Something Blue (REVENGE BRIDES: The Vece Familia Mafia)

1. Neve

CHAPTER ONE

Neve

I keep glancing over at the wall clock, with its pearl inlaid face and elegant silver hands ticking away the time. Second by second, my anxiety is growing worse.

I glance up at the mirror in front of me - looking past my reflection towards my best friend, Dalila Vece.

“Is there any sign of him yet?” I ask tensely.

“Not yet, but he’ll be here. He got held up somewhere.” She reassures me - for the hundredth time. She has been my best friend for years. Our families have been tangled together in a kind of weird way, but despite all of that, she and I got on like a house on fire from the first moment we met .

I adore her and if she wasn’t here right now, I’d be losing my mind.

“He’s always so careful about time.” I sigh.

It’s not like Damion to be late for anything.

Especially not our wedding.

The make-up artist and hair lady are fussing around me, making me look perfect . Everything has to be perfect, according to my father. The perfect dress, the perfect venue, perfect food and perfect decor - but nothing is perfect unless the groom shows up.

I shift on the dressing table chair and pull my mouth tight.

“Honey, you need to relax, or I can’t do your makeup.” The girl complains, speaking gently, but is definitely annoyed with me. I’ve been fidgeting the whole time. She’s had to fix make up splodges twice already. I can’t believe Damion isn’t here yet.

We’ve been engaged for about four months. It wasn’t really a choice - more of a convenience. My father requires that I marry someone with status, money, and power. All of which Damion’s family has. Upstanding citizens who will reflect well on my father.

And Damion and I get on well enough, I can deal with him as my husband. It’s also the perfect way for me to escape my father’s overbearing rules.

Rules about what I may wear. Rules about where I may go. Rules about how I speak and every single choice I make.

Being a politician’s daughter is not all it’s cut out to be. I’ve been made aware of the media my entire life. Hyper perfection is the only option. My father’s campaign is running smoothly at the moment - with the help of some dodgy investors - but the media rules our lives.

So, Damion was chosen to be my husband because he’s a good fit for the image our family needs.

But where the hell is he? It’s our wedding day.

“Dalila.” I turn around in my seat and the make-up artist sighs loudly. I wave her away from me, my annoyance trumping hers. She steps back and fidgets with her brushes to cover the redness of her cheeks .

“Neve?” Dalila says, smiling, trying to maintain a cool, positive outlook, although I am falling apart at the seams.

“Did you try calling him again?” I ask, standing up because I need to pace around.

“I’ve been calling, but his phone is off. Look - honey, he’s obviously stuck somewhere, he forgot to charge his phone, it’s probably something so silly - but he will be here. We need to get you ready. Ok?”

“And my brother? Did he go check Damion’s apartment?”

“He said he was going to send someone. He didn’t want to leave the wedding and causes suspicion.”

I sigh and close my eyes for a moment, fighting tears that will completely ruin the make-up that I really don’t want to sit for anymore. “Ok. Ok. Ok.” I say quietly.

Get ready - focus on that. By the time you’re done, he will be here.

I sit down and face the mirror again. My bright blue eyes are staring back at me - filled with concern. What if he got cold feet? Impossible . He knows this marriage is important. Not only to us - but to both families. He lives under the strain of the media just as much as I do. He wouldn’t cause a scene like this. No. Something has happened. I just hope it’s not serious, and he gets here on time.

The hairdresser pins the last glittering crystal into my curled, braided, pinned up hair and I turn my head to the side to admire the overall effect. It’s going to be an absolute nightmare to get that out before I go to bed, but my pale blonde hair looks gorgeous. She holds a mirror up behind me and I nod. The make-up artists touches a dash of gloss to my full caramel tinted lips, then they both step away from me.

“Thank goodness.” I huff when the girls announce my hair and make-up are done .

I stand up and hurry over to Dalila, who has unhooked my dress from the cupboard where it was hanging. She slides the hanger out from the high halter neck and drapes the dress over her arm. “You ready to tango yourself into this thing?” She laughs.

Trying on the dress was a nightmare. It’s so fitted around the bodice and up over my chest and they still tailored it even tighter to fit more snuggly against my body - it’s like a corset on steroids. But it is beautiful. Like ridiculously beautiful. Personally, I would have chosen a low-cut neck line, but my father wants pristine elegance, and apparently cleavage isn’t allowed. For a dress ‘within the rules’ I am super excited to wear this one.

I wish the excitement wasn’t tainted by so much stress.

I slide the white silk gown off my shoulders. The little ‘bride’ embroiled label with my name beneath it makes me frown. I catch a glimpse of myself in the long hotel room mirror. All white lace lingerie - looking super hot for my wedding night - but where is the groom?

“He’ll be here.” She says, noticing my face.

“I have a bad feeling.” I mutter, stepping into the dress while Dalila holds it open for me. She starts to tug it up over my hips while I do little hops and breathe in a lot until it’s up over my chest and she has hooked the halter section around my neck.

“Ok, now for the hard part.” She laughs, tugging at the braided cord that pulls it even tighter .

“Ugh.” I gasp and hold on to one of the bed posts.

“Breathe in.” She giggles, tugging again.

“I am breathing in.” I pack up laughing as she literally has to throw me around to get the dress on properly.

Fifteen minutes later we are both laughing and I’m gently dabbing perspiration off my forehead and hoping I haven’t messed up my make up - again.

“You are fucking gorgeous. ” Dalila says with a massive smile.

A knock at the hotel room door has us both turning towards it.

“Come in.” I say, hoping like hell that someone is here to tell me Damion has arrived.

My father walks into the room with Luke following close behind, head to toe dapper in their black tuxedos with pale olive green pocket squares. I didn’t choose olive green as my wedding accent color. The wedding planner did - she said it was the most appealing color for media coverage. Voted the top color on some social media poll. Whatever. Green it is .

“My angel, my sweetheart, you look absolutely perfect.” My father says, walking towards us with his arms out. There that word is again.

Perfect.

“Is Damion here?” I ask tensely.

Luke stands near the door looking like security instead of my brother.

“Don’t you even worry about it. He’ll be here.” My father says, but I can see how stressed he is. Not that there is ever a time when he isn’t stressed.

“Dad.” I complain, but he holds his hand in the air to cut me off.

“He’ll be here. You are going to carry on, do your part, and by the time the music plays, he will be here .” He says sternly. I nod tightly. I don’t have the same confidence. Something is wrong.

My father places his finger beneath my chin and turns my face from side to side to look at me.

“Perfect.” He says. “Now remember, keep your held high. Don’t look at the floor when you walk. Walk slowly and elegantly, no marching down the aisle. Speak clearly and loudly, but don’t shout when you say your vows. Always make sure your body is tilted towards a camera, like they showed you in PR training.”

“Dad.” I huff. “Please, I’m stressed enough as it is.”

He glares at me, and I bite my lip. No one talks back to my father. Especially not me.

“There will be a reporter sitting with a cameraman in the front row. That news site has exclusive rights to the first interview after the wedding, so always favor them when you face the crowd.” He says.

I nod.

I can’t believe that even on my wedding day, I don’t get to relax and enjoy it. Never mind the fact that my husband to be is a no show so far - I have to think about how I stand, how I walk, where I look - I can’t enjoy myself.

My father glances at his watch.

“It’s time. You can head down to the church.” He says coldly and walks away without another word of reassurance or even a sentimental father-daughter moment like I was hoping for. He gestures for my brother to follow him and quickly they are both gone.

I glance at Dalila and she can instantly see the tears burning at the back of my eyes. She steps forward and wraps her arms around me, hugging me, not disturbing any of my wedding-outfit-vibes.

“It’s going to be ok.” she whispers against my ear.

I love her. She’s amazing. I need her more than she knows.

It’s so strange how our families came to be acquainted.

Her family - dodgy Italian mafia ‘ business’ men - make very large contributions to my father’s political campaigns. Now I know, because I’m not a freaking moron, that they make these donations in order to gain control for their own family. Nothing without something in return. And my father benefits from the sizable contributions.

Dalila and I don’t care about any of that. We just get on. That’s all. Nothing else matters.

Her entire family is here at my wedding - waiting somewhere outside .

“Ready?” she asks, handing me a bunch of white lilies and giant monstera leaves.

A gorgeous bouquet for my gorgeous wedding.

I nod, clenching my jaw.

“Don’t forget to smile.” She says in a deep voice, mocking my father.

I giggle and smile a genuine smile.

Thank goodness for Dalila.

She walks with me towards the elevator and we ride down together. The church is in the hotel, a gorgeous, oversized, way too expensive package deal - all in one place for convenience. I guess when you have over a thousand people at your wedding, you don’t want to have to maneuver them from one venue to another. All in one makes sense.

The guests are busy moving from the pre-drinks and snacks room and into the church. Dalila tugs me to the side so no one sees my dress or me.

She grins and waves at people as they walk past while I hide behind the corner .

“Oh my word - I forgot my phone upstairs. I wanted to take photos.” She whines, pouting sadly.

“Run. You can make it. I won’t go anywhere, I promise.” I laugh.

“You sure?”

“Sure. Go.”

Dalila bolts off, her bridesmaid dress flowing out behind her. The olive green suites her tanned skinned and brings out her bright green eyes. Her hair used to be blonde, dyed to annoy her father, but it’s dark now, pinned up and looking gorgeous.

I watch her until she’s out of sight. I sigh and lean against the wall, still hiding.

I hear people chatting as they walk past. Most of them asking where the groom is.

My heart tightens and my stomach knots.

“Dalila should bring her down any second.” Masaccio remarks. I recognize his voice anywhere. Dalila’s oldest brother. Celso huffs in response. A bitter sort of laugh that makes my skin tingle with a warning. “Not much of a wedding without the groom.” Celso remarks with amusement in his voice.

I peek around the corner and watch them. Masaccio turns to Celso. His eyes are dark with distrust. “What did you do, Celso?” he whispers, a dark, hushed accusation.

“Nothing.” Celso says loudly, lifting his hands in the air in defense and smiling broadly.

Celso is the youngest of Dalila’s brothers. At twenty-nine, he is only six years older than I am. And he’s fucking hot. Like super fucking hot. But totally off limits. Dalila made me swear on more than one occasion to never get involved with any of her brothers because it might ruin our friendship. I’ve respected that, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t perved Celso on more than one occasion.

The problem is - he’s dangerous.

I can see it a mile away. He’s unpredictable, always gets his own way - and never has to take responsibility for any of the things he does. And he does some pretty fucked up shit.

His father always covers for him .

And now Masaccio is questioning him about what he did to cause Damion to be late for his own wedding.

My stomach churns. Was Celso involved?

My heart rate increases and a dizzy wave of nausea rushes through me.

Surely not - why would he do something to mess up my wedding? What would he have to gain from that?

Maybe just pleasure - at someone else’s suffering? He is that twisted.

“Hey, I’m back.” Dalila says, a little out of breath. These stilettos are not made for running. She laughs, clutching her phone in her hand. “Oh my goodness, you are so pale. What happened?” She asks, worried.

I shake my head. “It’s ok. Just nerves.”