14. Polina
Polina
“Try not to feel overwhelmed by all the attention,” Dante murmurs against my ear, causing my nipples to tighten, and a rash of heat to rush through my body. “Everyone wants to meet the new wife of the Don.”
We enter the ballroom, and he guides me through the sea of expensive suits and designer gowns. Everyone is here to celebrate us. To celebrate our marriage.
I’m wearing emerald silk, a dress I chose myself. Dante's hand rests possessively on the small of my back, and for the first time in my life, I feel beautiful.
Dante introduces me to so many people—capos, soldiers, their wives.—and I’m surprised by the reception. I don’t know what I expected. Suspicion? Mistrust? Contempt? But everyone is beyond amiable and gracious, congratulating us and welcoming me with kindness and generosity.
We stop in front of a distinguished older man with silver hair and shrewd eyes. Beside him stands a woman in her late twenties. She’s beautiful with lush curves and cultivated poise. Her black dress clings to her gorgeous figure.
"Polina, this is Antonio Falcone and his daughter, Bianca."
"Congratulations on your marriage," Antonio says warmly, taking my hand. His grip is firm but respectful. "Dante is a lucky man."
"Thank you." I smile, genuinely. "That's very kind."
Bianca steps forward, smiling at Dante and completely ignoring me. Something in her smile makes my skin prickle. “Dante, congratulations.”
It’s obvious she doesn’t mean it.
Her hand lingers on Dante's arm as she speaks. Her fingers trail down his sleeve in a gesture that could be innocent but isn't.
“It's been far too long since we’ve…rendezvoused,” she purrs. “We should get together when you’re free.” Then she adds a suggestive wink for good measure.
The nerve of this hussy.
Dante's expression doesn't change. “I’ll pass on that, Bianca. My wife has dibs on all of my free time."
"Of course." Her eyes slide to me. "How lovely."
She doesn’t mean that either.
Fortunately, Dante steers us across the room, and more introductions follow.
But I'm acutely aware of Bianca's gaze following us across the room.
Names and faces blur together.
I smile through it all. I’ve been to plenty of parties and galas, but this one is different. This time, I'm not hiding bruises or breaks. This time, I’m protected and safe. This time, I'm Dante's wife, wearing a gown that makes me feel like a queen.
During a lull, I excuse myself to the ladies’ room.
It’s empty, and I study my reflection in the mirror. I’m not the same woman I was a week ago. I look more alive, there’s a trace of a smile curving the corners of my lips, and—
The door opens, and Bianca glides in.
She doesn't acknowledge me at first. Just checks her reflection, reapplies lipstick with slow, deliberate strokes. Then her eyes meet mine in the mirror.
"You know," she says conversationally, "Dante was supposed to marry me."
Ice floods my veins.
"We've been inseparable since we were children." She turns to face me, and her smile is all venom. “A perfect couple. Everyone said so."
I can't speak. Can't move.
"But then you came along." She steps closer, and I resist the urge to back away. “And suddenly Dante is forced to marry for political reasons. To keep the peace with the Bratva.”
Each word lands like a slap.
Bianca leans in, close enough that I can smell her perfume and see the cruelty in her eyes. “It’s awful how his position as Don forces him to make such sacrifices.”
My face remains impassive. I hold the mask—a lifetime of practice won't let it slip now—but inside, my demons rise.
My father's voice echoes in my head: You're worthless. You're nothing. No one will ever want you.
"Well." I force my voice to stay steady, even as my heart shatters. “We all make choices, I guess.”
I walk past her with my head high, my spine straight, and I don't let her see me shake until I'm safely in a stall with the door locked.