Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
GIA
I'm sorry, what?
The word is still bouncing around my skull when my father releases my arm and steps back, smooth and unbothered, like he just handed over a coat at a restaurant instead of his daughter's entire life.
He leaves me there.
Standing beside Rafael Caruso.
At the altar.
And then the priest starts speaking.
"No."
The word comes out before I even decide to say it. It hits the stone walls, the high ceiling and ricochets back to me in the sudden, suffocating silence of three hundred witnesses.
I don’t fucking care.
"No." I repeat, stepping back from the altar, my heels sharp against the stone. "Absolutely not. This is not happening!”
My father immediately returns to my side, grabbing my arm. "Gia, do not—"
"Don't!" I yank against his grip and something in my chest has snapped clean, something that had been holding for the entire drive and the whole walk down this aisle and it is gone now.
“You do not get to do this. You dragged me to a church in the middle of nowhere without telling me a single thing and you expect me to just stand here and —"
"You will lower your voice, Gia."
"I will not lower my voice." I turn to face him fully. My hands are shaking. I can feel it. "You are literally selling me to a man I don’t know. Without telling me. So no, I will not lower my voice, I will not comport myself appropriately, and you will have a scene."
The church is absolutely silent.
Three hundred people look like they’re holding their breath.
My father's face goes cold, internal calculation behind his eyes, and I hold his gaze because I am so angry right now that I cannot feel scared.
How dare he do this to me, again?!
Then he takes a breath.
"Are you sure? Think about your sister."
I go still. He wouldn’t…
I look back before I can stop myself. Back down the aisle, to the pew near the rear of the church where Laura was guided minutes ago.
She's standing now. On her feet, small and rigid between the two women in dark dresses, her eyes locked onto me across the length of the church.
Even from here I can see the panic in her face, the way her hands are gripped together in front of her.
My chest cracks open.
No. Not her. She has nothing to do with this —
I make myself breathe.
I look at Laura and I hold her gaze and I smile again, reassuring her with my eyes.
It takes a moment. Then her shoulders drop half an inch and she sits.
I turn back to the altar.
The anger is still there. It doesn't go anywhere. It just folds itself down into something flat, cold and patient that sits in the bottom of my chest and waits. I am aware that this is probably not what my YouTube therapist would call healthy processing, but she is not here and I am.
I walk back to the altar because what else can I do?
Movement beside me. Rafael shifts his weight and turns slightly toward the priest.
The priest opens his mouth.
"A moment, Father."
The priest slams his mouth shut for the second time.
Rafael turns to my father. “Salvatore. Now."
The words are delivered with the complete certainty of someone who has never had to wonder whether they'll be obeyed.
The church goes so still I can hear my own breathing.
And my father walks over.
What. The. Hell?
I watch this happen. I watch Salvatore De Luca, who built an empire on making other men small, cross the floor of this church because Rafael Caruso said so.
Since when does my father do what anyone tells him?!
They step to the side but they’re still close enough that I can actually hear them.
"She didn't know?" Rafael's voice is flat. "Your daughter had no idea this was her fucking wedding?”
"That's not your concern."
"Like hell it isn't. I won't marry someone who didn’t even know she was being married off."
"She’s not against the wedding." My father's voice drops. “This is important for this alliance and you know that as well as her, Mr. Caruso.”
Silence.
Then Rafael leans closer and says something too low for me to catch. Whatever it is, it is brief. And when they turn back around, my father's expression has done something I have never seen it do in fifty eight years of hard living.
It has gone careful.
Which in my father’s world is very close to fear. He returns to the front pew without another word.
Rafael comes to stand beside me.
His jaw is tight. Shoulders locked. He is angry, genuinely angry, and that alone is disorienting because men in this world do not get angry on behalf of the woman. They get angry about the deal, the optics, the inconvenience. Not this.
I don’t even know what to think.
He turns and looks directly at me, green eyes staring deep into my soul. "Do you want me to stop this?”
Yes. God, yes, obviously yes!
Every functioning part of me is screaming yes.
"You're supposed to be my bride." He tilts his head to watch me.
"Which means you can tell me what you want right now and no one in this building has a say in that.
" A glance toward the pew where my father sits.
Then back to me. "So answer me honestly, Little Gia. Do you want me to stop this wedding?"
Little— Little?! I bristle.
I glare up at him.
Say yes. Gia, for the love of everything, say yes.
"If I say yes," I bite. "What happens to my sister."
Something flashes across his eyes.
"That's not a yes," he grunts.
"No. It's not."
He steps close enough that I have to tilt my chin up to hold his gaze, close enough that I catch his cologne again before I can stop myself.
God, he smells so good, I want to push my nose into his neck and inhale deep.
"Then understand what you're agreeing to," he says, quiet and even and completely serious. "Not a marriage on paper. Not separate rooms and polite distance. You become mine. Fully." His eyes don't move from mine. "Do you understand what that means for a man like me, Little Gia?"
Oh, if he calls me little one more time, I’m going to jail and my YouTube therapist is getting sued.
"Stop calling me little.” I snap and he just blinks, a small twitch at the side of his lips as if waiting for my answer.
“Are you trying to talk me out of this?" I frown at him.
"I'm making sure you know what you're walking into." A pause. "So, tell me, Little… Gia."
Fucking bastard.
I hold his gaze. I think about Laura sitting back down in that pew. I think about my father's face when he threatened me and the complete absence of any option that doesn't end with her getting hurt.
"I know what I'm walking into," I say.
He looks at me for one more beat.
"Tell the priest," he nods toward the man.
I turn. "We can proceed, Father."
The elderly man looks between us one more time and clears his throat before picks up where he left off.
The ceremony begins.
I hear my own voice saying the words from somewhere slightly outside my body, which has decided that a full dissociative response is the most reasonable thing it can do right now and honestly, I agree with it completely.
My YouTube therapist did an entire video on this.
Dissociation as a trauma response. She said to try to stay grounded when it happens, find something physical to focus on, breathe into the present moment.
She did not account for this specific situation. I will be leaving a strongly worded comment on her channel at my earliest convenience.
Vows are spoken. I hear them leaving my mouth. Rafael's responses are even and unhurried, like he has decided to treat the whole thing as a formality to get through.
The ring comes.
I watch it happen from a slight distance, this gold band sliding onto my finger, cold at first and then warming against my skin. Heavy and uncomfortable.
Then the priest says the words. The ones about kissing the bride.
Rafael turns to look at me again and every dissociated, floating part of me slams back into my body all at once.
Oh! Shit! I forgot this part existed! Shit! Shit! Shit!
His hand doesn't go to my face. It goes to my jaw first, thumb beneath my chin tilting it up, and then his fingers slide to my throat.
A little gasp leaves my lips at that.
Strong, rough hands wrap around my throat, and squeeze. The pressure is light enough to breathe through but firm enough that I can't think about a single other thing in the world.
Oh lord.
His eyes drop to my mouth. Then back up. Then his lips meet mine.
I think my spirit leaves my body at some point.
His mouth moves against mine like he has all the time in the world and the rest of the room can wait, the hand at my throat squeezes once, just slightly, and I feel it light up every nerve from my jaw to my collarbone, straight down my spine.
It flows down my core, into my panties, hot, wet, throbbing.
Aching. What in the world is going on?
This is a performance, I am enduring it and I will stand here completely locked down until it is over.
The sound that comes out of my mouth is small, completely involuntary and it goes directly into his mouth.
Shit.
He freezes for a second at that, growls and deepens the kiss.
I am dimly aware that I am kissing him back, aware that my hands have found the lapel of his jacket, aware that this is happening in front of three hundred people and I cannot make myself stop, and then finally, slowly, he pulls back.
He looks at me.
I gape at him, breathing hard.
My face is burning. My throat is still wrapped in the warmth of his grip. There is something in my chest that is not fear and not relief and I am absolutely not going to name it or look at it or acknowledge it in any way whatsoever.
I need a real therapist.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the priest announces, voice slightly unsteady, bringing me out of my thoughts. "Mr. and Mrs. Caruso."
Applause fills the church.
I stand there with gold on my finger and the warmth of his hand still sitting on my throat and the absolute certain knowledge that I have no idea what I just agreed to.
And just like that, I'm married to a stranger.
Again.