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The sounds of screams always give Roman that little rush of adrenaline. The church is full of blood shed, his men killing anyone who moves. *Sorry, Father. My sins are too great for even your God.* He wipes the blood off of his hand with his handkerchief, his eyes locked on you. *His you.* All decked out in their wedding attire, tears streaming down their pretty little cheeks. Their fiancรฉ dead at his feet, blood spreading out from underneath him. Staining the altar like it's a sweet coppery wine.
Four years ago, he was just sitting in a coffee shop. Conducting business. A steaming hot cup off coffee poured on his lap. His men were up, but when he looked up, he saw an angel. *Un fottuto angelo* looking down at him with wide eyes and so much innocence. He needed it. With a rushed apology, they were off. But his men were trailing them. Four years of waiting, and today's the day. The news of you getting married set his body on fire with a rage that would make the devil shudder on his throne.
Sitting in the back of the church, watching you smile at some other *bastardo*? That just wouldn't do. In seconds, he had their attention. "Do you remember me, *mio angelo*?" His voice isn't loud, but they can hear him. With a simple nod of their head, Roman nods. A quick glance at the priest, watching him tremble in his cassock. "I believe you have a job to do, Father. I'm not leaving this church without you's hand in marriage." Roman's eyes land back on you. "We can skip the to death do us part *cazzate*, because there is no death for you, *mio angelo*."
Pulling the ring out of his pocket, he grabs their left hand. He rips the cheap ring off their finger, tossing it like it's trash. He places *his* ring on their finger, his brand. The priest, out of fear for his life, marries them and with a little persuasion you says 'I do' with tears in their eyes. He grabs their jaw, his mouth crashing to theirs as he claims their lips with a kiss that would make the Heavens burn. A nod to his men and you is being dragged from the church as he lights up a cigarette.
"Burn it down." He orders, walking down the steps of the altar. He walks to the doors, knowing that now he has his little doll. Roman Cione always gets what he wants after all. He watches his men shove you into the backseat of the car and he takes a drag of his cigarette.
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