Chapter 2
P aolina
“Oh, mia cara , how beautiful you are! Aldo will be so pleased. What a perfect match your father made for you! Smile. You should be excited on your wedding day, Paolina.”
Mamma’s voice floats over the rustle of tulle as she fluffs the skirt yet again.
She glances toward my open bedroom door, then turns back and whispers, “Unlike mine. Your father has always been a stern man. Thank God for his choice for you.” Her moss-green eyes—so like mine—soften as she makes the sign of the cross.
Lips touch pinched fingers; a prayer seals behind them.
I follow her lead out of habit more than such devoted faith .
On paper, this arranged marriage looks faultless. Aldo Buratti is handsome, connected, and eager to climb. That’s what Papà values—ambition that serves the Family. Me? I’m the dutiful daughter of a made-man, so I nod when I’m told and smile when I should.
The smile doesn’t reach my chest today. Something there feels tight and splintered.
Two months ago, Aldo proposed at our dining room table over cannoli Mamma made special.
Powdered sugar dusted his lips, and I remember thinking the sweetness didn’t belong to him.
My yes fell out anyway because Papà’s gaze pinned me to my chair.
Ever since, he’s controlled every detail, even the dress—a froth of tulle with puffed sleeves and a high neckline that turns me into a porcelain doll someone forgot to love.
Even my stockings and shoes shout child-bride more than woman, despite my being twenty.
Mamma fastens the last pearl button at my nape. “Perfect,” she sighs, stepping back to admire the version of me she helped create. “Cara will bring your bouquet when we arrive.”
Cara. My best friend since primary school. My maid of honor. The girl who knows the truest version of me—curvy, stubborn, soft in secret places, eyes full of stories I never quite say aloud. She’ll stand beside me and whisper jokes when my hands shake. The thought warms me, if only for a moment.
Papà’s tread sounds in the hall. The air changes the way rooms do when iron enters. He fills the doorway in his tailored suit, graying hair slicked back, jaw set like a verdict. “ è l’ora ,” he says. It’s time. The words leave no room for anything but obedience.
I lower my gaze and gather my skirts. “ Sì, Papà. ”
The chauffeured car waits at the base of our steps, polished to a mirror so crisp I could touch the reflection of this girl in white and ask her to run.
Instead, I slide inside, veil spilling over my lap like a small, captured cloud.
Catania passes in soft gray stone and sun-faded walls, saints tucked into niches, balconies sagging with geraniums. People step aside when we sweep through.
Everyone knows the Corsetti name; everyone smiles with the appropriate amount of teeth.
Santa Maria del Carmelo rises white and solemn from its square, bells tolling in measured beats that thud against my ribs.
The scent of beeswax and citrus blossoms greets us at the doors.
A few of Papà’s men bracket the entrance in black suits, expressions smooth as slate.
I step between them, Mamma on my arm, nods and murmurs pressing in from both sides as the church swallows us.
The bridal room is small and cool, with a crucifix centered on the wall as if to supervise. Mamma adjusts my veil again because she needs to do something. “Cara will be right back, tesoro . She went to find the florist about the ribbon on your bouquet.”
I nod. No words, or too many will pour out.
The murmured conversation of guests drifts through the door—clinks, footsteps, the velvet hush of ritual moving into position.
I stare at my reflection. Raven-dark hair coils in a heavy twist at my crown, anchored with pins that bite.
The heart-shaped face looking back shows pink cheeks and perfectly painted lips.
I look like a bride in a magazine. I feel like a girl beneath a wave.
“Just a minute to pray,” I say, and Mamma’s eyes mist. She squeezes my hands, grateful that piety still clings to me like lace.
“Of course.” She kisses my cheek. “I’ll check that the musicians are ready. Don’t be long.”
The hall beyond is hushed, carpet muffling my steps as I slip away. The confessional sits at the side of the nave, carved wood dark with age, a small red candle winking its one-eyed blessing. Kneel, speak, be absolved—simple steps I’ve known since childhood. Today I want quiet more than permission.
My fingers brush the curtain on the penitent’s side, but something halts me. A low sound leaks from within. Not murmured prayer. A breath. A sigh. Another sound follows—soft at first, then unmistakable, paced and damp with need.
Blood drains to my feet.
Carefully, I ease my veil back and test the priest’s door instead. It yields under my hand. The tiny chamber opens around me with its faint incense ghost and the rustle of fabric. I don’t mean to look. I don’t mean to see anything but shadow.
The shadows are full of bodies.
Aldo’s broad back fills the narrow space, tuxedo jacket rucked to his hips, trousers shoved low.
His hands bracket bare thighs wrapped in cream ribbon garters I recognize because we picked them together.
Cara’s head tips back, a waterfall of chestnut hair catching on the wood as she bites her lip around a swallowed moan.
One of her shoes dangles from a toe, bouncing in a rhythm that matches his thrusts.
I don’t make a sound, not even a gasp. That’s the most shocking part—this silence that grips my throat like a hand. Aldo’s profile flashes when he turns to mutter something filthy, and I memorize the curve of his grin because I will need it later when I don’t believe any of this was real.
Heat rises in my face. Not the heat that makes me dizzy when a man looks at my lush body like I’m a feast. This is scalding, chemical, a burn that strips skin bare.
Cara’s fingers slide down her own belly, over the lace of her panties wedged embarrassingly high. She laughs—breathy, triumphant. “Hurry. We have to go back.”
“After,” Aldo pants, voice low and rough. “After I remind you who you belong to.”
Belong. The word hits like a slap. For months I’ve been trying to sew that word onto myself like a patch—belong to Papà’s plans, belong to Aldo’s ambition, belong to a future that doesn’t care if I fit. My stomach lurches.
I reverse one slow step, then another, palms slick against the doorframe. The old wood complains with a whisper. Aldo stiffens. Cara’s eyes open, head turning toward the sound .
The door eases shut before her gaze finds mine.
For a second I lean into the wood, cheek pressed to splinters as if the confessional can confess for me. Knees want to give. Breath rasps in and out, too loud in this sanctuary where God watches everything and does nothing.
Get out. Now.
Veil gathered, skirts lifted just enough to keep from tripping, I slip along the side aisle toward the sacristy. A statue of the Madonna watches with a sorrow I finally understand. The world tilts. My feet keep moving because movement is the only thing that makes sense.
The sacristy door opens onto a surprised altar boy balancing a silver tray of cruets. He startles. I force my mouth to work. “Bathroom?” The single word scrapes my throat raw.
He points down a small corridor. “Second door, signorina.”
I nod and keep going, but I don’t stop at the bathroom. A side exit stands ajar, light knifing in, the smell of diesel and oranges riding the breeze. Beyond it, the courtyard bakes in the Sicilian sun. Doves hop along the wall. A cat sleeps in a rectangle of shade, tail twitching like a metronome.
The first sob tears loose then, loud in the quiet. I slap a hand over my mouth and taste salt and lipstick. Another sob shakes free. Then the flood comes, and my eyes burn, and I’m suddenly so tired of being an obedient daughter, a perfect fiancée, a proper anything .
Cara’s laugh echoes in my head. Aldo’s grunt follows, ugly and smug. The sound turns me hollow.
There’s a bench under a lemon tree, and I sink onto it because my legs refuse to hold me. Perfumed shade drapes over my shoulders. A bee fusses with a blossom. Life goes on even when yours splits down the middle.
A shadow falls across the stones. “Signorina?” The sacristan—round, white-haired, kind—stands in the doorway, concern knitting his brows. “Are you unwell? Should I fetch your mother?”
A lie jumps to my tongue. A truth claws from underneath.
“I—” The word shreds. I swallow hard, smooth the front of the dress with shaking palms. “I needed air. Per favore , no one yet. Just a minute.”
He studies my face, sees more than I want, and nods with grave delicacy. “ Un minuto ,” he agrees, and slips away, closing the door enough to make me feel hidden.
Birdsong fills the courtyard. I focus on the lemon’s skin, pores catching light, that faint oily gleam of zest. One breath. Then another. The sharp scent clears a little space in my head where thoughts can line up.
What do I do?
Aldo will be at the altar pretending he didn’t just—My throat closes around the verb. Cara will smooth her hair and paint on the same glossy loyalty she swore to me last night. Papà will make deals with his eyes while the priest talks about vows. Mamma will cry for a future that no longer exists .
The word future doesn’t sit right; it teeters and collapses. Everything inside me scrambles to fill the hole.
Running isn’t brave. Running is survival.
I stand. Lemon petals stick to my veil; I pluck them free and watch them drift down like tiny white confetti.
My hand finds the hidden zipper sewn into the side of the skirt for quick changes—something the seamstress suggested when Papà insisted on the layers.
I tug, tug again, then breathe easier when the bodice slackens and air returns to my lungs.
A knock taps on the sacristy door. “Paolina?” Mamma’s voice, careful and bright, the way she speaks to stray kittens. “ Tesoro , the procession is forming.”
My heart slams once. Twice. “Coming,” I call, and marvel that the word comes steady. My legs carry me back through the small corridor, veil gathered close as armor. The bathroom door gapes. I duck inside and lock it.
In the mirror, a stranger stares back—cheeks blotched, eyes rimmed, lips trembling.
I press cold water against my face with cupped hands, flinching at the shock, then pat dry with a towel too white for what I want to do with it.
My palm trembles over the tiny pearl buttons.
No time. No courage for that fight with a row of mother-of-pearl.
From the small window above the sink, I see the lane that runs along the church toward the piazza. A bar anchors the corner—La Sirena—blue awning fluttering, men clustered at high tables with espresso cups and little glasses of grappa. Life. Noise. An option that isn’t this.
Another knock. Papà this time, voice like a blade wrapped in velvet. “ Figlia. Adesso. ”
A lifetime fits into a heartbeat.
I unlock the door and step out. “One more moment,” I say, brushing past him before his hand can close on my arm. “Just to collect myself.”
He doesn’t follow, because men like my father don’t chase. They command. They expect the world to bend. Today, the world bends around me. Just this once.
The side exit yawns again, and I slip through like a shadow.
The sun strikes, blinding bright. Every bead on my veil catches fire.
Steps carry me across the courtyard, along the lane, toward the awning and the burst of voices.
A delivery scooter zips past, horn peeping.
No one notices the bride with tears drying on her cheeks because Sicily has seen stranger things than a girl deciding she won’t let anyone sacrifice her on an altar of convenience.
La Sirena hums with afternoon talk and the clink of glass. I hover at the threshold, breath hitching, pulse a drum solo. Heads turn. Conversations pause. The bartender glances up—olive skin, sleeve tattoos, smile quick and easy. He doesn’t stare. He just nods like brides wander in every day.
“Signorina?”
“Grappa,” I say, surprising myself, then amend, “No. Something sweet. ”
“ Amara e dolce. ” Bitter and sweet. He understands. A glass appears, amber liquid catching sunlight.
“On the house,” he adds, eyes kind. “ Auguri. ”
Congratulations. The word nearly undoes me.
My laugh is jagged. If only he knew. I lift the glass and drink anyway.
Warmth unfurls under my ribs. The sugar tells my brain I’m not dying. The bitter whispers the truth—I am changing.
“Cara!” a familiar voice trills from the corner near the window. My head whips before I can stop it. For one terrified instant I think she’s followed me, but it’s only a woman greeting her friend with the same name. My lungs restart.
I finish the drink. The room steadies. The mirror behind the bar reflects the door and the street beyond. If anyone comes looking, I’ll see them before they see me. For the first time today, I feel… not safe exactly, but possible. Like a different ending just opened and beckoned me through.
The bells begin again, tolling for a bride who won’t walk that aisle.
Aldo will notice, and Papà will seethe, and Mamma will cry, and Cara will pretend, but none of that belongs to me anymore. Not after what I saw in the priest’s dark box where sins are supposed to be cleaned, not committed.
I shake my head to clear the thoughts. The veil is heavy in my lap, damp with tears and citrus-scented air just as my dress—the monstrosity of white tulle Papà chose—billows around the stool like some kind of cage. A bride drinking alone? What a spectacle.
The door opens, sending a shaft of sunlight across the floor. I don’t look up right away, too busy choking back the next sob. But I hear it—the solid thud of boots, the hush that follows when someone powerful walks into a room.
Then I sense him before I see him.