by Selena
That’s so hilarious that it’s actually sad.
Lizzie grins at us, reaching up to run a nail down King’s cheek. I can hear the quiet rasp of it over his stubble, and I wonder what it feels like. Then I curse myself for wondering.
“I was just telling this cutie here that he’s not married yet,” she says with a saucy grin. “He’s still single for one more night.”
She’s watching me, too, with a smug sort of challenge in her eyes. King’s brother looks at me. They’re all waiting for me to blow up.
Like it’s that easy to make me lose my shit.
“You’re right,” I say, shrugging one shoulder. I take a sip of champagne. If I’m honest, Lizzie is hot, and her dye job isn’t as bad as I want to believe. If King wanted to fuck her, I wouldn’t blame him. Just because I have no interest in him doesn’t mean I don’t understand that he’s a man who has certain needs. And hell, I can admit it—he’s sexy as sin. Any girl would want him. I can’t exactly blame Lizzie for trying to get a little taste of him before he’s off the market, even if she is my friend. Like I said, we’re not the kind of friends who have each other’s backs and look out for each other.
We’re not like King and his brothers, all of them looking exactly alike, so there’s no question of where they belong and who they belong to. They sat together at dinner and goofed off, and even though King seemed to think he was above all that, that doesn’t mean he wasn’t part of it in some way an outsider couldn’t see. If his part is to look on like an indulgent ass, he’s still a cog in the big moving puzzle of his family. I heard his dad left his mom, but at least she showed up for him—not just for the big day, either, but for the rehearsal. And there I was, just me and my dad on our side of the table. No seat for my mother, none for my brother.
Because King’s family killed him, and my mother left, and I’m happy for her. I am. So fucking happy. She has her own life. I’d make the same sacrifices to have my own.
“Eliza,” King says, after the longest silence of all time. He puts his hands on Lizzie’s shoulders and pushes her back a step so he can slide away from her, toward me.
I hold up a hand. “It’s fine,” I say. “I don’t mind. Do what you want. You’re a free man.”
I turn and walk away before he can say anything else. I have nothing to say to him. I may be forced to marry a Valenti, but I’ll never love one.
My throat aches as I hurry away from the lights, the people. I cross the sand toward the water, relieved to leave the voices and laughter behind for a moment. I’ve always known this day would come. I’m prepared. Up until now, I’ve done everything alone. This is no different. I don’t need a friend or my mother. I just need to gather myself, to remember who I am and what I have to do. I know I’m strong enough.
I will bring peace to my family, so no one else loses a brother to a Valenti. That’s what this is about. Not love. Not romance.
Just business.
I close my eyes and dig my toes into the sand. Tomorrow is supposed to be the happiest day of my life. So why do I feel so fucking sad?
nine
King
The music starts, and all eyes go to the entrance. The audience stands. I’ve been standing, but suddenly, I need to sit down. This is real. I’m getting fucking married to a girl I’ve met exactly three times—once for an introduction, once for engagement pictures, and once for the rehearsal dinner last night.
At the photo shoot, Eliza apologized for being drunk during the first meeting, but I told her I understood. She probably thought it was some kind of platitude, and I wasn’t going to go into the details about my sordid family, so we left it at that, the words sounding hollow and insincere. I may not have been happy to see her that way for our first meeting, but I do understand. After all, it wasn’t my father who taught me how to survive the Life, how to go numb and feel nothing. Ma taught by example, showing me firsthand the one rule you need to make it in the mafia.
My bride steps into the aisle, and a funny little ache starts in my stomach, right below my sternum. She’s so damn pretty. Her black hair falls in loose curls down her back, a little braid of some sort going around the top like a crown. She chose to wear her veil back, so everyone can see her face, the delicate lines of her jaw, her full lips, her thick, inky lashes and luminous, whiskey colored eyes.
She pauses for one moment, as if waiting for everyone to take in the sight of her, all beauty and pure innocence in that flowing white dress. She doesn’t look like a virginal, blushing bride, though. There’s nothing delicate in her gaze when it meets mine. Hatred burns in her eyes, and she marches toward me with the determination of an assassin going in for the kill. I may not relish the idea of marrying a stranger or a lush, but her feelings are beyond that. A knife could be easily concealed by all that fabric…
Let her fucking try it. I’m not going to be taken out by some mafia asshole, and I’m sure as fuck not going down by my own wife’s hand. If she pulls a weapon on me, she’ll see who ends up paying.
Mr. Pomponio kisses her cheek and leaves her with me. She’s in my hands now. My wife. My responsibility.
She looks up at me with those big, doe eyes. The priest goes on for a minute while I stare back at her. God, she’s so fucking pretty. Too pretty for a mafia asshole like me to put his hands on. Her skin is dewy, her cheeks glowing. She lowers her eyes to her bouquet, her long lashes curling against her cheek. She looks like some kind of fairy, too fragile to touch, too pure for any man, let alone one like me. I haven’t been saving myself for her. I’ve fucked lots of girls, all of them meaningless. And now here is this girl who should mean something, the only girl who should mean anything, and I can’t let her.
I can’t give her what she deserves. I can’t love her.
As I repeat the vows, I mean the rest of the words. I will give her what I can, making up for the missing parts of myself, the ones I can’t give. I can’t give her my heart or my innocence. I no longer have either of those things. But I’ll give her everything else. I can still be a good husband, even without love. I will honor her, respect her, and value her. I’ll listen to her. I will treat her as an equal. I will be faithful. I will provide for her. I’ll take care of our children if we have them. I will protect her heart by making sure she never loves me, even if she tries. Because the one thing I can’t promise, the thing no made man can promise, is that she won’t end up a widow.
Those things aren’t in the vows, so I don’t say them aloud. But I vow them to myself, and that’s more binding than saying them to her or a priest.
Eliza hands her bouquet to her bridesmaid, the one who’s been eye-fucking me every moment I’m in her line of sight since we met at the dinner last night, where she suggested we should fuck before I began my married life.
I’ve been to enough weddings to know the bride usually hands off the bouquet before the vows, and I can’t help but wonder if Eliza kept them between us on purpose, not wanting to be closer to me than she has to, not wanting me to take her hands as we repeated the vows.
I slid her ring on while she held the bouquet in her other hand, and now she slides mine on, shoving it into place with her slender fingers, cold despite the heat of a New York summer.
“You may now kiss the bride,” the priest says.
Eliza gives me a look that says if I dare kiss her, she’ll cut off my dick. But she’s my wife, and there’s no use in marrying at all if we’re not going along with what’s expected. I step forward and slide a hand behind her head, under her hair. She goes stiff as a board in my hands. Her lips are plump and pink, ready to be kissed, but I hold back. I lean closer, so close I can feel the heat of that fuckable mouth against mine. “You will kiss me,” I say, my voice so low no one else can hear it, not even the priest.
Her lips pull into a smile, not moving as she speaks through clenched teeth. “Touch me and die.”
“If I don’t kiss you, this is off, and we’ll both die.”
“Oh, I won’t die,” she assures me,
her smile turning smug. “I’m a fucking princess. You’re nobody.”
“I’m your husband,” I grit out.
I can hear the crowd getting antsy, but I don’t take my eyes from hers. Someone yells, “Shut up and kiss her!”
Eliza smirks. “You’ll never be my husband in anything more than name.”
“In name, and in public,” I say, curling my fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck and pulling her forward, so she stumbles against me. I clench my fingers tighter, so she has to go up on tiptoes, her head back and fury burning in her eyes as my mouth descends to hers. Her squeal of protest is muffled by the kiss. Our first kiss isn’t tender or even passionate. It’s rough and harsh. She struggles against me, but I force my tongue between her lips. It’s not because I want to taste my new bride. It’s not even to silence her muted denial. It’s to show her that this is how it is.
Her father gave her away—literally. He gave her to me, and she’s mine now. I swipe my tongue across hers, making sure she knows what I’m doing, that she gets the point. I’m the one in control here. Her teeth clamp down, biting into my flesh. I don’t stop, though. I don’t pull back. Let her taste my blood. It only proves my point more fully. We are bound in blood now, just as I’m bound to the Valentis.
She recoils, trying to break free when the salty warmth of my blood spreads through our kiss. I thrust my bleeding tongue against hers, our teeth clashing one more time before I draw back. People are laughing and hooting and clapping. I don’t know how long I kissed her. Long enough to send a message, that’s clear.
“I hope you die,” Eliza hisses. “Then I won’t have to marry you.”
I smirk down at her, slowly releasing my grip on her hair. “Too late,” I say. “I’m your husband, and you’ll show me the respect that title deserves.”
“You don’t deserve respect until you earn it,” she shoots back.
“I just did,” I say. “Behind closed doors, do whatever the fuck you want. In public, you’re my wife, and you obey me.”
She stares at me, her nostrils flared and her breathing coming quicker. I notice her lip trembling, but I can’t tell if it’s anger or fear. A funny little tug starts behind my sternum, but I crush it before it can get a good hold. It doesn’t matter if she’s pissed at me or terrified of me. Her feelings are as irrelevant as mine. For a second, we don’t move. Something shifts in her eyes, though, and when the priest steps forward, she turns to face the crowd with me.
“It is my honor to present you Mr. and Mrs. King Dolce,” he says.
I grip her hand in mine, and she doesn’t struggle. Her fingers feel soft and delicate against mine, and I feel the slight tremor in them, too. Ignoring it, I step forward, and Eliza follows my lead as we descend the step to walk back up the aisle. I squeeze her hand, trying to calm whatever storm is brewing inside her. She leans into me like she’s any bride excited to be starting a new life with a man she loves. With her free hand, she waves and blows kisses, suddenly all smiles, her performance worthy of a fucking Oscar. You’d never know she was spitting and hissing up there on the altar.
We make our way to the back of the church. I smile at my Dolce family. They’ve been here a week, but I’m not ready to see them go. My parents have been getting along, and even though things have shifted with my brothers, they’re still my brothers. Of course they were up at the altar with me—I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Even though they’re all here, I can’t help the instinctive sweep of my eyes as they search for the last member of my flock, like I’m a fucking sheep dog. I turn away, pressing my lips together and pulling Eliza toward the door of the church faster. I don’t want to think about who’s not here. My sister should have been up there with Eliza’s bridesmaids. But she’s not. She’s not here. She’s not anywhere. We didn’t even get to bury her. And it’s my fucking fault. If I had seen how bad she had it, that disease called love, I might have saved her. If I’d seen what it would cost her, what it would cost all of us, I would have found a way to put a stop to it. Even if I had to kill the asshole she fell for, I would have. He ended up dead anyway—and he took her with him.
We pass the photographer, and then we’re out of the church, blinking into the blazing July sun, trying to see. Light doesn’t just help you see. It blinds you. It seems a fitting metaphor for the day, for love and weddings and all this shit. Suddenly, the charade feels exhausting beyond what I can bear.
And it’s only getting started.
As soon as we step out the door, Eliza rips her hands from mine, grabs up handfuls of her skirts, and charges behind some shrubbery.
“Eliza,” I say, a warning in my tone. This is too public a place for our first fight.
She doesn’t come out, though I can see half her skirt still trailing out, so I know she’s not doing the whole runaway bride thing on me. I sigh, rake a hand through my hair, and glance back at the church. People are going to come spilling out at any second.
I step behind the bushes and face my wife.
The moment she sees me, Eliza rears back a hand and slaps me across the face. I balk, too stunned to react for a second. Only a second, though. That’s the last time she’ll catch me by surprise.
I grab her hand and squeeze her fingers together until her nostrils flare and her eyes go wide. She doesn’t whimper, though. I can see her gritting her teeth together to keep from crying out as she glares at me.
“That was for kissing me like you own me,” she snaps. “Now let me go.”
“I do own you,” I snap back. “I’m your husband. You may have gotten away with this shit with your parents, but not with me. Understand this, little wife. I’ll let you go, but you will come back.”
She snorts, but I release her hand anyway. If she tries anything, she’ll find out how seriously I take those words. I wasn’t making a smug prediction. I’m not arrogant enough to think she wants to come back to me. My words are a threat.
She rubs her wrist and stares up at me, her eyes calculating as she weighs her next move. I can already tell I’ve underestimated her. She’s probably used to that, and she’s figuring out how to use it to her advantage. But I’m onto her now. She’s not the spoiled, drunk party girl I read about in the gossip columns when I did a little research over the past month. Or rather, she’s more than that. It’ll take more than a curfew to rein her in.
Behind me, the church doors open, and I hear the first guests spilling out, talking about the beautiful ceremony, the kiss, Eliza’s dress. I don’t turn. I stare down my bride, resisting the urge to drop my gaze to her plump, pink lips.
Her eyes dart to the crowd, then back to me. “Did you mean what you said in there?” she says, her words coming out in an urgent rush. “That you won’t control what I do behind closed doors if I’ll be your wife in public?”
I have only a second to decide. In a moment, we’ll be noticed. She’ll scream I was hurting her and get me executed. Just because it’s a wedding, that doesn’t mean anyone’s unarmed. You can bet your ass every guy in here is carrying, plus half the women, not to mention the number of nondescript guys hanging around the bosses, guys I know must be bodyguards. This wedding is probably the FBI’s wet dream—if they could pin anything on anyone. All the families are here. They could take down the entire New York mafia. Or they could try, anyway. They’d probably only succeed in getting a lot of their own men killed.
Just as I know better than to refuse her outright, I know better than to agree to anything binding with this girl. I can already tell she’s sneaky and fake as fuck.
“Show me what a good wife looks like to you today, and I’ll decide tonight.”
“Not good enough,” she says, lifting her chin and giving me a haughty look.
“Eliza,” calls the woman I thought was her young stepmother until Little Al corrected me and told me she was Mr. Pomponio’s cumare. She comes tottering our way on the paving stones, her heels making her wobble.
I grit my teeth and resist the urge to tel
l the woman to get lost as she waves and calls out again.
“Be my good little wife today, and you can choose your reward tonight,” I say to Eliza. “Act like a little brat today, and I choose your punishment.”
Something flickers across her face, some unreadable expression. I could dissect all I saw in that one flash of her eyes, but I don’t. It doesn’t matter. She slips her hand into mine, lacing our fingers like we’re a real couple, but I know the gesture for what it is—a handshake. She’s agreed to my deal. She smiles serenely at her father’s mistress, and I can’t help but wonder about the true feeling she harbors for this woman. She’s too good at faking it, better than I am. But I won’t be outmatched. I won’t be outsmarted and manipulated.
My life depends on doing my one job—bringing our families together. So, that’s what I intend to do. If I have to make a new bargain with my bride each day, so be it. I’ll compromise, like a good husband. One bribe at a time, she’ll give me what I want. If she doesn’t, she’ll get what she’s asking for.
ten
Eliza
“Girl, why are you still here?” Bianca asks, staggering against me and throwing an arm around my neck. We stumble a few steps into the water, which is frigid even in July. “That’s what I don’t understand. Shouldn’t you be bleeding on that beautiful man’s white sheets right now?”
Even in my drunken state, my heart lurches at her words. I know better than to believe the promise of a Valenti, to believe he’ll leave me alone tonight. That’s why I’ve postponed the inevitable, why I’ve gotten myself sloppy drunk with my bridesmaids instead of spending the reception next to my groom. If I take enough shots, surely it won’t hurt too bad. If I drink enough, maybe I won’t even remember it tomorrow.
I don’t do well with pain. I live for pleasure. What really scares me is that once I do this, once we do this, it’s real. The deal is sealed. There’s no undoing it, no getting out of the marriage. Part of me knows it’s already too late, but that’s the rational part, the one that recognizes the ring on my finger and the marriage license in the safe.