Chapter 8
FRANKIE
The reception is held in a side courtyard created just for the occasion.
The vineyard stretches out behind us in gradient shades of green that glimmer in the late afternoon sun.
Everything is pure perfection. The tables are decorated with topiaries of greenery and golden edged geometric holders sporting flickering candles.
It’s beautiful, of course.
Expensive blue and gold carpets act as runners over the ground and between the tables, while cast iron poles hold lanterns with fairy lights wrapped around their length.
Waitstaff move easily through the guests, offering drinks and setting out trays of hors d’oeuvres.
Dante leads me to the head table, but we’re stopped every few seconds by well-wishers, most of whom I block out because my brain hasn’t yet caught up with the reality of the situation.
The reality that this has actually happened.
My lips still feel bruised from the kiss and I’m not sure the heated blush will ever fade from my cheeks.
Dante guides me to my seat in the center of the table and brushes my hand off his arm as he moves away to speak to someone.
Carefully arranging my skirt and train, I sink into my seat and reach for the flute of champagne waiting for me.
The ring on my hand glitters as I grab the drink.
I don’t look at it…much. It’s big and, well, big. Huh.
With the soft blue sapphire halo, the ring is actually really pretty, which surprises me. No sense in overthinking who chose it or why. I’m the wife of a mob boss. Of course my wedding ring is unique. It’s all part of the show.
A flutter of fabric grabs my attention as I sip from the flute.
Jessica walks past the table, giving me the barest glance as she beelines for Dante.
She’s dressed in a faintly yellow strapless gown, the shade so pale it almost looks white.
The bodice nips in at the waist, the skirt a double layer of tulle over satin… almost reminiscent of a wedding dress.
Dante moves away before she reaches him, inadvertently leaving her in the dust right when she was about to sidle her way next to him. I smirk to myself and finish off the champagne.
“Looks like you need a refill,” a female voice says. “People watching is always more fun with a little alcohol involved, isn’t it?”
Glancing up, I’m surprised to see an old classmate from high school, Candi Gallagher, plopping into the chair next to mine.
We’d never been close friends, exactly, but she’s always been a kind person and her job as a wine acquisitions specialist has brought us together over the years for business.
I’m relieved to see her now. Finally, someone who won’t put on a false front.
I may not know a lot about Candi personally, but she’s always been a tell-it-like-it-is person.
“That’s true,” I agree.
She doesn’t hesitate to lift the champagne bottle from the metal ice bucket beside me and refill my glass. “So, do you think she just woke up this morning and decided to wear that getup, or was there some deliberate thought behind it?”
She arches a brow in Jessica’s direction.
“Oh, she definitely put some thought into it. That dress is way too close to white to be an accident.”
“Well, just goes to show how few brain cells are at work. I hate to bash another woman, but that one’s a conniving bitch through and through. I could pass by and accidentally spill a vintage red down her front if you like? Consider it a wedding gift.”
Although I have no idea what Jessica could have done to Candi in the past, I’m enjoying this moment of mutually trashing our common enemy. It’s good to know it wasn’t just my instincts telling me the redhead was bad news. I give a tempted groan.
“I’d love to see that. I would. But I’m sure Dante wouldn’t appreciate the ruckus.”
Who knows how he’d react to having his mistress called out like that? The thought darkens my mood, so I brush it off.
Candi holds up a bottle of beer. “Cheers to your wedding, Frankie. And cheers for being a bigger person than me, in refraining from Operation: Ruin the Ho’s Dress.”
I laugh and clink my glass against her bottle. I’m burning with curiosity about why she’s anti-Jessica, but my curiosity will have to wait.
“Whoops. Looks like that’s my cue,” she says, giving me a nod and departing just as Dante, his brothers, and the rest of the wedding party arrive at the table.
Armani walks over to the emcee and takes the microphone, instructing everyone to have a seat.
He drinks casually from a tumbler of whiskey, then goes into an off-the-cuff speech congratulating Dante and me on our wedding.
He mentions happiness, longevity, and partnership, as if we’ve entered into this agreement for any of that.
Afterward, Marco takes the mic and regurgitates basically the same thing, only with a charming smile and a dash of humor that has the crowd chuckling.
Listening to the Bellanti brothers speak about me, even in basic terms, is unnerving. They don’t know me. I doubt they even remembered my name until today. Dante appears bored with the whole thing. Marco passes the mic down the line to another of their family members.
More words. More congratulations. I guess everyone’s just going to blatantly ignore the fact that I was practically sold to the stranger sitting next to me.
The words are all dipped in compliments, so thick with praise that I wonder just how long these people have been kissing Dante’s ass—you’d think he was some kind of god.
It makes me sick with anger, but I smile the whole time.
Even when my face threatens to crack in half.
Just when I think the speeches are never going to end, it’s finally over. More wine and champagne are poured, and the waitstaff begin bringing out baskets of rolls and plates of food.
Someone clinks their glass with the side of a spoon and I go still.
No, no. I can’t handle another publicly inappropriate kiss.
But Dante is looking at Jessica, his eyes glued to her as if he’s imagining her out of that damn dress.
He’s oblivious to what the clinking glass represents, or else he’s just ignoring it.
The noise stops and Dante turns to his meal.
My chest collapses as I squeeze out the breath I’d been holding.
He’d been too busy eye fucking his mistress to kiss me.
Chatter fills the air as everyone dines, and all the while, Dante makes a point of touching me possessively whenever someone comes up to the table to congratulate us. I wish his hands on me weren’t such a turn-on.
The minutes pass, and I realize I haven’t touched a single bite. Marco leans over to whisper something to Dante, and I catch the phrase “Bruno family” before my husband excuses himself to go attend to some business talk, leaving me alone.
At my side, Charlie sits quietly while Livvie animatedly rattles on about something. She takes Charlie’s glass and sneaks a couple sips of wine. I grin as she catches me watching. I widen my eyes at her in faux-shock and she blushes, releases the glass, and goes back to eating.
When Dante returns, the plates are cleared and slices of decadent white cake with raspberry filling are passed around.
No official cake cutting for us, I see, though it’s probably for the best. My skin heats uncomfortably at the thought of Dante’s hand on mine, pressing the knife through the cake, his fingers brushing my lips as he feeds me a bite…
I manage to choke down my cake, taking small bites while I observe my husband, once again casting longing glances at Jessica. Charlie knocks elbows with me and cocks her head.
“Are you going to let this continue on your wedding day?”
“What do you suggest I do about it?” I hiss quietly. Do I even want to make a fuss, after he already made it clear he wouldn’t be giving up his sidepiece?
I haven’t given our wedding night much thought either, mostly because I intend to get it over with as quickly as possible as a matter of formality. His hands on me. His lips cruising my skin. His cock inside me, buried to the hilt as he spills his seed.
A hard shiver courses through my body.
“For one thing, you need to get his attention back on you,” Charlie says. “The second thing involves murder, so I won’t go there because it wouldn’t end well for Jessica.”
She’s right. I need to get Dante’s attention. How does it look to all the folks who just wished us well to have him lusting over his assistant on our wedding day?
Squaring my shoulders, I put my hand on the table and slide it over to his.
He reaches for his wineglass before I can touch him.
Fine. I’ll put my hand on his thigh and see how he reacts.
Slowly, I reach beneath the table. His leg is close to mine.
He could touch me if he wanted to, knee to knee.
My fingertips rest against his thigh, softly.
Grow a pair, Frankie.
Bolder. Harder. I press my palm to his leg and curl my fingers against his firm muscle.
Dante turns to me, eyes smoldering. He looks like he’s about to say something when there’s a crash from the guest area.
My father stands, his chair knocked to the ground, rattling the table with his clumsy movements. My heart sinks. He’s drunk. I should have known he was already tipsy when he walked me down the aisle. Of course my soul had known, but I chose to ignore it.
He raises a wineglass in one hand and a beer in the other, then thrusts the wineglass higher. “This is some good shit!”
I move to stand, but Dante stops me with a hand on my arm. Charlie is already on her feet and raises her own glass. “It better be, Dad. We made it!”
The crowd laughs and my sister catches my eye. Leaning over to Dante, I whisper, “I’ll take care of this.”