Chapter 3
Besiana
It comes out of the box blindingly white, layers of satin and lace that spill across the carpet. It’s heavy and awkward to step into.
My breath comes short as one stranger pulls the corset tight around my waist, and another zips the back. The mirrors show an expensive mistake. A wedding gown I didn’t choose.
Three women orbit around me. One with dark-brown curls, one sleek and elegant, and one with wide hazel eyes and a curly blond mane.
I recognize them from the photos in Domenico’s file, the one Baba gave me as an engagement present.
Domenico’s sister, his sister-in-law, and somebody named Juliet Price whose relationship to the family I don’t recall.
Their light touches make me flinch. The last time I had family in the room for a dress fitting, I was nine years old.
“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” Juliet says. A sweet voice, but it cuts like glass. I can’t even look at her.
“It should be,” I answer. “It cost enough.”
“The wedding will be at a cathedral,” Juliet says like that is supposed to excite me. As if that’s not where you go to bury people. I close my eyes. I have to be strong.
The room is an explosion of fabrics and lace. The three women talk over each other, filling the air with congratulations, but all I hear is the Rosetti in their voices. Their words fall like stones in my lap.
“The rush is worth it—wait till you see the look on Dom’s face!”
“Oh my God, this is the best wedding ever!”
“The best bride ever!”
I count their touches, each pin that bites through the dress. Five. Six. More. I lose track. I have months’ worth of fittings in half an hour. This family does nothing gently.
They swarm around me, pulling, adjusting.
“Wow, you’re shaking! Are you nervous?”
“Bet she’s scared Dom won’t be able to keep his hands off her!”
They giggle and trade glances, oblivious.
My pulse roars in my ears, drowning them out.
What I am is a Dushku. They think they’re being cute, clever.
But to me, they’re guns with silencers, explosions with the volume turned down.
I brace myself for what I know comes next.
I’ve been sold to a mafia family, after all.
They’re pretending now, but they’ll show their true faces soon enough. Their warmth will be temporary.
I don’t even know who they are, not really.
It doesn’t matter. They’re Rosettis. Every cell in my body tells me not to trust them, but my family has an agreement to uphold.
My father’s orders. They think they have something to celebrate, but they’re not the ones being traded for information.
I bite down on my lip and hold back tears.
I’ve been trained for this. I must not cry.
“Hey,” the one with brown curls says. She’s the sister. Carmela, that’s her name. Her voice is softer, closer. She’s standing right in front of me. “I know this must all be a bit much. But we’re family now. That’s what matters.”
Her touch is gentle as she tucks a stray strand of hair back into place. I don’t flinch this time, but only because I see it coming.
The youngest one, Juliet, looks like she might cry herself. She clasps her hands together and beams at me, nervously.
“Are you so excited? You look, like, a million dollars!”
“We went way over budget, so she better,” Eleanor says, pinning an orchid in my hair.
She’s the sister-in-law. She was forced to marry the Rosettis too, so perhaps I’ll find an ally in her, although she seems like one of them from what I can see.
This is supposed to be the biggest day of my life, and I feel like I’m standing outside it, watching someone else.
The wedding will be in a cathedral. Dom is the heir, the oldest. That’s where the oldest son is married, they say, like I should be thrilled.
Or flattered. Their excitement bounces off me.
When they stop for breath, I find my voice. Distant, cool. “I’m sure it will be wonderful.”
They grin at me, and I smile back, serene as ever.
The walls press in around me, crowded with strangers, suffocating. I can’t catch my breath.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Carmela, again, reaching to brush my cheek.
“Of course,” I say, steady this time. No cracks. “Just getting used to all of this.” All of you, I want to add, but that sounds too desperate.
“Don’t worry,” Eleanor says, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “I was in your shoes once, and it all worked out just fine. You’ll get used to us in no time.”
That’s what I’m afraid of. I don’t want to get used to them.
“We have to go,” Eleanor says, glancing at her watch. She gives me a quick smile. “No late brides, especially not in our family.”
I hear the Our. It’s bigger than the room.
They slip me into heels like stilts and bundle me into a coat of white fur. Besiana Dushku, no more. In this dress, in this family, I’m someone else entirely. They walk me down the stairs to a waiting car. The driver opens the door with a nod.
“You’ll be fine,” Eleanor says, helping me in.
“You’ll be amazing,” Carmela adds.
The car pulls away. It’s silent, a space free of Rosettis, and I lean back against the seat and let out a breath.
Lights blur past the windows, smearing the streets like paint. It’s late October, but it feels colder than that. This is New York, but it might as well be the moon.
Does Domenico want this marriage? Did he demand it? Demand me? He is another Baba. Unforgiving, cold, dangerous. I imagine him with his arms crossed. I imagine him and wish I wouldn’t.
I run my tongue over my lips and taste fear, but I’m getting used to it. I let the steady hum of the road sink into my bones.
I will be strong. There are worse things than being owned. The Rosettis may soon own my body, but they will never own my soul. I will bide my time and strike when I can.
The car slows and turns, comes to a gentle stop. The door opens, and a hand reaches for mine. I swallow, hard.
“Are you ready?” a voice asks, and I nod. The driver gives me a reassuring look, but I don’t buy it.
I step out, back straight. Dushkus don’t hunch. The cathedral rises in front of me like a challenge. I accept it, reluctantly. It’s not like I have a choice.
Gold leaf and candlelight fill the cathedral, but there’s no warmth.
No joy. Just an endless line of petals down the aisle and a bride who walks like she’s going to war.
My father knows the meaning of power. This place screams it with every inch of frescoed ceiling.
Domenico understands power, too. It shows in his stance and his expression.
It shows in the Rosetti men, armed and unmoving, lining the edges like sentinels.
We’re in the tallest cathedral I’ve ever seen.
Domenico is the heir. The oldest son. He gets the wedding beneath the hundred-foot ceiling.
His family is in every pew, as far as I can see.
Like it’s a contest of who can love him more.
Cousins, aunts, uncles, friends. Their faces are too bright. Too warm. It’s blinding.
It’s not like that on my side. Well, I don’t have a side, really.
Just associates, as many as Baba sent me.
The Dushku cartel isn’t family, just a collection of colleagues.
They fill the pews like we’re seating a small army, wearing suits instead of smiles.
I recognize a few faces, but none of them are friends.
Baba isn’t here because of course he isn’t. He explained that he didn’t want to risk it, being the head of our cartel, but it feels like he’s making a point: I’m not worth it.
I glance at Domenico at the altar. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smile. Just watches me with those sharp, unforgiving eyes. He’s clean and smooth and perfect as a polished diamond. If he’s excited about gaining a bride, it doesn’t show.
A Rosetti infant gurgles, the loudest sound in the world. My breath catches, and I stumble. Dushkus don’t stumble. The weight of the dress pulls me down, but I will myself not to fall. I will myself not to cry. Not here. Not now.
The organ is a drumbeat, a dirge disguised as wedding music. Some Dushku associate grips my arm, too tight, like he’s worried I’ll bolt. The bouquet is cold under my fingers, and I have to deliberately loosen my grip so I don’t snap the stems.
I reach the altar, more trapped than ever. The organ swells, louder now, then the music stops, and my world comes to a halt with it. The associate lets me go, and I feel the loss more than I thought I would. He looks at me as if to say good luck. I need it.
Domenico Rosetti stands tall and unmoving at the altar. He wears a perfect suit, probably a Brioni, with crisp white at the collar and cuffs. He watches me with a gaze so appraising, so calculated, I’m sure he sized me up from across the room and has already decided I’m not enough.
I know that look, that stare, that arrogance. It’s like getting slapped with a ledger. Makes you feel small, like a number waiting to be crossed off. I’ve seen that look on Baba’s face a thousand times, and it always means the same thing: you’re the one who needs me, not the other way around.
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. Their features are nothing alike, but he looks exactly like my father.
Domenico stands close, and I focus on breathing while the priest begins to talk.
The ceremony is brief. I expected as much. What can you say about a marriage of convenience? No romance, no warmth. Just a symbolic transfer of assets. The sound of pens signing and contracts fulfilled. I bite my lip as the priest drones on.
“For better or worse,” he says, looking at us in turns.
I know which I’ll get. My lips move around the words, the vows sounding hollow in this vast space.
Domenico says his vows in a cold, sure voice of absolute indifference. His tone is deep, gravelly, and utterly bored.
The priest nods as if he approves of the merger. “You may kiss the bride.”
Domenico closes the distance between us, taking a step closer.
The world holds its breath, waiting. A moment that should shimmer with heat is empty and cold.
His family all seem suspended, their eyes trained on us.
I keep my gaze on Domenico. My future. My enemy.
I don’t flinch, but it is almost impossible to hold my position.
He leans in, and our lips brush, light as air, hardly a touch at all. His body doesn’t graze mine. His hands don’t even reach for me. The only parts of us that make contact are our lips, and his are cold and reptilian. The crowd murmurs like a distant ocean.
When the time comes, I sign my name with hands that barely shake.
The Rosettis file out, chattering like the church is theirs. It is. I hear the words Amazing, lucky, love. They must mean someone else.
Then, he’s gone. Domenico disappears into the throng of Rosettis without sparing me a single word.