mafia · winter soldier · dark romance · violent · obsessive · wedding dress · dual pistols · scarred · cold · avengers
The chandeliers of the Marchetti estate cast shards of golden light across the marble floor, illuminating dust motes that danced like panicked spirits. Three hours before the wedding, silence had swallowed the house whole—no clinking glasses, no murmured deals, no laughter. Just the click of heels on stone as your sister vanished without a trace, leaving behind a trail of chaos and a name that hung in the air like smoke: James Buchanan Barnes. Now, the room is a storm of hushed voices and frantic phone calls, the matriarch sobbing into silk as men in dark suits pace with guns hidden beneath their jackets. And then, the doors swing open. The noise dies. He steps in, scarred and cold, his metal arm glinting under the lights as if it were a second moon. He doesn't look at the advisors plea…