Chapter 4
AISLING
Saint Augustine’s Catholic Church is packed, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, hushed voices blending into a tense cacophony as I stand in the sacristy, peering through the crack in the door, waiting to be sewn into a white dress that cost more than a midsized car.
The walls are old stone, gray and cold, but everything else—flowers, candles, silk draperies—is extravagant, the soft pastels accentuated by the painted light that bleeds through the stained glass windows.
Everything about this day screams of wealth and luxury.
Because if the eldest Murray daughter is going to be married off for political alliance and mutual revenge, we may as well make it look gorgeous on Instagram.
“Aisling, stop fidgeting,” Siobhan says, swatting my hand away as I tug uncomfortably at the tight lace collar my younger sister buttons at the back of my neck. She’s seventeen, too beautiful for her own good, and annoyingly delighted to be maid of honor. “You’ll mess up the stitching.”
“I can’t breathe.”
“That’s the point. Beauty demands sacrifice.”
“For our family, everything comes with a sacrifice,” I quip, glancing at her over my shoulder as I shut the door with a soft click.
Her smile falters. “You don’t have to do this if you really don’t want to.”
She’s not the only one who’s reminded me today, and it feels pointedly masochistic each time I’m forced to acknowledge the fact that I’m doing this to myself.
But for my family, I will sacrifice my peace of mind and my sanity until the fighting is done.
I can endure any torture when I know there’s going to be a finish line. Marrying Rafael Chiaroscuro will be no different.
I snort. “Like hell, I don’t.”
Siobhan sighs because she knows I’m right.
The Yakuza have turned their backs on us.
Our alliance is fracturing—worse, it was a hollow promise from the start—and the Chiaroscuros have enough soldiers and enough rage to stand with us if we can prove ourselves worthy allies.
And apparently, my body is the best collateral we have to offer. Lovely.
The music starts, and I take a shaky breath as I turn to face my little sister.
Her blonde hair cascades in ringlets around her delicate face, and she gives me a warm smile as she pulls me in for a hug.
“You look beautiful,” she murmurs.
“Thank you,” I breathe, then step aside so she can take her place in the procession.
Little Riley, my heart wrapped in ivory tulle and dark curls, stands at the door, my father kneeling in front of her as he gives her gentle encouragement.
Known as the Murray family’s “whoopsie baby”, Riley’s far younger than Siobhan at not yet five years old.
But I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone as much as I love that little girl.
And my heart clenches as she toddles down the aisle with a basket almost as big as she is, tossing petals in random, chaotic handfuls, occasionally stopping to wave at strangers because she believes everyone is cheering just for her.
They are.
Because she positively glows.
My throat tightens and my eyes sting.
People think I don’t cry because I’m strong. But the truth is I don’t cry because once I start, I don’t know if I’ll stop.
Siobhan goes next, taking the arm of Raf’s identical twin, Sandro—whose suit looks rather impressively tattered for having come straight from the tailor’s only days ago.
I can’t help but wonder if he’s managed to get in a scuffle with some of my father’s men already.
Something I wouldn’t find surprising based on his reputation.
But no one says a word as he guides my younger sister up the aisle.
Then the music shifts again, and my heart falters as my father turns, regal in a charcoal gray suit, to offer me his elbow.
It’s my turn.
The church is suddenly a tunnel, and I walk through it on my father’s arm. I keep my eyes fixed ahead, my feet faltering when I catch my mother dabbing her eyes surreptitiously in the front pew.
She thinks her daughter is being married off to a man my family hates—but I don’t dare tell her the reality of it.
I just hope she’ll forgive the deception when the truth comes out.
My brothers line the aisle like soldiers ready for war.
And at the altar stands the devil himself.
Raf looks devastating in a black suit, black shirt, and white silk tie, his broad shoulders stretching the expensive fabric to its limits.
His hair is slicked back and his hazel eyes are like flint as they find me.
And a muscle tics in his jaw, which is sharp enough to cut glass.
He stares at me, not hungry, not angry. Just… knowing.
Like I’m an equation he solved years ago, and now all I am is the bottom line to him. A solution to his problem.
I lift my chin. I’m not a girl anymore.
He won’t break me, because I don’t care what he thinks of me anymore.
Still, I scarcely feel my feet moving as my father guides me down the aisle, then turns to press a kiss to my forehead.
His blue eyes are deep pools of emotion as he gives my lace-clad arms a reassuring squeeze.
Then he’s passing me off to the Italian bastard I’m supposed to marry.
Father Malcolm speaks in his thick Dubliner accent as he welcomes the congregation and invites our guests to be seated before smoothly transitioning into a recitation of prayers about love, unity, and God’s grace.
I repeat the words automatically, my voice steady even when my mind screams that this is all a terrible mistake.
But I keep my jaw locked to trap the protest behind my teeth.
Raf takes my hand, his fingers warm, callused, and unnervingly familiar—even after all this time.
I hate that his familiarity can still choke me as my heart jumps into my throat.
Then he slides an ornately detailed ring onto my finger, a two-carat round diamond at its center with glimmering diamond accents along the silver band and cathedral.
I can’t help but stare at the vision of elegance personified.
His thumb brushes my skin, soft enough to be reverent, and it feels like a memory.
I swallow it down, pushing the sensation away, then accept the simple gold band that Siobhan passes to me and slide it onto Raf’s ring finger.
My heart stalls completely as we reach the part I’ve been dreading.
“I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss the bride.”
My pulse spikes, my eyes widening as my flight instincts kick in.
Visions of Raf leaning in clash with reality as he moves slowly, watching me, his eyes never leaving mine as he practically dares me to reject him, to humiliate him and destroy this fragile alliance before it begins.
I don’t. I can’t. My family needs this. So I lift my face. I close my eyes, expecting revulsion, praying for numbness.
But the second our lips meet… all I feel is fire. Real. Immediate. Violent.
It’s been five years since I’ve felt it, and I hate that my body remembers Raf better than I remember myself.
I hate that it responds to him with the same tidal force as it did the night he claimed my first kiss.
And just like that night, the jolt of sensation that blasts through my body steals the air from my lungs.
His lips move against mine—slow, sure, a low drag of possession that sends heat spiraling through me like betrayal.
I gasp into him, and his grip tightens.
Then the church explodes with applause.
We break apart like we’ve been scalded, and I turn quickly to face the congregation, my cheeks burning as I avoid his eyes.
If I look, I’ll fall into something I can’t climb out of again.
As if sensing my desperation to flee, Raf lifts my hand in a victorious display, then rushes me back down the aisle and to the limo waiting for us outside that will take us back to my family home, where we’ve been preparing nonstop to host an elaborate reception.
The Murray estate looks like a fairy tale, even to my familiar gaze, and I stare stunned at the transformation our staff has managed even since this morning.
White canopies stretch over the manicured lawns and chandeliers hang from trees that cling to the last colorful leaves of autumn.
String lights have been strung across the sprawling backyard to illuminate the space with an almost ethereal glow in the dim light of the setting sun.
Beneath the tents, the dinner tables have been covered with crisp white table cloths and drowned in flowers, and champagne flows like water.
A string quartet plays in the corner while paparazzi—real and hired—snap pictures to perpetuate the illusion of joy.
The guests trickle in, finding their places at the tables, and after a short, succinct toast from my father, welcoming all the guests to our home, dinner is served.
But I scarcely get a bite or two before Raf and I are up, my arm looped through his in a display of unity as we make the rounds to thank our guests from coming.
My feet are aching in the sky-high heels I had to wear to avoid being dwarfed by my towering new husband, and by the time we finally part—Raf to have a moment with his brothers while I join my family at their table—I can feel my toes screaming for release.
“You’re a vision, Aisling,” my mother says as she scoops me into a hug.
“Thanks, Mum,” I murmur, fighting the sudden urge to cry.
“Sissy!” Riley cries, jumping up out of her chair and into my arms before Siobhan can stop her. “Did you see my dress?” she demands, pulling the tulle skirt out to show me as I hold her in my arms.
“Yes, you look beautiful,” I confirm, kissing her rosy cheek. Then I ease her back into her chair as my mother insists she finish eating her dinner.
And as soon as her radiant warmth is gone, I feel the sadness tugging at the corners of my lips.
I’m married now.
That means I won’t be going home with my family tonight.
I won’t be there to tuck Riley in or hug my siblings good night.
The thought weighs on me, and it takes all my strength to stiffen my spine and remind myself that this isn’t permanent.
I will come home someday.
Siobhan squeezes my hand. “Smile. It’s your wedding day.”
“It’s my funeral,” I mutter, casting a sidelong glance in Raf’s direction.
“But with cake,” she reminds me.