Chapter 23
KARINA
I refuse to look in the mirror.
Sitting stiffly on the plush stool at the vanity, I focus on the gorgeous view out the window and the light breeze ruffling the curls around my face.
The stylist just left, after taking almost two hours to work on my hair and another on my skin care and makeup.
She made me approve her work when she was finished, and I did, briefly.
But the only thing I really noticed was the dullness of my eyes.
I’m sure she did an amazing job. My mother didn’t comment, though, nor did any of the women surrounding her in the room while I was being primped.
Some of their faces were vaguely familiar, but I don’t actually know who they are or why they were selected to gather in my bridal suite—I’m sure it was entirely political, though.
Funny. My mother was more focused on making them laugh and keeping full mimosas in their hands than on me, the bride.
I gather she’s still holding a grudge over my indiscretions with “Antonio.”
We’re in a picturesque old stone mill, creatively restyled as a wedding and event venue complete with private bridal and groom suites to prepare for the big day.
I’m on the fourth floor, so there’s no way I can try to sneak out of here without someone noticing right away.
The window is too high to jump out of, and even though I’m miserable, I don’t want to break every bone in my body or end up with a traumatic brain injury.
So I’ve had no choice but to sit here all morning contemplating my fate, silent and isolated among the happy chatter and gossip of the others, barely keeping it together.
No one asked me if I wanted a glass of champagne to settle my nerves, or offered to fix me a small plate of fruit or crackers and cheese from the lavish charcuterie board.
No one asked if I wanted anything at all.
Even the stylist worked by a preset list of do’s and don’ts, supplied by my mother, and never once inquired whether I had any preferences of my own.
Luckily, my mother left shortly after the stylist did, along with the rest of the entourage, to go greet the guests as they start to arrive for the ceremony.
It’s just me in this room now, dressed in a slip and light silk robe, waiting for the wedding planner to arrive and help me into my dress—something that should be my mother’s job, but apparently she isn’t interested.
A part of me wishes she’d stayed with me, that she was the kind of mother who would comfort me, reassure me, or better yet, get me out of this.
But she’s too complacent, just as obedient to my uncle as the rest of the family is.
No one dares step out of line. It’s not something I’ll be able to escape once I’m married, either.
Once Pietro’s family is bonded to mine, my uncle will have even more people to lord himself over.
Twining my fingers together, I study my beautifully polished French manicure.
Then I check the clock again, and my stomach drops.
It’s almost time. Any minute now, I’ll be forced into the poofy bejeweled monstrosity hanging from the back of the mirrored wardrobe in the corner.
Then I’ll be escorted downstairs, with two of my uncle’s security guards trailing behind me just in case.
Finally, my uncle will take my arm and guide me down the aisle and into my new cage.
He’ll give me away like the mere piece of meat I am.
My last lingering hopes of getting out of this are withering on the vine.
Mercutio was right. There’s no way out. I need to just suck it up. I hope I can get through the ceremony without crying.
As if on cue, my eyes start to sting with tears.
Cursing, I lunge for the box of tissues on the vanity so I can dab the corners of my eyes before my makeup gets ruined and the stylist has to come back in here and fix me up all over again.
You can do this, I tell myself. You just need to get through one minute at a time. It’ll all be over soon.
And then…my wedding night.
I haven’t seen Pietro since he showed up at the bridal shop unannounced and chose my dress, so I have no idea if my uncle ratted me out yet or not.
But if he did, this could be a night of punishment in more ways than one.
I’m also worried that Pietro might be so jealous of my dalliances, I’ll be on permanent lockdown for the duration of our married life together.
Guards, locked doors, surveillance cameras, a tracked phone.
It could be a total nightmare. He’s the one getting all the power with this marriage, after all. Not me. I’ll be nothing but a pet.
A possession.
Glancing at the dress again, I have the urge to spit on it. A simple veil hangs next to it. It’s opaque enough that no one will be able to see my face as I walk down the aisle. I wonder if that was my mother’s doing.
Or Pietro’s.
I wonder if Marco ever responded to the text my cousin sent. How did he feel when he read Mercutio’s message? Stay away from her. It’s done.
It’s done.
The door cracks open. I’m expecting the wedding planner, or one of my guards, but instead a girl in a uniform with the name of the venue stitched over the chest pocket leans inside.
“Apologies for the delay, Ms. Rossi. Someone will be in shortly to help with your dress. There’s been a small situation, but it’s being taken care of.”
I turn to face her. “Is everybody okay?”
My pulse quickens. Maybe my uncle had a heart attack and we’ll have to postpone.
Maybe a rival family showed up here thinking we’d be unguarded and unarmed (we’re neither) and we’ll have to postpone.
Maybe Pietro changed his mind when he found out I’d been seeing someone and called the whole thing off.
But she waves a hand as if it’s nothing. “Your guests are all fine. It seems the cake had a slight accident, so the groom is quite irate…anyway, his groomsmen are assisting with the situation. But don’t worry! Everything will be smoothed out in no time.”
Retreating, she pulls the door shut behind her with a slam, more than a little eager to get out of saying anything else. The cake had an accident? Uh-oh. Someone’s getting fired.
Unable to sit any longer, I pace the room. I find an abandoned full flute of champagne, so I grab it and swallow down half, then carry the glass with me to the arched windows—and jolt backwards as a dark head appears just below me. Someone’s climbing up here. Up the trellis!
My heart leaps. I lean forward and look down again. That’s when the person scaling the exterior wall glances up, and I find myself looking into a pair of familiar blue eyes.
Marco.
A delighted laugh bursts from my lips.
He smiles up at me and then returns to his task. The bi-fold windows are open just enough for him to reach over his head and push them wider apart. Then, with a grunt, he pulls himself up onto the thick stone ledge.
“Marco! Oh my God!”
I step back as he turns sideways and slips in through the open window.
He has a few leaves in his hair and a smear of something white and peach on his dark sleeve.
Jumping the short distance to the floor, he straightens up to his full height as if he owns the place, then smiles at me again, looking as triumphant as a champion who just won a bullfight.
“Told you I’d show up,” he says coolly.
Curious, I touch the white stuff on his sleeve. It’s a silky paste and smells sweet, like…
“You killed the cake?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “It was a mercy killing. And a good distraction to boot.”
My smile falters. “You can’t be here, Marco. There are guards everywhere. I can’t have you getting caught. The wedding planner is on her way to help me into my dress, and then—”
“Oh, but we’re leaving.” He takes my hand and tugs me toward the window.
Hope starts to blossom in my chest again. I want to feel this budding joy, the magic of this possibility, but—it’s too much. It can’t be true.
“What do you mean, we’re leaving? Where will we go? They’ll come after us.”
He cups my cheek, his eyes bright with mischief. “I figured it out, bella. You can’t marry someone else if you’re already married.”
My lips part but I can’t speak.
“Marry me, Karina Rossi. Say yes.”
I find my voice. “I—yes. Of course. Yes!”
Throwing my arms around his neck, I kiss him hard as joy bubbles in my chest.
He gently pushes me away. “We’ll celebrate later, mia amata ragazza. Now, we run.”
Nodding, I grab my shoes from the tote bag I brought and pull them onto my bare feet as fast as I can, then whip off the robe to keep my arms unencumbered. I rush back to the window, where Marco is keeping a lookout.
“The coast is clear. I’ll go first,” he tells me. “That way I can catch you if you fall.”
I nod.
Marco climbs out the window like he’s been doing this his entire life, using the massive trellis for hand- and footholds.
I’m nervous about the trellis being able to support our combined weight, but luckily, I’m not afraid of heights.
All those years of tree climbing once upon a time have made me a fairly steady climber.
Even still, I can’t help imagining the worst. That both of us plummet four stories to the ground and our love story ends like a tragic Renaissance novel.
Joy followed by impossible tragedy. My only saving grace is that I won’t be wearing that putrid wedding dress when they find my body.
“Karina!” Marco whisper-shouts from halfway down the wall.
I hesitate, and then remind myself that we could get caught any moment. This is my one chance to escape this wedding, and get everything I want. Nerves aren’t going to stop me.
Hell, nothing is going to stop me.
I slip out onto the ledge, crouch down, and turn my body to face the window.
Then I brace my palms on the ledge and drop one leg to the trellis below.
I find a foothold, test the trellis with my weight, and then drop my other leg down to start my descent.
Foothold, handhold, foothold, handhold. I climb like a machine, focusing on one movement at a time, while Marco whispers encouragements from below me.
The wood slats are thin, but years of growth mean the vines of ivy are tightly curled around the slats, reinforcing them.
Even still, I find myself holding my breath, fearful that the entire trellis will rip away from the wall at any moment.
I can’t believe it when I finally touch the ground, stumbling back into Marco’s arms. And I really can’t believe it when we hurry across the grounds to the car waiting behind the property, far from the valets and the staff, the security guards and guests, all the powerful men and wives who are gathered to witness my nuptials.
Marco pulls me in for a quick kiss and then whips open the passenger door, ushering me into the seat. As I buckle up, my mind conjures an image of Pietro and my uncle and his armed guards all running after us.
But I don’t look back.
My heart soars as Marco turns the key in the ignition and we speed away from what’s about to truly be the event of the season.
The Wedding with No Bride.