Mafia Bride: The DiLustro Arrangement #1

by CD Reiss

  I’m shouting, and Gia holds out her free hand to tamp down my voice.

  “Please?” she pleads. “Look, it’s going to be fine. Santino’s really great. Super great. But if I don’t help then he’s going to send me back.”

  “He will?” I say, crossing my arms. “What a super great thing to threaten you with.”

  “No, I mean my dad. Please. Violetta, please. If I go back, I have to marry Umberto and he smells like…” She wrinkles her nose and lowers her voice. “He smells like farts.”

  She’s trying to avoid her fate on the one hand, but on the other, there’s a kind of resignation to it. As if she’s just trying to postpone the inevitable.

  “Why is your father going to make you marry some guy you don’t like?”

  “Because his father owns the land between my father’s and my brother’s. Anyway. No. It’s not about me. It’s your wedding day! There’s nothing you can do about it. It’s going to happen anyway…so you might as well wear something you like.” She pushes the dress in my direction. “And that he likes.”

  Santino’s preference only makes me want to choose the ugly dress, but that’s denying who I am and what I like. Being anything less just makes my choices about him and what he’s dragged me into. Not me or what I want.

  Slowly, I take the dress I like. I’m not going to wear it for him, but for me.

  St. Paul’s is the more beautiful of the two churches in Secondo Vasto. There used to be five, but the Spanish Flu wiped out two in 1919 and a war between rival camorra factions took out another. I always took that kind of thing for granted, weaving tales for my WASP friends. How St. Paul’s is where mob royalty worships, while the rest of us spend an hour each Sunday at humble St. Barnabas where I had my first communion, confirmation, and always assumed I’d get married and baptize my children.

  Instead, my wedding’s about to take place under the buttressed walls and sky-high stained glass windows of St. Paul’s. I half hope Zia’s there to fix me up, while the other half of me doesn’t want her to witness my helplessness and shame. Instead, Gia manages the whole operation, transforming me from girl to bride, inside a prison, wielding an eye shadow brush.

  “Close your eyes,” she’d said. “You’re going to be so beautiful walking to your king. Like a princess turning into a queen.” She gently wiped away every tear sliding down my cheek as if they were the only thing ruining the perfection of this scene. She held my train up as Armando led us to the car and placed the veil over my face when we got to the church.

  If only the day were different, with a different beautiful man. One with windswept hair flecked with the sun, bright blue eyes, a jaw shaped by moral strength and kindness and love etched in all the creases of his smile. Zio would walk me down the aisle, and I would feel like a beautiful princess, floating to my groom.

  In this beautiful, perfect dream, I’d be wearing this same, perfect dress, in this same, glorious church with these same two spires piercing the endless blue sky.

  “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” I say out loud, trying to convince myself. Because none of those things happened and I don’t want to cry through my entire wedding.

  “It sure is!” Gia chirps, gathering my train.

  I want my zia.

  No, I want my mother. I want my sister. I want my father. I want them to surround me and cry happy tears, so I can say, “Don’t cry, Mama. You’re gaining a son.” And my papa would wipe them all back and walk me down the aisle.

  Their absence threatens to topple me over, but Santino’s threats on my aunt and uncle keep me upright.

  I’m led to the double doors by the circle of men in dark suits.

  From inside, an organ begins to play. It’s deep, melodic, soulful. Almost a little sad. Dio mio, it sounds like my soul’s very song. A gift, maybe, from beyond—from my mother and father and sister, to tell me they are with me. I don’t realize my eyes are closed until I hear Zio’s voice near me.

  “Violetta, I will walk you.”

  I open my eyes to find the world dimmed behind the veil, but I see enough. Zio’s in his Easter suit. Moustache trimmed and black. Arm out for me to take.

  Did he break every rule in the book to sell me? What do I owe him if he did?

  Nothing. I thought he loved me, but I was just collateral. I never had a family.

  “Get away from me,” I hiss. “You already gave me away once.”

  He looks like I slapped him. Good.

  The suits part, and through the veil, I can see the length of the long aisle lined with enough pews for an army of the devoted. But there’s only smiling Gia waving like I’m on the red carpet to receive an award, and Zia dabbing her eyes for the joyous occasion.

  At the end of the aisle is the altar. No bridesmaids, no best man. Just an ancient priest and Santino—the groom in a simple tuxedo that makes him look like a black knife slicing the peace of the church.

  I don’t know who shoves me forward, but I go.

  Frescoes and sconces accent the walls, separated by maybe ten rows of pristine wooden pews. It’s positively gorgeous inside, no matter the size, no matter how fuzzy the veil makes it. It reminds me of my childhood church, back home. We would all go to mass and Papa’s deep baritone shook the rafters and Mama’s harmonies made me feel like I was surrounded by angels.

  It’s like God is with me again on this day. For so long, I felt abandoned and alone, but in this moment, I can feel His presence, walking me down the aisle. He says it’s going to be okay, and though a part of me always believes, I also know He’s not coming to my rescue. He’ll give me opportunities to rescue myself, if I can find them.

  The altar is covered in a beautiful red-and-gold cloth. The crucifix beams at me so clear I forget my vision is obscured.

  I am not alone on this day. I will not be alone.

  So I take a deep breath. I gaze upon the stained glass as I walk past. I turn away from Zia to face the transept of the Virgin Mary, nodding to her with a new compassion and understanding for a woman ripped out of her life by the expectations of a culture where she was invisible.

  It is only then that I dare look who is standing before me at the altar. The priest is a hundred and two if he’s a day. Old camorra. Blind with cataracts. When he smiles, his teeth are like a broken fence.

  And then there is Santino, looking like the tail’s side on the coin of my fantasy. Windswept hair the color of the night sea, eyes darker than shadows, and a jaw the right shape but for the wrong reasons.

  With that realization, I lose my footing up the steps.

  It is Santino who catches me and rights me on my feet. He’s surprisingly gentle which isn’t comforting. For some reason, it’s terrifying.

  To deny the level of attraction this man carries is to be blind and a liar. But he’s my jailer, my captor, a cruel man with a cruel heart who ripped me from my family under the threat of death. He put me in this dress. Stole me away the very next day to bind himself to me.

  What exactly does he want with me? What am I supposed to do? He can’t expect me to play happy wife after all this?

  Zia Donna’s words come back to me: “Do you want to be turned into a street whore?”

  I don’t want him to touch me, but I can’t stop staring at him. I want to throw up, but I won’t be a coward while the Virgin is watching. She didn’t throw up. I want to make her proud.

  “Marriage brings us here today, to be witnessed by God,” the priest creaks, his voice old and warbling. I close my eyes and focus on his lilt. On his oaths. On his promises. Anything, anything, to keep from crying. The weight of sleeplessness is heavy. The weight of fear is heavier.

  A large hand takes my right hand. I know it’s Santino’s before I see it. Only he could have a hand so large I feel like a child once again. I open my eyes when I feel the wedding set on my ring finger. There is an intensity in his eyes that’s heart-stopping. I’m afraid to understand the meaning of that much passion, because I can’t be the object, and the motivation for it i
s anything but love.

  The wedding and engagement ring nest together heavily on my finger. The massive rectangle of a diamond sits above two neat rows of smaller diamonds and shines bright as the sun under the colors of the stained glass.

  Yesterday, this would have sent my jaw to the floor.

  Yesterday, I would have been beyond thrilled to be the recipient of something so big and glittery.

  Today, this diamond is the hard solidification of the fact that I’m living in a nightmare.

  “Do you, Violetta Antonia Moretti, take this man to be your husband?”

  Santino bores a hole through my body with a simple glance. I know what I’m supposed to say, but I cannot make my mouth form the words, open to share them with my jailer and God Himself. Tears, instead, fill my eyes so Santino is nothing more than a watery shark in a suit standing before me, terribly out of place.

  He can’t see me crying under the veil and I wonder if it would matter at all if he did.

  What if it wouldn’t? Could anyone be this much of an animal?

  “Say it,” he commands.

  “I can’t.”

  “You must.”

  I can’t even refuse with words. My throat is locked like a chastity belt. Tears trickle and tickle their way down my face. All Gia’s careful work is coming undone.

  I shake my head, swishing the veil.

  He leans forward, grabs my face, and squeezes my cheeks tight. The netting scratches my skin and the fabric stretches over my open mouth.

  “Say it.”

  My bouquet nearly falls from my trembling hands, had our bodies not been so close together. He’s hurting me and as much as that stuns me, worse is liking the strength of his power against me. I don’t understand why my heart races as his brow furrows and his grasp tightens. Tears fill my eyes now to the brim, and I cannot see, only feel the force of him on my cheeks, and I want to die.

  “Say the words, Violetta, or I will choke them out of you.”

  Will he? I want him to. I’m not sure if it’s a death wish in my heart or something darker and more forceful that’s screaming for release, but if he’s going to take me like this, he’s never going to know how much I want it. I can’t even admit it to myself.

  “Let me go,” I whisper, lips puckered between his tight grasp.

  He lowers his hand. I can feel the soreness radiating across my jaw, but I wonder if I’ve stalled this. Maybe he heard me, and he doesn’t want to force me.

  “Lo voglio,” he says to the priest. The words mean “I will,” and I realize I’ve stalled nothing.

  Dear God, lo voglio in his mouth sounds like let me go out of my mouth when it’s being squeezed, and the wedding is being officiated by a deaf and blind mafia priest.

  “You may now kiss the bride.”

  He raises the veil, and I can see him clearly for the first time since I entered the church. He is more beautiful in the clear, unobstructed light of day and that’s not comforting. I hate him, but I’m turned on by him, and I should cut off my hands for this fucking tragedy.

  But he doesn’t kiss me. Santino grabs the back of my neck and growls in my ear. “This ring stays on your finger unless someone cuts it off. The answer is yes.”

  Terrified, I nod.

  He pulls away just enough to look me in the eye, much like he did the first time we met, and again yesterday before he upended my entire world. I can feel the same intense passion, now coded violent, but it isn’t necessarily aimed at me. He’s looking around me. Through me.

  “You are mine now. Do you understand?”

  Not one tiny bit. But I nod anyway, because fear is a powerful incentive.

  And I fear my new husband.

  7

  VIOLETTA

  Everything turns into a streaky blur. We’re in a black car, we aren’t speaking or acknowledging what just happened, and the outside looks like one hot smudge of color.

  I still don’t know where I am. I still don’t understand, truly, what happened. Until I look down at my hands and see the ring, the dress, the veil, all still attached.

  These can’t be mine.

  Santino sits across from me. I know because I can see his feet, but I’m not looking up at him.

  This is it. This is the rest of my life. Before God, I’m tied to a man who was owed me in exchange for...what? What debt could have possibly caused this?

  What was my uncle up to? What hellish fury did he incite to sell his adopted daughter off as part of a debt repayment plan? And what kind of man was Santino who took a wife to settle it?

  How was this even a thing at this day, in this age, in our society? This isn’t Italy, circa the eighteenth century.

  This is America. The land of the free. Home of the brave.

  It’s right there. In the song. All over the place.

  I, however, am anything but free and—after this—I’m sure I’m not brave.

  Maybe I never earned being here in the first place.

  I sneak another glance at the man who has barely spoken to me since he stole me. What does he expect out of me?

  I hadn’t considered it before, and it brings a fresh new wave of anxiety and arousal that is infuriating. The more scared I become, the more arousal seeps in, filling me with a need I can’t place or ignore.

  He’s more than beautiful. Elettra was dancing all over the kitchen just in his name alone. Something about him excites me in ways that just feel...impossible.

  What does he want from me? What happens...tonight?

  If Santino DiLustro thinks I’m going to smile for him and play the role of happy wife, he’s out of his damn mind. I won’t go through the motions of a loveless life.

  Unless that’s the point. Maybe my utter misery is exactly what he’s seeking. Maybe, God watched as—under His roof—I was bound to the devil.

  We arrive at his house. I’ll never think of it as “ours.” His door opens and he exits before me. The suits silently come from the darkened abyss of his home and escort me out. Armando makes eye contact, and with a nod, tries to tell me everything’s going to be all right.

  I believe he believes it.

  “Come,” Santino commands.

  I have no choice but to follow. Through this monstrous prison with its archaic furniture and still-life oil paintings. A poor man’s version of wealth. Too gaudy. Too garish.

  It seems out of taste for him, the man living in the Lego brick house of clean lines and modern details. The man in black who steals people and issues commands with lightning.

  What kind of man, what kind of king, stole me away?

  He leads me to the living room, a bright space with too much heavy furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows lining the entire side of the house. The surface of the pool is as still as glass, reflecting the clouds moving over the sky. Freedom is just outside these windows, and I am so very far from it.

  He clears his throat because my attention has wandered away from him. It appears he does not like that.

  “Sit,” he says, stopping in front of a massive wet bar along the wall, lined with dark bottles, crystal clear glasses, and shining lights. Even in the daylight hours, he looks illuminated. King of the Castle. Heartless bastard who owns people for debts they have nothing to do with.

  I don’t sit. I’m still in my fucking wedding gown. I’m supposed to be dancing my first dance as husband and wife and drinking prosecco from a fluted glass.

  “Care for a drink?” he asks.

  “I’m not 21.”

  “You’re my wife. If my wife wants a drink, she may have a drink.”

  This is a very strange first conversation to be having, and the oscillating feelings at hearing the word wife are no more clear than they were at the altar.

  Part of this—if I pretend it isn’t me for just a few short breaths—is exciting. This would be on television. Zia would watch this with me, and we would gasp over the beauty of the captor, how charming he was with his prisoner.

  Those visions die with each breath.
And again, they begin. Because it’s beautiful on television—charming, exciting, thrilling, engaging, enigmatic even. But the crushing reality is not what I expect.

  “I do not want a drink.”

  I say no more. I’m afraid what may happen if my mental faculties are impaired even more.

  “Your choice.”

  “Is this what you thought your wedding would be like?” I ask as he pours himself a drink.

  He scoffs. It’s a laugh without humor. The sound of a million unsaid words.

  “No.” He caps the bottle.

  “What did you think it would be?”

  “When? This morning?”

  “When you were my age.”

  He slams back the drink, puts the glass down and uncaps the bottle again.

  “When I was your age,” he says, pouring. “I thought I’d take vows knowing my wife’s cunt was already sore from my cock.” He drinks, wincing as if the booze burns him as much as his words burn me. “You’d already have that dress around your waist, spreading your legs and begging for it again.” He pours himself a third. “But here we are.”

  And that is the end of our conversation for the next several hours.

  His mobster friends from the chapel arrive shortly after, reverberating joy in stark contrast to how I’m regarded. I recognize some of them from the neighborhood. I crossed to the other side of the street when guys like this headed my way. I saw them in the stores and in cars as they waited for a light. They never had names, but I knew who they were.

  “Drinks!” one hollers. “Drinks to celebrate the man of the day!”

  This is more of a bachelor party than a wedding reception. I always thought weddings were supposed to be about the couple, but I’m not even there. I’m apparently worth nothing more than pretty garbage.

  Does he not even find me interesting? Did he not even choose me? Apparently Elettra would be a suitable replacement over my life, so there must be some sort of wish list. Or was it purely because I lived in the wrong house at the wrong time?