2. Cassandra
Cassandra
Bouquets of ivory roses, connected by streams of chiffon, line the aisle.
Glass luminaries create a path along the champagne-colored runner leading to a garland-accented altar.
Beyond the carved, wooden structure, a tall, stone archway frames a view of the sprawling Las Vegas Valley.
It’s beginning to hit twilight hour, and the lights of The Strip are illuminated.
Beyond the city, the surrounding mountains are shadowed by the orange-pink hues reflecting from the waning sun.
It’s everything a bride could dream of.
Amanda planned her wedding perfectly.
Settling in a chair, I cross my ankles, giving my feet a reprieve from my four-inch, strappy, silver Jimmy Choos.
The shoes are a necessity to pull off the image I’m expected to project as Dominic Tariello’s fiancée.
My knee bumps against the leg of my seven-month-pregnant best friend, Sadie, who’s dropped her jaw as she takes in our surroundings.
“I’ve never seen something so beautiful in my life,” she whispers, vision fixed on the Japanese wisteria hanging from beams above us.
“It’s like a fairy tale.” Her diamond earrings, shown off by the French twist she’s styled her long auburn hair in, glimmer in the candlelight as she shakes her head.
If we’re in a fairy tale, Sadie looks every part the courtier. Her gold wrap dress accentuates her growing belly, while a matching shimmering eyeshadow, purchased during our last trip to Sephora, makes her navy irises pop.
A bloom of warmth builds in my chest as I squeeze her hand. It wasn’t that long ago that Sadie was grappling with the idea of an unplanned pregnancy with her boyfriend, Lucas, a recently promoted associate in the Romano-Tariello organization.
Movement at the front of the room prompts me to turn and face the altar.
First to take his place is the priest, a man with graying hair, in a black suit with a clerical collar. He holds a book by his side, his gentle smile lines visible through his wire-frame glasses.
The next man to appear has the murmur of the crowd quieting to a dull whisper.
Marco Tariello stands tall, his muscular six-foot-four frame impossible to ignore.
Dominic’s brother, and the family’s head of security, is today’s groom, which has him attracting more attention than usual.
Marco has added product to his curly, cropped, brown hair, slicking it back.
In his tuxedo, with his boyish grin, he exudes a rakish, debonair aura.
He rocks on his heels as he glances down the aisle, where his bride will soon appear.
But it’s the man who follows Marco who has my pulse accelerating and heat rushing to my cheeks. Despite Marco’s right to have the crowd’s attention today, I notice that I’m not the only one enamored by his brother.
Dominic takes his place at Marco’s side, with the two having only a one-inch difference in height; they make the poor priest look petite. I catch my lip between my teeth as Dominic adjusts the cuffs of his sleeves before locking his hands in front of himself and facing the sea of guests.
Below his strong brow, Dominic’s brooding, hazel gaze scans the familiar faces of family, friends, and acquaintances.
His jaw ticks when he notices business associates he would rather not have invited.
When you’re the leader of the city’s most prominent organized crime family, certain niceties are expected.
So, Dominic’s friends from Miami flew in yesterday to join in the celebration.
His full lips purse as he continues his perusal.
I want to laugh out loud when my attention falls to his hair.
The espresso-colored locks are neatly tamed and styled.
It’s a look I don’t often see on him. Usually because I can’t keep my hands to myself and spend plenty of time running my fingers through the strands, creating a chaotic perfection of what one might refer to as sex hair.
It probably didn’t help that I created the exact look less than two hours ago when he had me pinned against the front door of our penthouse for one last rendezvous before we had to leave for pre-wedding festivities.
He mussed my long mahogany locks as well.
I had to find a curling iron in the bridal suite to fix the beachy waves.
Our eyes lock. The golds and greens dance in his irises as a smirk curls the side of his lips.
I can only imagine the thoughts running through his mind are as lascivious as mine.
He made it clear he was a fan of my formfitting, low-cut burgundy dress.
The diamond choker, connected to a chain and pendant that hang between my breasts, only highlights the sultry look.
I decorated my amber eyes with a smoky shadow, and my lipstick matches my dress. In Dominic’s words, I’m a temptation.
The music changes, the string quartet in the corner switching to Pachelbel’s Canon in D.
As a collective, the sea of guests twists toward the back of the terrace, where a set of wooden doors opens, and two flower girls begin their trek down the aisle.
We laugh as the sisters, nieces of Amanda’s, compete to see who can toss their collection of petals first.
Next, bridesmaids in copper gowns stroll by. They hold bouquets of white roses, tied with shimmering ribbons. The string quartet lifts in a crescendo, and hanging on the arm of her father, Amanda takes her place.
Her A-line princess-cut dress with a sweetheart neckline accentuates her voluptuous figure. A blush colors her skin, giving her a radiant glow. Atop her curled, blonde hair sits a tiara and veil. I shift on my stilettos, suddenly unsure that my wedding will ever live up to Amanda and Marcos’s.
Before the altar, Amanda’s father kisses her cheek and hands her to Marco, whose smile is as bright as The Strip behind them.
Tears prick at the corners of my eyes as the ceremony begins. I pull tissue from my pocketbook to discreetly wipe them away. My gaze flicks toward Dominic, and I wonder how I’ll even make it through my own ceremony without ruining my makeup.
Fifteen minutes later, as the final rays of sunlight reflect in the sky, Amanda and Marco are introduced as husband and wife.
Marco grabs her by the waist and gives her a kiss that has the priest shaking his head in disapproval.
When they break apart, wide grins stretch across their faces as Marco lifts their hands and hollers, “Hell yeah!”
Sadie and I look to each other, rolling our eyes while we laugh, and applause rings out around us. The bride and groom run off to celebrate, as the rest of us shuffle away from our seats, toward the lower terrace where they are holding the cocktail hour.
I follow behind Sadie as she hooks her arm through Lucas’s, and he steers her toward a broad, curving staircase.
His boyish charm enraptures my friend as a loving smile graces his features.
His dark eyes, nearly the same deep brown as his hair, fixate on her as if nothing else in the world matters.
I won’t be surprised if they’re the next in our social circle to announce an engagement.
As I reach for the railing of the staircase, warmth travels up my spine, causing me to shiver in pleasure. The scent of cologne—citrus and musk—envelops me before I feel a soft breath caress my cheek.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
Dominic places his hand possessively around my belly as he pulls me backward against his solid torso. I melt into him, thrilled at our connection.
“Do you think our wedding will be half as beautiful as this?” I ask, reveling in the kiss he places against my head.
He chuckles, his chest vibrating. “It will be this and more. Come on, there are a few people you need to meet.”
Linking his hand with mine, Dominic leads me down the stairs and into a spacious veranda set up with standing tables overlooking the greenery of the golf course. The wedding guests meander between the exterior space and a ballroom, the doors wide open, allowing traffic to flow.
Buffet tables full of gourmet hors d’oeuvres line one side of the veranda, while an open bar occupies the other.
At the bar, Dominic orders me a glass of champagne and himself a scotch. With drinks in hand, we mingle, starting our greetings with familiar faces.
Dominic first shakes hands with two of his higher-up security associates.
Lorenzo and Dante have been with the Romano-Tariello family for years; they’re loyal to the death.
It was Lorenzo who recently helped Marco recruit and train a new army of soldiers for the syndicate.
If anyone other than Dominic knows where bodies are hidden, these two would be some of the first to ask.
The men compliment my dress. Lorenzo tells me I look radiant before we move on.
Next, Dominic pulls me into a conversation with the wife of a Nevada state assemblyman.
Political allies are a must in Dominic’s world, so I smile widely and listen to her story about finding a babysitter for her two toddlers.
As Dominic wraps up the conversation, his hand settles on the small of my back.
He leans close as he steers me toward the ballroom.
“The next couple won’t be as welcoming,” he warns.
“Jorge Santos and I have a tumultuous partnership. We have one mutual goal, which keeps us allies, but our businesses differ greatly from there.”
Weary with Dominic’s warning, I straighten my spine and school my features as we approach a stout, middle-aged Cuban man and his wife.
She’s older than I am, but her designer dress is just as eye-catching as mine.
Judging by the tight pull of her skin and unnatural plumpness of her lips, she must have her plastic surgeon on speed dial.
“Jorge and Alegria, thank you for coming.” Dominic steps forward, shaking hands with the man and exchanging an air kiss with his wife.