Chapter 12 – Gabriella
The nightmare was the same. A treasure being ripped from my arms. I woke with a scream, the defeat crashing into me until I thought I would be crushed under the weight of it.
Lying in bed, I stared at the ceiling. My alarm hadn’t chimed yet, but it didn’t matter. It would soon enough. And then the day from hell would unfold.
Downstairs, my wedding dress hung, steamed and pressed in the living room, center stage to the bridesmaid dresses my sisters would wear.
The nightmare left a distinct flavor of loss in my mouth.
But there was something else perfuming the air.
A bad omen. It taunted me, a scratch between the shoulder blades that I couldn’t reach.
The scent of pine was subtle, barely there.
The vibrant presence pulsed in the deep shadows of the room, remaining long after its master had disappeared into the night.
I sat up. Nothing was out of place, none of my belongings touched.
And yet, I knew.
He’d been back.
I didn’t have to look at the strand of hair I’d taped over the door. It would be broken—just as the others had this week.
Leaning over the bed, I pulled out the slim, zippered case.
The cornicello pendant was tucked amongst other, far more expensive jewelry my father had gifted me and made me wear to important functions of the famiglia.
The twisted horn was said to ward off evil spirits.
It was going to take more than a charm and Old World superstition to keep me safe in this marriage.
I was going to walk down the aisle to the devil after all. But…it couldn’t hurt.
Funny that Liam didn’t wake me. I now had a name for the presence that pulsed in my private space every morning when I woke.
Only that one time, in his twisted, demented way, had he been bold enough to alert me to his presence.
That was the night he left me with the ring. The visual claim of his power over me.
My father was still irate that it hadn’t been presented to me in a grand fashion. When I told him that my fiancé had stopped by work to drop it off, he didn’t question the lie. He just backhanded me for allowing the bastard to gift it to me without ceremony.
When my sisters saw the bruise on my cheek, I’d told them not to trip on the stairs.
“I can’t wait to leave,” I breathed, rubbing the green, fading mark. Even if it was out of the frying pan and into the fire, I relished the idea of a new way to burn.
***
Even in the Sunday School rooms, the roiling energy seeped from the sanctuary. As more guests arrived, the energy became far more vicious. They were going to brawl.
But I was the only one who seemed to notice the tension between the two organizations.
My attendants fluttered about, sipping punch and snacking on bon bons.
My mother nearly fainted when Celeste tipped bright red liquid on her dress.
What did she expect? I knew that red drink plus a four-year-old child equaled disaster.
It was almost like this was the first time Mama encountered the idea of white dresses being stained.
“That’s the best I can do, signora,” Cesca sighed, sitting back on her haunches.
“It’s pink!” Mama wailed.
I had no Xanax. There was no alcohol. My mother needed a dose of both, while I would take a double.
Sliding a look to the closed door, I chewed on my lip. Didn’t they feel the threat? It brewed like a storm. The air was still. Stale. And there was a menacing silence. I longed to peek outside, but someone would scream at me to hide because I wasn’t supposed to be seen.
The sooner this was over, the better.
My ring thunked against crayon-scratched table.
I stared at it. The solitaire was large. The white gold band glinted.
A knock on the door made me sit up straight. The eight-year-old chased the ten-year-old, and Mama screamed as punch sloshed to the floor inches from the hem of my gown.
“Papa! Papa!” my sisters sang in chorus. “Aren’t we beautiful?”
“Bellissime.” His warm smile raked over them before dropping several degrees as it landed on me.
I rose.
“Will I do?” Am I a fitting sacrifice?
“It’s time to line up,” he announced, gesturing for the girls to scuttle out of the room.
After the line of daughters brushed past him, he snatched my mother’s arm. “Fruit punch? Really, Marcella?”
My mother blanched. “I just thought it would be a nice touch,” she stuttered.
His fingers dug into the long sleeves she preferred to wear. I didn’t have to guess why.
“Get ready. I’ll seat you in a minute,” he snapped.
My mother bent her head.
I ached for her. I really did. But the solution was simple in my mind. Poison in his supper, micro doses, would have taken care of the problem years ago.
His malicious gaze turned on me. “Let’s go.”
Why the hell haven’t I been poisoning him the last eight months?
That was going to be my biggest regret today. So focused on my own heartache, I didn’t have the mental capacity to turn vicious. Maledizione! A missed opportunity. It would have solved a hell of a lot of problems.
There was always my husband.
My fingers played over the golden horn hidden on my chest. The lace neckline brushed my collar bone, so the pendant was concealed.
I could do it. Taking a life wasn’t hard.
Poison him, act the grieving widow, and take his money.
It seemed that my reading choices were going to be helpful after all.
True crime and thrillers. I could murder my husband and get away with it.
But everyone in the two organizations would be looking at me. There would be no running with so much focus.
Papa took Mama’s arm and marched her into the sanctuary.
My younger sisters cheered him on, while the older ones gushed at the display of chivalry. I looked away from the brutal sight of his fingers digging into her forearm.
Dust motes shimmered in the evening light.
The vaulted ceiling of the knave was filled with hot, stale air as the western sunbeams streamed through the high windows.
The hushed, vapid excitement radiated from my sisters as we waited.
I tugged at the long sleeves, desperately wanting to rip the material free. I couldn’t breathe.
Didn’t they feel the danger, barely suppressed beyond the doors?
Two groups of people who weren’t bound by history, blood, or even religion were forced to sit across from one another.
A courthouse or hell, even an outdoor wedding would have been better.
Easier to contain the tension that threatened to explode.
Pushing past my sisters, I cracked the door. Merciful saints! They were openly glaring at one another! Our home church was packed with hostility. It wouldn’t have mattered if we were across town at the Irish’s cathedral. This was a mistake.
A black shape loomed at the steps of the altar. One glance, and my stomach twisted.
Papa came back from walking Mama to her seat. I scooted back before he saw me peeking through the crack. When he pulled the doors open, the music started.
“Ragazze, move,” Papa instructed.
Reality snapped into place. Two by two, my sisters began their march. The youngest pairs in white, the older ones swathed in dusty rose. Only Carmela, my maid of honor, walked by herself. She paused to press a kiss to my cheek before making her entrance.
Papa stepped forward, elbow extended.
I froze.
My feet didn’t move.
“Gabriella,” the vicious bite cracked sharp and low.
“Papa,” I pleaded.
O dio sopra, save me! The prayer fell on deaf ears.
“Now.”
I scrambled to tug the veil over my face. Such a flimsy defense. Staggering forward, I fought the wave of nausea as I slid my arm into his crooked elbow. He caught me first. Those thick fingers pinched my tricep viciously.
I gasped in pain.
“Embarrass me in any way today, and you’ll be sorry, you little whore,” my father seethed.
Already I was sorry. Sorry that I hadn’t run. I wanted the safety of a plan, the security of money. But really, I wasn’t brave enough to fight back.
As we began our slow walk, I felt the eyes of the saints immortalized in the murals above.
The stories said they went joyfully to death, serene and pious.
I didn’t feel comradery with them. They didn’t lend me their strength.
It might be easier, knowing an executioner waited at the end of their aisle.
My eyes latched onto the devil in black.
Liam hadn’t turned. His broad shoulders, his towering height, he was the axe man waiting to behead me.
So focused on the unbreakable force, I didn’t notice he wasn’t standing alone.
A tall, blond specimen with inked snakes twisting and coiling on his throat, had turned to watch us walk.
Those blue eyes danced, and when he swallowed, the snakes bobbed. He said something, which at first didn’t register because it was too low. But as I listened, I realized it was in that misty, broken cadence of his motherland.
I didn’t plan to stick around long enough to learn Gaeilge, which was a shame, because it was a beautiful language.
When we were a dozen paces away, Liam pulled a deep breath into his lungs…
and turned. His stormy eyes darkened as he looked at us.
He strode forward, meeting us. Panic shot my heart to my throat.
Papa stopped short, cheeks going bright red with splotches of purple.
We hadn’t finished walking down the aisle. This wasn’t how it was done!
“I’ve got her from here,” Liam commanded. He stepped beside me, canting his head to the side.
The melody of the wedding march played in the background, but time seemed to still.
Slowly, Liam grasped the bottom of my veil, lifting it over my head. “There you are, cailín.”