I Picked A Blind Match Husband — My Adopted Brother Showed Up With A Bomb Chapter 06
The Wedding
Damien’s driver steps out of the car, but before he can speak, Damien’s phone buzzes.
He glances at the screen, mouths sorry to me, and picks up.
“Yeah, Dad. I know. We won’t be late.”
He hangs up. There isn’t a flicker of stress on his face.
The Marchetti bomb tech steps forward and removes the vest from Damien’s chest. He doesn’t even watch as the technician removes it. Instead, he opens the car door for me with that lazy half-smile.
“Old Man Marchetti says the priest is getting impatient. But don’t worry — every second I spent getting to you was worth it.”
I get in. He shuts the door gently.
Through the window, he looks at Luca — propped up by his men, face the color of ash.
“Today didn’t happen. As far as anyone knows, the convoy hit traffic. If you want to come drink at the reception, the Marchettis won’t turn you away. “If you want to do anything else…” He pauses. Smiles. The smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Think twice.”
He rounds the car and slides in beside me.
His phone screen lights up. An encrypted message. He reads it, taps a quick reply, and his eyebrow twitches — barely.
“Something wrong?” I catch the shift.
“Small hiccup.” His voice is light. Like it’s nothing.
He leans forward. “Drive.”
The car pulls out smooth and steady.
“Luca won’t be coming.” He drops it casually, staring out the window. “Apparently his precious Sophie heard about the stunt he pulled. Got so worked up she started having contractions. They’re rushing her to the hospital right now.”
I glance at the rearview mirror. Sure enough, Luca’s convoy is scattering, peeling off toward the city in a frenzy of brake lights and tire smoke.
“Your intel is always this fast.”
“Has to be. Can’t afford surprises when I’m trying to marry you.”
His fox-like eyes crinkle with amusement. Not a crack in armor.
I don’t ask more. I already know — Damien Marchetti is a lot of things, but a careless playboy isn’t one of them.
The wedding goes off without a hitch.
After the toasts, Old Man Marchetti — Don Marchetti, the man who’s run half the Midwest for forty years — comes shuffling toward me with a grin so wide it swallows his whole face. There isn’t a trace of the iron-fisted patriarch. He’s just a giddy old man.
“Sera! Come here, let me look at you!”
He grabs my hands, beaming.
“No — wait. I should call you daughter now!”
My father walks over, drink in hand. His expression is complicated — the weariness of a man who’s watched his only girl get hurt, layered over quiet relief that she’s finally smiling.
“Victor! Get over here!”
Don Marchetti waves him over, then produces a thick, worn photo album from his consigliere’s hands. He opens it with the reverence of a man handling a holy relic.
The first page: two baby photos, side by side.
One shows a wrinkly newborn in a pink cap. Beneath it, in fountain pen: Sera Ferrante. One month old.
The other shows an infant with his eyes shut. Damien Marchetti. 100 days.
I blink.
Don Marchetti can barely contain himself, flipping pages with trembling fingers.
“Look! Look at this one — you two at your hundredth day, together! And here — Victor, remember? You said we should arrange a match! But then these two little monsters wouldn’t stop fighting every time we put them in the same room!”
The album is full of us. Crawling together. Learning to sit. One shot of baby Sera and baby Damien covered in drool, fighting over a stuffed bear.
Later pages — five, six years old. A garden party. Little Damien in a tiny suit, scowling, being dragged by the hand by a furious little girl in a princess dress.
Me.
“Time flies!” Don Marchetti’s eyes are wet. “These two babies are married today. Victor, that joke we made came true!”
My father stares at the photos for a long time. His expression softens. He sighs and rests a hand on his old friend’s shoulder.
“Yeah. Kids find their own way.”
I look up.
Across the room, surrounded by guests and raised glasses, Damien catches my eye.
He lifts his drink and raises an eyebrow. Those fox eyes glitter.
See? We were meant to be.
So he knew. All along.