7. Luna
“Ouch,” I mutter under my breath. The hairstylist pulls at the bedhead I woke up with. Not caring at all to be gentle.
It came too soon, this day. The day I’ve been dreading.
When I opened my eyes this morning, light filtered into my room, warm and enticing—I reveled in it. That is, until a pounding on my door startled me, and my mother’s voice disrupted my peace.
I rub my clammy hands across my robe. No amount of water has been able to quench my dry mouth. The manicure my mother required I get distracts my attention from the propped mirror in front of me. The French tips are so disturbingly traditional for a wedding that it makes me sick to my stomach. Black would feel more appropriate right now.
“Stop that,” my mother reprimands through gritted teeth.
Her gaze is snagged on my bouncing knee. I slap my hand over it, willing it to stop.
Giulia comes into the parlor with drinks for everyone and sets the tray down on the coffee table. All the grooming is to take place here today. Under the watchful eye of my mother.
Champagne finds its way to her mouth, and I almost snort.
The parlor is right off the front doors of the house, and its large windows display the front yard. Flower beds and meticulously arranged shrubs texture the manicured landscape. Mature trees line the driveway, all the way from the road to the circular driveway that pulls under the porte cochere. Movement outside the window catches my attention, and the solid white oak doors creak open, giving her away.
My sister barrels into the room, last night’s clothes still plastered to her body. My mother’s gaze travels over her scandalous outfit before she flicks her hand toward the stairs.
“Isabella, shower and get down here for hair and makeup.”
My sister doesn’t hesitate. She bolts. I flinch when the door to her room slams shut and echoes along the walls of the house.
The hairstylist teases the top half of my hair, pulling it back and clipping it high. She curls the bottom half, and I’m thankful I get to wear at least some of it down. The makeup artist comes in next, touching up my face and attacking the under-eye circles that give away I haven’t been sleeping.
Different stages of grief have hit me over the past couple of weeks. Right now, I’m stewing beneath this face of makeup. Though, at this point, it’s a bit late for my anger to be manifesting.
My heart starts to pound when my mother comes to stand behind me. She surveys my done-up face and perfectly styled hair, then dares to grin. I meet her eyes, offering a flat, torn-down look of my own. She places a hand on each of my shoulders.
“You look beautiful, Luna,” she says.
I can’t help the contempt from festering deep in my chest and my expression turns hard in the mirror. Tears or pleas won’t work on my mother. They never have.
“Please don’t!” I scream at my father as he hunts in the gun cabinet for a weapon fit for a traitor’s death. My father’s rage is thrown into every movement, while my mother just sits there. Quiet under the soft glow of his office lights.
“I love him!”
“No. You do not. He was assigned to this house, to my family, to guard my daughters—not screw them.”
“Papá, please. I’ll end it. We won’t see each other anymore!” Fear grips my stomach. I feel like I’m going to retch.
“I know you won’t see him anymore. This is not about you, Luna. It’s about my men, loyal to the Cosa Nostra—they know better. Do you think you’re the only one? He’s out at our restaurants every other weekend. Trust me, you are not the only one. He will not play this family for fools.”
My heart breaks with each of his words, with what he’s saying. But I need to save Alessio’s life.
“Mom, please. Tell him. I won’t survive this,” I plead.
She lets out a sigh and pushes to stand.
“Please, Mom!”
She moves in front of me. I’m encouraged by the empathetic look in her eyes, but then it shatters.
The sting across my cheek comes as a surprise. She has never raised her hand to me before.
“You are a fool,” she says, and I let out a sob. “You are ruined for this family. What man will want you now?”
Her shoulders roll back, and she lifts her chin to my father. After giving him a clipped nod, she turns on her heel and leaves.
The memory fades away and I divert my eyes from my mother, dropping them to my lap, and wring my hands together. Her body heat lingers behind me for another moment, then it vanishes. When her voice rings out in the hall, I wince.
“Isabella, it’s your turn. Let’s go.”
The ride to the church is quiet. It’s only my father, mother, and sister in the limo with me. Some of our staff follow in cars behind us, escorting our family to the ceremony.
Towering in its presence, this church was the one I grew up going to. The entire exterior is adorned with decorative elements full of intricate details. Ornate stone carvings and stained glass windows depict saints’ lives.
The limo pulls up to the entrance—massive wooden doors with more detailed metalwork and religious symbols. The parking lot is empty, and most of the guests from both organizations will be arriving within the next hour.
My stomach dips, and I bring my hand to my mouth, trying to keep the nausea at bay.
My father gets out first. He extends his hand to my mother, then my sister, and eventually me. The strong hands I remember as a kid are shaking and unsteady. My eyes float to his, and he offers a less than worthy smile.
Entering the church takes my breath away, as it always has. The high, vaulted ceiling rises to meet grand arches. Light streams in through the painted windows, the colors dancing along the walls and floors.
I peek into the sanctuary. The wedding planner and her staff are still hard at work seeing to the last details. Cool marble embellishes the altar, where candelabrasflicker, and where the crucifix stands as the central focus. White hydrangeas have exploded all over the wooden pews that stretch down the aisle and I gasp, the acoustics carrying my reaction to the wedding planner. She turns to see me and gives me a sweet wave I can’t seem to make myself return.
A pull on my wrist has me startling, and I look behind me. “Mom wants you back here to get changed,” my sister says, dragging me down the hallway. “Guests will start coming in soon.”
She’s dressed in a soft, flowy pink chiffon dress that hovers above her knees. Typically, her wardrobe choices are vibrant and less modest. She catches me staring.
“What?”
“Nothing. You look nice,” I tell her, and she rolls her eyes.
“I’m not the one getting married, so it doesn’t matter, does it?”
I can’t do the verbal sparring today. Her face falls, no doubt noticing my somber expression, and she gives my hand a quick squeeze. I offer a light smile in return.
We’re getting ready in one of the church’s large conference rooms. Both the hairstylist and makeup artist are here for touch-ups. Several of our female staff are doing last-minute presses to my dress, and my mother is running around like a mad woman.
Honestly, it’s confusing.
Does she not understand this isn’t a real wedding?
I strip from my white, oversized button-up and leggings and step into the dress. Giulia works to do up the back.
“Suck it in, Luna,” my mom’s voice sounds from behind me, and I appease her on instinct, sucking in my empty stomach as the last of the zipper is pulled up. Both she and Giulia spread the bottom of the dress out around me, and my sister pins the veil into my hair.
A knock reverberates on the door, and my father enters, his eyes doing a double take on me before he addresses my mother.
“They’re here.”
A shiver runs down my spine and suddenly I’m breathless, my heart pounding. Knowing my soon-to-be husband is just outside this toothpick of a door—I cringe. My life is about to change forever, and my mind is currently playing Russian Roulette with which emotion is going to kick me in the stomach.
Fear, rage, bitterness, another healthy dose of fear. It’s a carousel I can’t get off. My heart squeezes with every glimpse of myself I catch in the mirror, and each mention about starting soon from my mother.
“I’m stationing two guards in here and there will be two in front of the door,” my father says. As if on cue, the door opens, and two men with guns strut in, offering a respectful nod to my mother.
Voices boom in the hallway, and I can’t help but wonder if one of them is his. I swallow the knot in my throat and reach for a glass of water, my hands shaking so hard the liquid splashes over the side. Giulia takes pity on me and grasps my hands in hers.
“Deep breaths, Luna. You will be okay, sweet girl.”
Tears prickle behind my eyes at her words and I want to ask how she can be so sure.
Uncertainty whittles its way into my churning gut. What if he kills me? What if this is all a way to get to my family and my father? I resent my father for what he’s making me do, for what he’s done to my soul. Keeping me hidden away for the sole purpose of serving the Cosa Nostra. But regardless of my family’s twisted motives, I don’t wish them dead.
Setting down the water, I take one last peek in the mirror. Glassy eyes stare back at me. I stiffen and squeeze my eyes shut, taking deep breaths—shoot, I’m going to throw up. Moving the back of my hand to cover my mouth, I press hard against my lips, dizziness causing my body to sway.
“It’s time,” my mother barks.