Chapter 7
7
SAMANTHA
T he last time I wore a dress was for Eliza’s wedding to Don Antonio, when I stood beside my cousin as her maid of honor. Eliza had all the taste and sophistication of a sheltered eighteen-year-old princess. My bridesmaid dress was the color of the Pepto-Bismol Eliza gulped straight from the bottle before the ceremony. It was made out of too-shiny satin, with puffy sleeves, ruffles around my neck, and a giant bow across my ass.
At least this time I have a choice.
After a desperate conference with Alix Key, my closest colleague at the freeport, I have half a dozen wedding gowns overnighted from a high-end New York boutique, Gallagher Samson. The saleswoman there actually listens to what I say when I place the order. There isn’t a ruffle or scrap of lace in the entire shipment.
So now I’m wearing a floor-length satin gown, sleeveless and shimmering white. It has a crew neck and a full pleated skirt, with a hidden zipper up the back. An attached crystal belt sits above my hips. Best of all: It has pockets.
Giovanna Canna had cousins and aunts and uncles who would sit on her side of the aisle. But Samantha Mott has almost no one—a handful of acquaintances from work, my neighbor Caleb and his husband, a few folks I’ve met at fundraising dinners for Dover charities. I texted the three people from my study group in law school, but none of them can make it on short notice.
I don’t blame them. No one has ever heard me mention the man I’m about to marry. Braiden and I haven’t dated. We don’t have a cute story about how we met. “He held my hair while I puked my guts out after my cousin’s psychopathic husband violated her in the worst way imaginable” isn’t the sort of story I want to share.
Instead, I tell people I met Braiden at work. He’s a client. We’ve known each other for a few years now. We only recently realized there was something more there, that we had something special.
Trap Prince, the founder of Diamond Freeport, is skeptical, but he’s agreed to walk me down the aisle. His fiancée, Alix, is my maid of honor. She’s wearing a stunning gown, also from Gallagher Samson, a deep sky-blue that reminds me of the morning a week ago, when Braiden proposed.
Standing in the church’s cold covered porch, we’ve watched several dozen men file into church, many with wives, some with children. They’re Braiden’s Fishtown Boys, and most of them seem surprised when they steal a look at me.
There’s a commotion at the door, some hissed angry words. I look up from my bouquet of white sweetheart roses—Alix insisted, same as she did with my elegant up-do, but at least the flowers aren’t pink.
Don Antonio is shouldering his way past a trio of Braiden’s men.
Antonio Russo is dressed all in black—suit, shirt, tie, and freshly shined leather shoes. I recognize most of the crew behind him—boys who lived near Gateshead when I was growing up, now men who walk the streets of East Falls like they’re gods.
Don Antonio holds up one manicured hand, and his men fall into place like soldiers of the Roman legion. “Giovanna,” he says. His eyes pare away my pretty dress like he’s trimming extra fat from a roast.
He steps forward, and a whiff of Acqua di Parma turns my stomach. I don’t say a word—I can’t—but Trap steps between us.
“You’ll want to take your seats,” he says, like he’s used to being an usher. “The service is about to start.”
I watch Don Antonio size him up, and I start to crane my neck, looking through the church doors, toward the altar, toward Braiden, already waiting with Father Brennan. But Don Antonio knows he’s on enemy territory today. He decides to take Trap’s hint and stalks into the chapel. He and his men take seats halfway down, on the left.
The bride’s side.
As if on cue, the organist finishes the prelude and launches into the processional. I told Braiden I didn’t care about the music, but he insisted this was my wedding; I had to choose. I’ve gone with Bach— Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring —because I like the orderly roll of the notes. They’re not too pretty, not too flowery. They don’t feel like an indulgence.
Alix leans in and whispers, “Courage.” Then she centers her simple bouquet of miniature white carnations and walks down the aisle, step by elegant step, head held high like she was born to do this.
When she’s standing on the left side of the altar, facing the congregation, Trap offers me his arm. “Ready?” he asks.
Am I?
I didn’t have a normal childhood. My parents died when I was ten. My Zia Sara lavished attention on her own children, on Elisabetta and Giorgia and Gianni, but she never had time for me.
My nanny, Bettina, was the only grown-up who spoke to me with love, but I didn’t dare invite her here today. Not after Don Antonio threatened her.
I glare at the back of Don Antonio’s head. He’s the reason I’m here. He’s the man who stole my future.
What else do you need, counselor?
I hear Braiden’s voice, only a week ago. I see his amused eyes in the elevator doors, not twenty-four hours before I agreed to this crazy marriage. I remember my sudden certainty that he was a man I wanted.
He’s been a good client. He saved Bettina Leone. And now he’s saving me.
I slip my hand through Trap’s waiting arm. “Ready,” I say.
It’s a wintry day, cold and dark outside, with clouds threatening fresh snow after last week’s blizzard. The church’s stained glass looks dark against the stone walls; there isn’t enough light outside to make the pictures clear.
The congregation rises as I walk down the aisle. I feel their eyes on my face, but I look ahead, at the dais in front of the altar.
Alix waits, ready to help me. Father Brennan looks tired but patient, his hair gray and his eyes a little bloodshot.
But my attention isn’t on my maid of honor or the priest who’s about to conduct the ceremony. It’s not on the best man, either, Braiden’s brother Madden.
I’m watching Braiden Kelly, Captain of the Fishtown Boys.
He’s wearing a good black suit, with a shirt so crisp it looks carved out of snow. His tie is a rich green, embellished with tiny Celtic knots that match the ring on my left hand.
His hair is short and his cheeks are freshly shaved and he looks like his picture should be printed in the dictionary next to “Black Irish.” With every step down the aisle, I can see the blue of his eyes, his sharp attention as he measures the bride he’s bought.
Because we both know what’s happening here. Braiden wants to best his rival. That means acquiring me, before Don Antonio gets the chance. All the organ music and sweetheart roses and wedding guests in the world won’t change that truth.
Trap and I reach the front of the church. He brushes a kiss against my cheek and moves to his seat in the first pew. Alix takes my bouquet, and Father Brennan says, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
My lips automatically form the response— amen —along with the rest of the congregation. I know the mass in my bones. Every cell in my body knows the service, when to stand and when to sit.
When Father Brennan delivers his homily his voice starts out shaky, as if he hasn’t spoken to a congregation in a long time. He gains confidence, though, after the first few words. From little details, it’s clear he knows Braiden well, knows his family here and in Ireland.
I should listen to the father’s message; I should focus on the sacrament of marriage. But I’m not an ordinary bride. I’m not getting married for the usual reasons. I pray that God understands why I’m doing this, how it’s the best possible option among a range of terrible choices.
Did Eliza feel this way when she married Antonio? Did she worry she was saying the words for the wrong reasons?
Father Brennan asks, “Have you come here to enter into marriage without coercion, freely and wholeheartedly?”
Braiden lies first. There’s no possibly way his whole heart is in this sham. “I have.”
That makes it easy for me to twist my own reply.
We promise to raise our children in the church. I look directly into Braiden’s eyes and promise to be faithful in good times and bad, in sickness and in health, to love him and honor him and cherish him all the days of my life.
We give each other rings. They’re plain gold bands, but Braiden insisted on engraving mine on the inside curve: Is liomsa tú. You are mine. I shiver as the new ring touches the gold signet I already wear.
Father Brennan tells us we can kiss.
This should be the easy part. I’ve kissed plenty of men before. I’ve done a lot more than that—Samantha Mott has never been bound by the strict rules that governed Giovanna Canna.
I certainly know what’s expected of both of us—nervous little laughs, shuffling our feet, a sweet close-mouthed peck before God and everyone.
That’s what I expect.
Braiden has a different plan.
His hand is warm on the back of my bare neck. Firm. Commanding. He pulls me forward with such confidence that I forget there’s a priest standing three feet away.
His lips are on mine, asking, and I answer without thinking. Our tongues touch, which heats the space between us, changing everything.
His fingers tighten, shifting my head to a better angle. I sigh at the new balance, and his lips curl against mine. His tongue moves deeper, spearing me, and a sly heat starts to melt my spine.
My fingers clutch his biceps for balance and he’s there for me, strong and stable. His palm settles against my lower back, scalding through the flimsy fabric of my dress. He presses me close to his clean white shirt.
I want more. I need more. But a tiny voice remembers to whisper inside my skull—not here, not yet.
Braiden’s teeth close over my lower lip, hard enough that my brain registers the pain. I open my eyes, and he’s gazing at me as he eases away. His stiff fingers frame me, sheltering me until I’m able to stand on my own.
I should be ashamed. Embarrassed. We’re the worst sort of exhibitionists, standing in front of the altar, in front of the priest.
But I lace my fingers between Braiden’s. I let him tighten his arm and pull me closer to his side. And we stand there together, husband and wife, for more prayers, more blessings. Father Brennan doesn’t offer us communion, which is fine because I haven’t been to confession in over a year.
“Go in peace—” the priest finally says, the start of his formal dismissal.
Before he can finish, a cell phone rings out, painfully loud in the stone church. Father Brennan scowls. He starts his closing prayer again, but another phone squawks an alert. Then another rings, and another, until the church is filled with wordless, echoing alarms.