by Sonya Jesus
Isabella?” The designer, Valerio Voight, knocks on the door, startling the woman underneath my skirt. “You ready to come out?” The man’s annoyed tone doesn’t leave much room for denial. I don’t blame him. He was supposed to be with his family in the Bahamas, and the Don persuaded him to stay until my wedding day on Sunday. Persuade, threaten, remove options—all the same thing to Beppe.
The woman sticks her head out, and though there are much fewer pins between her lips now, she still mumbles out a “já vamos” from the left side of her mouth.
“I’ve gotten rid of your groom,” the owner of VV designs speaks to me. “I convinced Tony to wait for you outside, away from the atelier.”
He thinks I’m worried about Tony seeing my dress and causing bad luck to infiltrate my life. I was born into bad luck. Sometimes I wonder if this guy even knows who I am and what my father does for a living.
The woman who had been helping me swats me on the bum, beneath my layers, getting me to move.
“I’m going,” I announce, stunned at the bold action.
Once she stands up, she winks at me and says, “Beautiful.” It sounds more like a Halloween joke until her hand cups my cheek, and the corners of her lips point downward. “No smile?” she whispers.
The blink that follows lasts a little longer than I had intended it to. A very weak smile tugs at the corner of my mouth, answering her question. Out there, with eyes on me, I have to be Isabella the princess. When it’s just me, I can be Isabella the conqueror.
The one who plots patricide while she sleeps next to the man she’s going to betray.
As if understanding, the Portuguese seamstress again invades my personal space and pushes the corner of my lip up. “Rija,” she says with a confident nod and a squeeze of her flabby bicep, as if I understood a lick of Portuguese.
She gathers up the layers as I step down, bracing myself to face the designer my father commissioned, and no doubt, the guards waiting for me just outside the door. No way Tony would leave me alone for one fucking second. If something happened to me, his future wouldn’t be secure. He wants into this family almost as much as I want out.
Vinnie’s always willing to pick up the slack when his boss is at the club, getting his fill of high-class hookers who will do things I wouldn’t even fathom doing in the basement. I shiver off the conditioned response, repulsed not by what Tony does, but what can happen to me.
My fingers curl around the doorknob, slowly opening the door. The designer gasps, and even Vinnie’s stoic face flashes with something—I’m not sure what because it lasts all of three seconds before his brows furrow, and his eyes narrow on me.
Every time I see him, I get the urge to flash him my middle finger, but then I remind myself of the plan and get back on track.
Six steps, Isabella, I chime as I saunter toward the center of the room, swinging my hips, so the material sways with the motion. Pretend to be the doll a little while longer.
“Do you like it, Vinnie?” I ask, just to piss him off.
“You look fine.” His monotonous tone makes it clear he does not mean fine, as in jump-your-bones-fine. Just fine, as in passable.
Mediocre. I harrumph as I look at the stunning dress that costs over four-hundred thousand dollars.
“Fine?” Valerio Voight crosses his arms in front of his chest and stares Vinnie down. “This is couture.”
“I. Don’t. Care,” Vinnie enunciates and shifts my purse from one hand to the other. “I care that she’s been in here for an hour, and the schedule only allotted seventy minutes for this visit. Do what you have to do, so I can get her home for her conference call with the favor vendor and rehearsal menu testing.” Those last two words come out through gritted teeth.
With Tony and my father usually busy with business, Vinnie’s been forced to accompany me on all my wedding planning dates. Being the dutiful bride has its perks, not traditional ones, of course.
I don’t plan on actually stepping foot inside the church, but I need them to think I’m invested, and personally, I very much enjoy annoying the shit out of Vinnie. It’s my guilty pleasure and strategic. Anytime I take a call from a vendor, Vinnie leaves me alone before I rope him into something else, or God forbid, ask his opinion.
Given most of the orders come from the Don, Vinnie keeps most of his obnoxious comments to himself.
As for me, since the Don’s paying for everything. No matter how over the top or ridiculous it is, I’m happy to indulge in his expensive wishes only because it gives me access to all his accounts. I pay the vendors, and siphon some extra for me because being a stupid princess, or doll as Beppe prefers to call me, also means I’m broke until I inherit the fortune.
Until then, private jets to fly guests in from Italy are very expensive, so is renting out the aquarium dome for the reception, and my father loved the idea of serving lobster in front of the fish.
“How much longer?” Vinnie huffs out, as he brings a finger to his earpiece.
“Thirty minutes.” The designer takes my hand and helps me up on the pedestal, in front of the tri-fold mirror with stream lights and below a ceiling mirror. Both he and the seamstress stretch the train out in order to show me the full effect of the gown. It’s not the first time I’ve seen it; this is my fifteenth fitting, and more than likely, not my last.
But the mirror does allow me a good view of everything in the atelier, even the street behind me. I don’t see Tony, just four guards dressed in suits plastered outside, their backs to me. Vinnie’s rubbing his hand across his forehead.
“Everything okay?” I ask, while watching his reflection in the mirror. Tony is probably enjoying the perks of Unita. He and Vinnie got off from brunch at Cielo to escort me.
Vinnie looks over his shoulder and then at me, but doesn’t answer me right away. He’s probably listening to someone on the earpiece. All the guards have them. The town is small, so they are free to move around it and keep each other up to date.
“Vinnie?” I ask, because I’m still his boss, which he really hates.
His eyes shoot up to me, and he presses his lips together, holding up a finger in the air.
He needs a minute.
“Is he always like that?” the designer asks, as he carefully hands the seamstress my veil.
I smile and crack a joke, which is unusual for me. I prefer aloofness in my public life, and during my private life, I do my best to hold my emotions. Showing them never works out well for me. “He doesn’t usually talk as much.”
“Isabella?”
My eyes shoot back up to Vinnie’s reflection in the mirror. With a raised brow, I ask for an elaboration.
“Your father’s coming; he’s walking from the church. The guys will be just outside the door. Don’t leave.” His eyes shift to the designer, transferring vigilance over to him, or rather threatening him—something the designer seems oblivious to.
“Great. I’d love for him to see me in the dress.” Again. “He always has such great opinions.” My stomach tightens at my lie, nearly twisting my carefully created smile into a grimace.
The designer’s shoulders rise and slump before he glances at his watch. “I’m going to order us some lunch from Cielo.”
“No need,” Vinnie says. “One of our men is reserving a table for you. The Don wants to have lunch together.”
I whip my head around, nearly knocking the woman over. “What?”
A momentary frown crosses Vinnie’s lips. I’m unsure if it’s because of my impromptu reaction, or Beppe’s uncanny ability to inflict pain in any way he knows how. Everyone knows I don’t eat at Cielo, not since the day of the massacre. “Does Tony know?”
He’s a dick, but at some point, my fiancé actually cared about me. Back when he lusted after me and I appealed to the perverse part of him.
“No.” Vinnie taps on his ear and nods. “You need to call the caterer and have them send over the food to Cielo, or do you want me to do it?” They constantly go through my things, so it doesn�
��t surprise me when he digs into my purse and holds my phone out.
“If you can call them, it would be perfect, but you have to tell them to keep the food at—”
He cuts me off and steps forward, handing me the phone. “Why don’t you call?”
Reverse psychology always works in my favor. If I were hiding something, my phone would be password protected, and I’d be hesitant to hand it over. “You just don’t want to do it.”
He blows a long breath out between his teeth. “Next time, think before you fire your wedding planner.” He shoves the phone in my hand and drops my purse in the throne-type chair in the corner. “Don’t forget to call about the wedding favors. It’s on the schedule for three fifteen.”
I smirk and clutch the phone in my palm. “When should I reschedule? Four-ish?”
“The way this is going, five, just to be sure.” The bell above the door chimes at his exit. As do I. I quickly send a text to the wedding favor vendor to reschedule a phone call for tonight and send another one requesting the food be delivered to Cielo.
“Let’s put the look together before her father gets here,” Voight announces with a slightly grumbled pitch.
The older woman circles the material over her shoulders, grabs a pedestal, and climbs up to place the comb of the very long, very old, embroidered veil at the crown of my head. She secures it in place with bobby pins, then says something in Portuguese. It must be about the crown because the designer takes a black velvet box from the glass case and removes the opulent headpiece from between the ebony satin.
“Your father spared no cost.”
At seeing the intricate piece of jewelry, the seamstress removes the veil and quickly frees my hair from the ponytail and retwists it into a makeshift updo. She speaks to the designer who translates for her.
“She’s asking if you want to wear the veil over your face on the way to the altar…” Before I can make a decision, he answers for me. “Yes, her father wants her to wear it, so we’ll need a blusher.”
She repositions my veil and my crown, then steps down and disappears through a side door along with the designer, leaving me alone to think about another one of my father’s tactics—he’s presenting me as a new woman, one untouched by a Cabrali.
Everyone one fucking knows I’m not a virgin. And the shame of having given myself to a Cabrali, the family suspected of the massacre, is a burden he wants to cover up with all these layers.
I don’t know what he’s thinking. The purity of the white gown doesn’t miraculously wipe my sex log, and hiding my face under a veil seems more like shame than modesty. Layer upon layer of sparkling tulle can’t hide the emotional scars I bare, and the cathedral-length veil cascading down my back won’t cover the cross I’ve had to carry as the unwanted daughter of the most ruthless man in Chicago.
Ruthless why?
Because he blamed me for the death of my family, when it was he who killed them.
Chapter Two
The Chicago Don
Isabella Santini
The door to the atelier chimes open, startling both the seamstress, who is pinning something underneath one of the layers of tulle, and me.
“Isabella.” A rotund, burly man, walks in with Vinnie beside him.
I nod at him while bracing myself. “Hey, Dad.” In public, I have to use the word. At home, I call him Don, and in my head, I’ve already started calling him Dead. It has a nice ring to it.
He comes closer, handing his cigar over to one of his men who takes it outside. While Beppe removes his suit jacket, Vinnie relocates my purse so the Don can sit in his throne. The thickness of his thighs makes it hard for him to cross his leg and rest his ankle on his knee, like he used to, so he sprawls out on the chair, occupying every inch of it by spreading his legs and winging out his arms.
This whole place, including the huge chandelier at the entrance and the luxurious chairs, has a royal feel to it. The white wallpaper has threads of gold filigree, and the pristine black velvet carpet shows little traffic. I can see why the Don feels right at home here. This place is by appointment only, and appointments are expensive. Even some of the wealthy people in this town aren’t rich enough to come here. Cielo and Unita have a similar feel to them.
Beppe intently watches the seamstress sew the blue piece of my youngest brother’s baby outfit on the under layers of the dress. I stew over the Don’s hypocrisy, rage bubbling my blood into a deadly recipe, as I watch him play the doting father.
My something blue died at the age of seven. He had the bluest eyes, kind of like Beppe’s, but more vibrant, almost cerulean. The kind of color painters try to replicate but never quite get right. I had my mother’s eyes, deep chocolate brown, not nearly as beautiful as his. It hurts to remember the blue-eyed boy without remembering him dying in my arms.
I choke back the ball of anger, disturbing my throat, and stare at the reflection in the mirror without blinking until everything blurs.
“You look like your mother,” Beppe says, as he sits back and loosens the button at the highest point of his round belly.
Those untrue words sting both of us. He carries his guilt, and I carry mine. The day of the massacre, I should’ve made a fuss and told someone, but the second I stepped foot inside Cielo, I was recognized by one of the hostesses and escorted to the waiting room, just outside The Office. She had knocked on the reserved room’s door, but no one answered.
No interruptions under any circumstances. That was the rule back then. Now, there are circumstances and protocols, but twelve years ago, brunch was like church to my father. Every Sunday, he spent it with his men discussing business.
“What happened to brunch?” I ask Beppe. Even now his routine can be calculated down to the minute. Church, brunch, Unita. Time with his daughter has never really been a priority. Thankfully, since I calmed down from my wild ways, his time with me no longer results in bruises or psychological trauma.
“Today’s special, Isabella. One week until your wedding… I want to spend some time together as a family.”
No, he doesn’t.
Beppe always has to come off as the perfect father, always in control. Never mind he stowed me away in a Catholic school on the East Coast at the age of thirteen, lied to me for years, and then continued to lie to me when he locked me up in the mansion.
The only person he cared about was himself, and maybe his successor, Tony.
Not me. For the longest time, he wished I had died along with my brothers. But now that I’m useful, he wants my wedding guests to see him as a doting father—the man who recreated an empire after his was taken from him—and me as a reformed and obedient wild child, who guarantees a future.
“Did you call and reschedule the wedding favors?” Vinnie asks, doing little to distract me from my thoughts.
I simply nod and sulk in my hate for the men in this room.
This stupid dress with the blue patch from my baby brother’s newborn outfit, and the crown with diamonds Beppe had custom-made for the jewel of his heart—all of this is bullshit. Pretending this wedding is more than Beppe’s ultimate power play is an insult to my intelligence, but pretty, tamed girls don’t speak unless spoken to.
But they think.
And they snoop.
And I’ve have had a lot of fucking time to do both.
The Don shut me up with fear. First, he sent me away because someone wanted me dead. Then he brought me home and locked me up in his mansion, telling me Luca’s father had been involved in the massacre. He had proof Luca set the fire with the help of his sister, to frame me, and get me to run away with him.
Beppe claims Luca seduced me in order to murder me, but I never believed him. Luca had plenty of chances to kill me. The multiple times we were alone provided ample opportunity, so why wait if the objective was to kill me?
Of course, when I threw that in the Don’s face, he locked me in my room for two weeks. Not just for being defiant, but for being a whore.
I don’t even want to t
hink about what came after that.
There’s no point in reliving those memories. His techniques were effective, and I had no choice but to be convinced. As much as I accustomed myself to his abusive nature, Charlotte would never survive his lessons.
While I survived, what he calls the reformation, he portrayed me as the ungrateful daughter who lashed out at the poor, tortured mob boss. People applauded him because he found it in his heart to reform me, to fix me with his love.
Love is something he buried with my mother.
He fixed me with his lies. With his threats. With his viciousness.
Now it is my turn to return the favor. I’ve been a rebel, a doll, a whore, and a victim, but in six days, I’ll be the winner. No matter what it takes, who I have to screw or screw over, I will be free from not only his clutches but from his organization.
“Dad,” I get his attention. Using the affectionate term takes effort, so I pause momentarily to regain my composure. “Are you sure no one’s going to interrupt the wedding?” I need intel on exactly when the extra men are coming in. “I mean, no one from the East Coast is going to show up?”
Valerio steps out of the back room with a sketch pad in hand. He had been working while my father took his time coming over here.
“No, bambola,” Beppe tacks on the cute name for the designer’s sake. “We have taken the necessary precautions to ensure no unwanted visitors.” He ends the conversation and nods happily at his friend. “Valerio, ciao.”
“Buongiorno, Beppe,” he greets in perfect Italian. “Stai bene?”
“Non molto. La bambina si sta per sposare.” He uses his hand to point at me and then smooths his shirt down, letting his palm strategically linger over his heart. “Mi fa nostalgia.”
It takes all I have not to roll my eyes. My marriage is making him nostalgic about what exactly? Not of me as a child. If he cared, he would have kept me around to watch me grow up, and he wouldn’t have tried to break me.
But he was too afraid of backlash. Maybe he thought Child Protective Services would have started asking questions about my home life. About why I had been in the Tree House, about what I saw, or how no one seemed to notice a twelve-year-old girl, wet from trying to reach for her brothers in the pool, soaked with blood, and staining the perfect white couches red.