. I glanced at Nonna
who couldn’t remove the triumph in her eyes.
You must very happy now Nonna? I asked her
silently.
I nearly laughed out loud in what I saw in her face.
The silent communication had said. D--n right, I
am.
After the ceremony ended the guests travelled to the
vineyard where a very grand festivity waited them,
teams of chefs hired by Nonna busy cook for almost
thousand of guests for a wedding that can compare
to the wedding of a royalty.
“Happy?” I asked my wife as we were inside the
bridal car. I kissed her hand affectionately.
“Happy.” My wife answered with a smile on her face.
“What about you?”
“So much. I don’t think my heart can bear this much
happiness.”
Francesca laughed wholeheartedly. “You’ll be fine.”
“Are you ready to face the battlefield later?”
“Battlefield?”
I grinned ruefully. “We have at least hundreds of
guests to entertain, my love.”
“Nonna spared nothing in inviting visitors.”
“Yes,” I reflected. “But Laila couldn’t come. She called
before the wedding her father forbids her to come.”
“That’s so sad.”
“Cesare Fiorenza ruled his daughters’ life with iron
fist.”
Francesca smile sadly as if remembering something.
“I gathered that much when we went there.”
“I hope Laila will be free from her father’s clutch
soon.”
“Yes.” My wife replied, her eyes shine brightly.
“Are you ready to face our new life, darling?” I asked
my wife as soon as we arrived at the vineyard
where guests waiting for us.
Laila Fiorenza’s POV
*
*
I am confined in my room when I should be in
Rome attending the wedding celebration of my new
friends but Patri didn’t give me permission to leave
this cold palace he called his home…
“He’s really a monster! How I hate him!”
The door of my bedroom suddenly flung to open
and my twin sister barged in like a whirlwind that
she was.
“Who are you referring too, Leila?”
Green eyes filled with fury as she jumped in the bed
beside me. She exhaled an angry breathe. “That
monster brute who we also called as ‘father’!”
“Leila,” I reprimanded softly. “Lower you voice
someone might hear you.”
“I don’t care!” My mirror image replied angrily. “That
monstrous man. He’s really gone off this time. I will
not do his bidding.”
“What did he tell you, sis?”
Leila’s eyes flashed with annoyance. “He just
announced awhile ago that I need to fly in New York.
He wants me to marry his friend’s only son. The
Greek billionaire Nikos Pallis! Who the heck is that
man?”
“A billionaire businessman, I think.” I smiled sadly for
my twin’s dilemma. Few weeks ago I suffered the
same thing. He had given my hand in marriage to
Signore Marco Orsini but thankfully the man is in
love with someone else. I escape a loveless marriage
but Patri hadn’t yet forgiven me after I went home
and announce that we broke the engagement.
Now it was my twin sister’s turn.
“Like I will marry that conceited man. For all I know
he has the same spiteful personality with our sire.”
“Leila…”
“I will not give him the satisfaction of marrying me
off with whoever he likes.” My sister said confidently.
“What are you planning to do?”
A rebellious grin fitted Leila’s face. “Watch me, sis.”
The next morning…
It’s not every day that my father, Cesare Fiorenza,
called me into the most formal library of our century
old palatial home for a chat. What does he wants to
summon me here? I knocked on the thick wooden
door to find out.
“Come in,” Said the commanding voice in the old
Sicilian dialect.
I straightened my chaste black dress before I let
myself entered the chamber where my father had
been entertaining his visitors. Either to impress them
with our family’s wealth—or to intimidate them, I am
not really sure which of the two. “You wish to talk to
me, Patri?” I asked in the same dialect.
“Sit down, me fighia.”
I took one of the leather seats that directly opposite to
my father desk and look into the infamous cold
green-eyes of the Fiorenza for many centuries. The
same color as mine and my twin sister. I sat regally
as if there was a fireplace poker stick inserted on my
spine, the proper way for a woman to sit according
to my etiquette teacher.
“I want you to come in New York and pretend to be
your sister.” My father had announced without
preamble, as if it was the most logical thing in the
world.
To pretend as my twin sister?
What is happening here?

Story Continues