3. Stella
3
STELLA
I glare at Papà as the priest rushes through our vows, barely stopping long enough for me to even utter, “I do.”
Since Leopoldo’s marriage offer, things have moved at lightning speed. A priest was called in, asked for our first names, and then jumped right into the ceremony.
I’ve hardly had a chance to process the fact that my father didn’t drag me here solely to fulfill his end of a business arrangement but to absolve himself of apparent debts created by Mamma.
Marriage wasn’t even where he wanted to start negotiations, despite what I’d naively come to this place believing. He used my inexperience as a selling point, so while I’ve always known the people in this world to place emphasis on such patriarchal notions, for some reason, I believed the Riccis were above that.
I’m not sure why. Perhaps it was the ease with which they allowed my older sisters to continue their lives, uninterrupted. How they didn’t care when I showed more interest in science and academia than the pageantry of being a Mafia princess and socialite.
Whatever the case, I’m in it now. My dreams of Papà coming to my aid are dashed as he continues to ignore me, bearing witness as the priest seals my union to Leopoldo De Tore.
“Y-you may kiss the… bride,” the older man stutters, pressing his Bible to his chest.
Shit, shit, shit. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me that we’d need to kiss to complete the transaction—perhaps because this is a farce, and I didn’t think Leopoldo would care about such displays of affection.
Wishful thinking, I suppose.
I’m forcibly turned toward him as he steps slightly away from the priest. I don’t know who moves me—whether it’s Papà or one of the De Tore guards who revealed himself from the shadows—but in the next second, I go from wishing death upon my father to staring into the bleak gaze of the man I’m now legally tethered to.
I lick my lips, then curse myself when his gray eyes drop to track the motion.
He’s handsome—in a lethal way. His cheekbones are severe, like two shards of glass, and his jaw is something you could sharpen a knife on.
When I was younger, I found him fascinating. He’d attend Sunday Mass like everyone else on our block despite spending the week indulging in every sin known to man. I’d watch him take a seat in the back, listen to the homily, and leave before the Eucharist. Almost as if he thought himself better than God.
Back then, I couldn’t help but take note of his every move, his every breath and attribute—like the leather gloves he seemed to wear at all times and the black hair he kept just a tad too long, which made him seem strangely boyish.
Something about him was intriguing. Maybe it was the way he didn’t repeat or finish the Father’s prayers, or how an aura of darkness seemed to follow in his wake despite the holy backdrop. It amazed me that evil like him could exist, even inside a blessed structure, and that his skin didn’t seem to burn.
Maybe that was what killed my religious faith and made me store it in scientific thought instead—the realization that my parents’ beliefs and stories held no weight in the real world. Evil would prevail whether God watched or not.
Sometimes, I’d catch him looking back and find myself unable to break away. As if he were a magnet and I were some precious metal drawn to him.
Mamma used to curse at me and say I shouldn’t stare Death in the eye.
Now I can’t seem to look anywhere else, though I do my best to ignore the tug in my stomach as he inches closer.
Death shouldn’t be attractive to me.
Yet the razor blade in my mouth says maybe it always was.
My legs wobble, bringing me forward a step. Hints of amber and cedarwood drift casually around me, and I wonder if he donned cologne to mask something or if he smells like this all the time.
“Well?” he goads, cocking a dark brow.
Neither of us moves again. My feet feel like they’re stuck in concrete.
I’m so fucked.
A smirk plays at one corner of his mouth, and he lifts a hand. The black leather glove is rough as he reaches to cup my cheek, sliding his thumb under my chin and angling my face upward.
“Just how far does your inexperience go?”
My pulse hammers inside my neck, and I think if he glanced down, he’d be able to see the vein trying to jump out of my skin. Luckily—or maybe unluckily—he keeps his stare on mine.
“Hello?” he prods, pursing his lips in amusement. “Have you ever been kissed, stellina ?”
At my sides, my hands ball into fists. I can’t seem to help myself. “Why is that any of your business? Afraid you won’t compare?” The words come from my lips involuntarily, slicing through the tension between us. Only, instead of clearing the haze, it allows something heavier— headier —to fill in the gaps.
“ Stella ,” Papà hisses from behind me.
Leopoldo just grins.
His grip on my jaw tightens, and something sinister flares in his irises. “Would you tell me if I was better?”
“Than the others?” I shrug one shoulder, feigning nonchalance. The razor blade slides up a little, and I press it back down with my tongue. I wonder if it looks as odd as it feels to talk with it there. “I’d tell you if you were worse.”
“Others—plural?” Leopoldo tsk-tsks, then glances at my father. “Does ‘untouched’ mean something else to you, Ricci?”
I can practically hear Papà sweating. “I assure you, De Tore, I?—”
With his free hand, Leopoldo cuts Papà off, and his eyes dart back to mine. They’re cold, solid granite, yet a liquid heat bubbles at the edges, too. “No matter. I suppose the details are hardly important at this point.”
His breath is minty as he leans in, pausing mere inches from my mouth. I can’t seem to concentrate on one part of him: The gloved hand holding my head still and yet somehow burning me through the leather. Or maybe it’s the icy warmth in his gaze, or the outline of his plush lips as they edge closer.
Everything blurs together in a cyclone of lust and resentment, causing me to remain immobile even after I realize he’s waiting on me.
Still, I can’t make myself move. I don’t know if it’s fear or embarrassment or just a deep-seated desire to do the opposite of what he wants, but as my body absolutely refuses to cooperate, I know it can’t be self-preservation.
Leopoldo’s likely planning where he’ll dispose of my body with every agonizing second that creeps by.
He slides one hand back, threading his large fingers through my hair. For a moment, he focuses solely on the tresses, a faraway look in his eyes. “You’re quite beautiful,” he notes, finally bringing his dark stare back to mine. “Your hair is lovely. Complements you well.”
My jaw slackens, and I try to ignore the furious blush crawling up my skin. I say nothing, unsure of what to do with that information.
“It’s official, whether you kiss me or not,” he says, gently tugging at my roots. “Might as well pretend you had some say in the matter.”
Obedience is something ingrained in the women of this world. From birth, we’re bound by tradition and violence, often born to men who care more about the business they conduct than the fact they’re ruining their daughters.
Or maybe that’s why they do it. Because to them, we’re nothing but pawns in the game of life. We’re valued, but not as sentient beings—as property .
The longer I stand here, staring at Leopoldo, the more I realize that coming here was a mistake. While I expected this outcome, I suppose a part of me was also hoping my father would try to stop it—or at the very least acknowledge the great sacrifice I was making by doing this for him.
Property doesn’t make sacrifices, though. Its sole purpose on this planet is to increase the value of whoever owns it, and right now, these men own me in every way.
The only way for me to take back who I am is to force my own choices into the fray.
I can’t necessarily change what’s happening, but I can control how I react to it.
I can control how it affects me. What he gets from me.
So, even though I don’t know what I’m doing, I reach up to grip Leopoldo’s designer lapels and yank his face down to mine.