Chapter 17
DANTE
I t’s the morning of the wedding. I’ve not slept all night or much at all over the last few days. I have a two-hour drive ahead of me and a day from hell to look forward to. Worse, I know Carmela doesn’t want this, and that fucking destroys me on a whole other level.
Most of the bruising on my face has gone down, but my ribs still ache, and that will take a while. The pain centers me, consolidating a sense of purpose in my mind and laying out a path.
We have a few houses where people are taken for questioning or holding, and my AMG E-Class looks out of place in the rundown neighborhood when we pull up at the curb.
The two men sitting in the front get out first, their eyes scoping the street before they open the doors for Leon and me. There is another car behind, and the four men, all ex-military, have likewise exited the car and remain alert.
Just one of many changes.
“He doesn’t know anything,” Leon tells me as we enter the house where two more men are standing at the door.
“Plenty of men for hire, no questions asked. It’s important we send a message.
Build a reputation that makes targeting us for money less attractive.
On the plus side, we can safely assume Ettore doesn’t know you’ve been fraternizing with his future wife.
It wouldn’t have been your hand he was targeting were that the case, and, after, you would be dead. ”
He has a point.
When we enter the room, I find a man bound to a chair before a sturdy table. He’s been washed up, and his hair is still damp. His face shows the evidence of a beating, his eyes swollen and black. The way his mouth is hanging open and drooling blood, I’m guessing he’s lost some teeth.
His hands are spread out on the desk, and straps hold them down. A hammer, the one he brought with him when he entered my office, is sitting beside them, right where he can see.
“Think of it as a wedding gift to Ettore,” Leon says, smirking.
I give him a look.
He pats my shoulder. “Trust me, you’ll feel better after. Not a lot, but enough to get through this farce.”
I do trust him.
The man sitting at the table represents Ettore and what he wanted to do to me.
He’s trying to break me. Literally. Mentally. He’s taken my fucking woman and fucked with my life.
“He needs to learn that we’re not going to take this. I’ve done too much of that over the last three years,” Leon says.
I nod. I pick up the hammer and test the weight, imagining how this would have felt coming down over my fingers… My hand… Breaking them… Breaking them so severely that I’d never be able to hold anything again. Never be able to write. Never be able to touch Carmela with it…
I nod to one of the men. He obligingly presses the hired thug’s hand flat and spreads his fingers out while the deadbeat slurs protests that I couldn’t care less about.
The sound of the hammer smashing his little finger against the solid surface of the table and his subsequent scream is more satisfying than I thought it would be.
Those sounds would have been mine. The agony he experiences, likewise mine.
I don’t stop at one finger. I break every fucking one, and then I smash his hands as well.
And I’m done.
I toss the bloody hammer down on the tabletop next to the ruination of his hands. His continuing cries of agony are a horrifying sort of balm. My chest is heaving. I feel something trickle down my cheek. When I run my fingers over it, they come away smeared in blood.
A soldier steps forward and passes me a gun.
I’m not a killer. I’ve never killed anyone before. But I guess I’m going to have to change if I want to realize my goals.
There’s a brief hesitation. A moment where I acknowledge I’m not going to be the same man afterward. And then I put it right up against his forehead and press the trigger.
A small recoil, a loud bang, and the remnants of his brains are scattered across the back wall.
The soldier steps forward again, taking the gun from me and carefully wiping it down.
“You ready to go?” Leon asks.
“Yes,” I say.
CARMELA
Today is my wedding day. It feels more like my funeral.
I’m in my bedroom, surrounded by an army of personal stylists who have done an exemplary job. The dark shadows under my eyes are carefully hidden. A few drops have removed the redness from my eyes. My dark hair is curled and teased into an elaborate updo, and my makeup is light and classic.
The perfect mafia princess in virginal white is ready to be sacrificed.
Jessica watches on, her expression forlorn. She’s wearing a simple gown, and her long hair cascades down her back—a beauty who will one day soon become a stunning young woman.
Last night I shared a bed with her. We talked, all the while knowing that tonight she will be with Papa in their new brownstone on the other side of the city.
“You can change your mind,” she said . “Papa won’t be mad.”
I envy her innocence in thinking it a possibility. It was never a possibility, even at the start.
In the quieter moments of the night, I asked myself questions about consent—questions I had never considered before.
Ettore is going to be my husband. While I’m sure there are couples who still wait until their wedding night, in the modern world many do not.
What he did with me wasn’t unexpected, nor would it be considered unreasonable in many people’s eyes.
On the surface, it was not very different from what happened with Dante.
Only it felt different. I felt different, both during and afterward. And therein lies the crux.
“Tell me he hasn’t touched you.”
My answer to that question would be different today.
“Your first kiss is mine. If I have my way, your first everything will be mine, too.”
Well, one thing has been taken off the table. In a matter of hours, so will the ultimate one.
“Lie for me.”
I did. Willingly, gladly, without reservation.
Only he lied to me. He didn’t take all my firsts.
He only took a few.
The door opens, and Helena sweeps in, bringing a cloud of my mother’s scent with her. Following behind is her ungodly offspring, who looks faintly satanic even in her sweet flower girl dress. The poor nanny I’ve heard Helena screaming at follows meekly behind.
Helena is my maid of honor. Not by my choice.
Ettore asked me, sort of. It was a request with a heavy component of expectation.
Had I been better prepared, I might have had an excuse to refuse, but he caught me off guard.
I get a strong impression Helena doesn’t like me.
Or maybe I’m merely projecting my feelings for her back at myself.
It never crossed my mind that she might want to be my maid of honor.
Like Jessica and me, Helena’s dress is white. Only it really isn’t her color, and my uncharitable side takes savage satisfaction in this knowledge.
She casts her critical assessment over me and turns to the nearest stylist. “Do you think a little more color in the cheeks might help?”
“I’m happy with my makeup, thank you,” I say before she has any ideas about railroading me. My skin is naturally pale, and the last thing I want is to look like a clown.
The demon child makes a beeline for Jessica and grabs a handful of her gown, twisting it savagely in her small fist.
A stylist gasps.
“Ask your daughter to behave, please, Helena.” My tone is barely civil. I can see the tears pooling in Jessica’s eyes. For someone more often resilient, my sister is unusually fragile today—we both are.
“Lillete,” Helena snaps.
The nanny hurries forward, using a soft, coaxing voice to encourage the child to let go.
The monster tugs, nearly pulling Jessica over.
Helena chuckles. “Darling, let Jessica’s gown go.”
I can see Jessica building up to saying something that will have ramifications for the day ahead.
“Peony, go to your nanny now,” I say more sharply than might be advisable. “Or you will have to stay behind for the wedding.”
“I don’t appreciate you taking that tone with my daughter.”
“And I don’t appreciate your daughter.” I should probably have added a qualifier, like tearing my sister’s dress off her. But why lie?
The demon releases the dress, and her head appears to turn one-eighty degrees as she fixes her dark gaze on me.
I hold my ground, turning to meet Helena’s gaze unflinchingly. I’ve let too much slide already with this woman.
She smiles slowly and with calculation. I will pay for my outburst later. But if the gloves are about to come off between us, so be it. Her brother will be defiling me in a matter of hours. I need to claim all my victories, however small, wherever I can.
“Lillete, please take Peony downstairs,” Helena says.
Lillete takes Peony’s hand and escorts her out, the door clicking softly shut behind her.
A stylist rushes over with a hand steamer to remove the creases from Jessica’s gown.
Meanwhile, Helena’s sharp gaze lowers my throat. “The necklace is a little understated, don’t you think?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“It was a gift from our mother,” Jessica says with a note of challenge that makes me quietly smile.
“Of course,” Helena says. “I will go on ahead. The car and your father are waiting.” Her smile turns fake sweet.
“Did you know Dante is going to be Ettore’s groomsman.
We would make a good match. I told my brother as much.
” She steps in close to me. “My brother will become your husband today. Remember it’s your duty to keep him satisfied. ”
She sweeps out of the room before I can formulate a reply.
“What a bitch,” Jessica says with an exaggerated eye roll. “As if Dante would marry her. He’s probably cringing at the thought of being lumbered with her hanging off his arms for the photos.”
A sob catches in my throat, and for a long second, I can’t breathe.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” she says, her face instantly softening as she takes my hand. “Don’t cry. You will ruin the stylists’ amazing work.”
“I’m okay.” I’m not.
“Papa’s waiting,” she says softly. “Come on, big sister. You’ve got this.”
I pull myself back from the brink of a meltdown and let the stylists do their last-minute tweaks.
Then I’m alone with my sister, aware that I have probably taken this beyond being fashionably late.
She smiles at me and carefully kisses my cheek. “Show Dante what he’s missing. Make him crazy. There’s still time for him to shoot Ettore and carry you off.”
The thought puts a smile on my face. A girl can only dream.
With Jessica’s hand in mine, we head down the stairs to where my father is waiting.
The tears of joy in his eyes ease some of the terrible feelings inside me.
I have always thought him invincible, a protective figure shielding me from the rest of the world and keeping me safe.
Today, he looks frail and a shadow of his former self.
Do I hate him for his role in this?
I want to. And perhaps a small part of me does. He believes this is best for me and that Ettore is the better choice. I want so hard to trust in him, and that my marriage—to the man who will be announced today as the don—is necessary.
If my mother were still alive, I believe she would be weeping.
If my mother were still alive, I believe my father would still be the don.