A Dance of War

by Ellie R. Hunter

  Still, I don’t answer him. I can’t. It’s impossible to make my lips part and speak.

  “No matter how you feel, the war has been won.”

  His footsteps thud lightly against the carpet as he takes his leave, closing the door softly behind him.

  The war against the Camarco’s may be over, but I’d rather dance in a war with her than acknowledge this hollow victory with her body growing cold.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Raphael

  “Where is she?”

  “Calm down, Raphael, she’ll be here. Have more patience.”

  More patience? I’ve been pretty fucking patient over the last fifteen months. The last time Mila kept me waiting, she showed up sporting a black eye from her father. The memory alone raises the fine hairs on the back of my neck. I tell myself he wouldn’t dare mark her three days before her supposed wedding to the mayor, that hundreds of people in the city will be standing around to witness. It would be bad form.

  When the side door opens, she slips in without a mark on her face. I breathe out a huge sigh of relief.

  She’s as beautiful as ever.

  “See? It’s all about patience, Raphael,” the Father says with a smile as I take Mila in my arms.

  “What kept you?”

  “My father is leaving on business, and wouldn’t leave until he knew I understood my place over the next three days.”

  Snorting, I drop my arms and take hold of her hand, leading us closer to Father Luke.

  “The wedding to Mayor Rossi is set for seven p.m. in three days. On the morning of your birthdays, as the sun begins to rise, you’ll both make your way here, and I’ll be waiting with two witnesses.”

  “Who are they?” Mila asks, always needing to know every detail.

  “Sisters from St. Mark’s church. After they’ve signed the marriage certificate, I’ll be personally driving them out of the city to a nunnery where they’ll be safe.”

  “And what about you?”

  “Since I won’t be needed to conduct your marriage to the mayor, once I know the sisters are safe, I’ll be heading far from here until I receive word it’s safe to return. It’s best if you don’t know my location.”

  Mila nods, but her worry concerns me.

  I turn to face her. “Are you having doubts, Mila?”

  “Of course not. This is what we’ve been waiting for.”

  “What worries you, then?”

  “I don’t want anyone to get hurt because of us.”

  I must admit, the admission helps me relax. It has nothing to do with her feelings changing for me. Jamila Camarco is not only beautiful, but her compassion for others is what sets her miles apart from anyone else I know.

  “The father and sisters will be safe, our mothers will be safe, my cousin—once he hears of our news—will back me, and everyone else is not our concern. If you’re not against us, you’re not in danger.”

  “I can’t describe the feeling swarming in my stomach…”

  “It’s normal,” Father Luke assures her, taking his place at the head of the alter. “If you weren’t fearful, you wouldn’t care. Now, Raphael, come and stand here to my left. Mila, take your place at the bottom of the aisle.”

  Reluctantly, I let go of her hand and we take our places. I wish it were our birthdays today, because if it were, her walking toward me now would be for real, and we’d be moments away from becoming man and wife.

  Her pale blue sweater clings to her and her shoes tread softly down the aisle. Her hair falls down the length of her back in soft, shiny waves. It’s her eyes, though, that hold me as she takes each step, bringing her closer to me.

  Her smile—coy, but eager—hits me straight in the heart, and by the time she makes her way over to stand across from me, I’m nearly undone.

  Without our parents’ permission, we can’t be married before eighteen, which is the only obstacle that has stopped us. I would’ve married her after one sighting. Call me a fool, but I don’t care. Between the prophecy, and the way I felt when I first caught sight of her, I just knew it was a matter of time.

  “Now, there are parts to the ceremony that we won’t have to bother with, such as asking your father if he gives you away. We won’t have the hymns and poems, which will save us quite some time. So we’ll start with the vows and move onto the exchanging of rings.”

  He looks between us. “We have rings, yes?”

  Grinning, I dig into my pocket and pull out my great grandmother’s ring. In my family’s vault, I went back in history and collected the ring from the only marriage I could find that came together for love. It’s encrusted with rubies and diamonds, and I’m hoping it will fit her finger.

  Mila slips off the cross I gave to her last year for her birthday, and dangling from the chain is a wide gold band with a single set diamond.

  “On the inside, it reads, Love is power, something we both believe,” she says, passing it to Father Luke. I hand her ring over, and he places them atop a small red pillow.

  “I’ll keep them safe. Once the vows are exchanged, and the ink on the marriage certificate is dry, neither of you will have long to make your first move.”

  “Are you forgetting something, Father?” I ask as he moves to take a seat on the front pew.

  He thinks on it before shaking his head. “Do I not get to kiss my bride?”

  Smiling, he tips his head back and laughs.

  “Of course. But at the moment, we have more pressing matters than you locking lips with your bride-to-be.”

  That’s a shame. I’ve become quite the master of kissing her.

  Tugging my hand, Mila leads us to the seat we always sit in when talking with the Father.

  “What else could there be to go over?” she questions, rubbing circles over my palm with her thumb.

  “I want to make sure you both know what you’re doing once the marriage is official. It’s not like you’ll be whisked away on honeymoon, and there’ll be no celebration for quite some time, either. Tell me again, from the beginning, what your next move will be? Just for my sake, so I can leave knowing you’ll be safe yourselves.”

  I go to relay the plan, but Mila takes the lead.

  “Once we’re married and you’re out of the city, Raphael and I are going to spread the word of our marriage throughout the city. The whispers will travel faster than we can. Hopefully, this will bring a lot of people to our side, and then we’ll wait out our fathers’ reactions to the news. If, and most likely it will be, their reactions are what we expect, we’ll use our new allies to attack and end the current heads of the two families. We’ll be staying in the cottage on the edge of the city, belonging to the church that has long been forgotten about, and we’ll move only at night as not to be seen.”

  She has it dead right. For the last few days, I’ve been storing food and water, candles, clean bedding, clothes, and other necessities there. We’ll have everything we need until we can move freely within the city again.

  “Your fathers will have everyone out searching for you, so you must stay out of sight. I’ll do what I can from where I end up, but it’s down to you two to stay alive. People in Vita will flock to you, and they will fight with you to bring peace. They’ll follow the prophecy, as it’s what they’ve been waiting for.”

  Three days, and all our lives will change forever. I’ll be a husband, as well as a killer. I’ve yet to take a life in this war, but if the lives I take in the near future bring happiness and peace, then it’s something I will live with for the rest of my life.

  “How much farther?” Mila asks, her steps slowing.

  After taking the tunnel out from under the church, we’re now heading around the outskirts of the city. I could have driven us, but if my car was clocked by just one person, whispers would travel, and we’d be caught together.

  “It’s just at the bottom of this road.”

  In fact, in less than twenty feet, the old rusty gate will open to the cottage I found for us. No one will think to
look here.

  Dark clouds are moving across the sky, and as I lead her up the garden path, the first drop of rain falls. I have no idea who owns this cottage, but from the state of it, no one has used it in a long time, apart from me. I’ve been bringing supplies over the last few days, from bottled water, to clean sheets and food, we have everything we’ll need to hide out.

  “This is where we’re going to stay after we marry. I’ve been trying to clean it up a bit,” I tell her as she spins slowly in the centre of the room, taking in the scarce furniture and threadbare rugs covering the wooden floorboards.

  Off to the side of the living area, a set of old creaky stairs lead to the one bedroom and small bathroom.

  The place is nothing like we’re used to, but I’d sleep under the stars if it meant lying beside her. The stairs protest much more under my weight than they do under Mila’s.

  She stops in the doorway to the bedroom, and I quietly watch her from the side. Staring at the bed, made with the clean sheets, her cheeks flame as she rolls her bottom lip between her teeth.

  Her fingers lightly brush against mine as a crack of thunder rolls across the sky, the dimness in the room brightened by the flash of lightening. I can barely hear my breath over the rain beating against the old sash window.

  “In three days, you’ll be my husband, and instead of having a huge party and spending our first night together, we’re going to be planning two murders.”

  Her voice, usually determined and inquisitive, is unsure. When she looks up at me, there’s a newfound shyness to her.

  “Are you changing your mind?”

  “No. I wish to rearrange our plan. A slight tweak, that’s all.”

  I wait for her to share this “tweak” she wishes to make, but no words part from her lips. She turns to face me, running her fingertips down the front of my shirt and over my chest. “I don’t want our first time to be clouded by violence and the deaths of our fathers. It should be something between just the two of us. Moments we will look back on and remember how special they were.”

  Her words penetrate, and I find myself stuck on how to move forward. It’s something I’ve had to push out of my mind for months.

  As the rain continues to pound against the window, the thunder drowning out the rest of the world, I press my lips to hers. My Mila, needing me as much as I need her.

  “It’s a sin,” I remind her painfully.

  “How can it be a sin, wanting to share ourselves with each other? I love you. I’m going to share the rest of my life with you, the man who owns my heart and soul, just as I own yours. Why can’t we own each other completely?”

  Wrapping my hand around the back of her neck, I squeeze lightly and pull her flush against me.

  “Are you sure you want this? We only have three days to wait.”

  “No matter what happens, the one thing I know with complete certainty is that you are my life. I want this—I want you.”

  Covering my hand with hers, she drags it down, and together, we step into the bedroom.

  Unbuttoning my shirt, she pushes it off my shoulders, letting it drop to the floor. Leaning in, she presses her lips to my skin over my heart, that’s now beating like a drum.

  Her eyes wander up to find mine. I’ve never seen her so alive.

  Tugging her sweater up and over her head, the blue material joins my shirt on the floor, she shimmies out of her shoes and jeans and I’m struck speechless. Every night since introducing myself to her before the painting of the fallen angel, I’ve conjured up many images of what she looked like under her dresses and sweaters. Never did I imagine her to be flawlessly perfect. I mean, I did, but having her naked before me, able to reach out and caress her, it’s a sight that’ll forever be burned into my mind.

  My pants soon join the discarded clothes at our feet, and nothing but the rain can be heard as we climb under the sheets.

  “There’s no going back after this,” I murmur, almost afraid to speak and break the moment.

  “Good.”

  During the many, many, times I’ve pleasured myself, fantasising about this moment, I didn’t account for the awkwardness. The dealing with the condom, the positioning to make sure she is, above everything, comfortable. And most of all, the painful fear that I’m going to hurt her. My head is spinning with so many thoughts, but it’s not until she lets out a quiet, breathy moan that I find the perfect rhythm, all while staring into each other’s eyes.

  The thunder, the lightning, and the rain all but disappear as I roll my hips slowly, holding the back of her head in my palm, trying to somehow make her feel safe under me. The urge to tighten my grip in her hair grows stronger the closer to the edge I get, but I refrain, trying to think of anything I can to prevent from finishing so damn quick. When she wraps her legs around my waist, urging me to go deeper, I’m done. I’m left a quivering mess on top of her, a shred of awareness not to drop my full weight on her still getting through.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, resting my forehead against hers.

  “For what?”

  “It wasn’t very long.”

  Her chuckle should do nothing for my ego, but placing her hand on the side of my face, she brings me in for a kiss.

  “My mother thinks I’m still at church. We have the rest of the day, and then we have the rest of our lives. Don’t be sorry. It was more than I had hoped for.”

  My ego intact, I ease out of her and deal with the condom before lying beside her, holding her to me.

  “How do you feel?” I ask, biting my lip, waiting to hear her reply.

  Her body shifts as she takes stock of herself. “Fine. Stop worrying about me.”

  That’s just it, though. I can’t ever see a day where I’m not worrying about her. Today was more than I was expecting, and it’s already given me more cause to fight our fathers to give us a life together, as well as a thousand more moments like this.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Raphael

  The shower and wet shave only managed to make me look more human. On the inside, I’m rotting, and it won’t be long before it seeps from my pores and drags me down to Hell where I belong.

  “Cousin, you’re worrying me.”

  The streets pass by in a blur, and I don’t have the energy to straighten my focus and converse with Cristian.

  Five days ago, I laid my brother to rest and felt nothing as two people stood by to see him off into the afterlife, if one believes it to be waiting for us on the other side. And today, the streets are lined with hundreds of people wearing black after Jamila Camarco’s—my Mila’s—bones burned in the flames of a bomb I had planted. My blue eyes have not stopped weeping since.

  My mother’s ramblings came true, and every action I’ve taken made them so.

  “Raphe? Going to Antonio’s funeral was one thing, but we shouldn’t be attending Jamila’s. We’ll be killed on sight.”

  Rolling my head against the headrest, my cousin sits with worry and concern for our lives when he can’t see that they mean nothing now.

  “She was a worthy opponent, but this was always going to be how it ended. It’s better to bury her than her bury you.”

  Five days ago, I would’ve put a bullet through his brain, just like the soldier I shot. But today… today is for her.

  The car stops outside the church, the black clouds that have hovered over the city since her death threatening to storm.

  I don’t focus on the people surrounding the church, but I hear their murmurs. They’re sickened at my presence, and throw curses at me until the first flake of snow falls, followed by a flurry. The wind picks up, and ice-cold flakes hit my face. It hasn’t snowed in Vita for over ten years.

  Curses soon turn to wonder. I look up to the sky, hearing the whispers of how the angels have come to take Jamila home spreading through the crowd.

  Jamila may have been ruthless, she may have been the head of a ruthless family that held responsibility for the thousands of deaths over two centuries, but her people lo
ved her, and today, they’re crying for her.

  Our car pulls away, and Cristian grabs hold of my arm to lead us inside the church. Every corner of the room is filled with mourners, they’re eyes following us until we’re rounding the front pew and taking our seats.

  A huge photo of Jamila sits on the easel with sprays of flowers on each side. Candles are lit and placed along the aisle, covering every surface.

  I pin my gaze on the cross above the empty table where her coffin will soon be placed and lock my features.

  My blue eyes may be weeping, but I’ll never let them fall in front of anyone. The music begins, and bodies shuffle behind me to stand. Cristian rises to his feet beside me, and Alexander stands from across the church. I remain in my seat, knowing full well if I stand, I’ll most likely fall when I see her entrapped in a wooden box for the rest of eternity.

  The footsteps of the men carrying her sound like an army following her into battle, and for once, the Camarco soldiers don’t ignite my hatred. They may have been trying to kill me my whole life, but they loved her, and they would have died for her. In this moment, for however long it lasts, they have my respect.

  At the edge of my vision, I see the long wooden coffin—black, with gleaming gold handles—being slid onto the table before her men move away.

  I only have to drop my focus and it’ll be on her. The priest, the same one who conducted Father Antonio’s funeral, takes his place at the podium, and the music fades to silence.

  I listen to him speak of her beauty and her kindness, and tune out. She would hate people grieving for those reasons. My Mila, the girl who once looked at me like I was her world, would want to be remembered for her strength and determination. She would tell me it was disgusting being judged on beauty alone. That beauty isn’t what makes a person, because everyone is beautiful in their own ways. If Father Antonio were still here, he would be delivering an elegy more fitting to her. He knew her better than anyone, from what I learned, and after our ten-year parting, he probably knew Mila better than me. The last time we were ripped apart, at least she was breathing. This time, though, she’s not.