Chapter Four #3
“Why are you being so nice all of a sudden?” I counter, eyeing him suspiciously. “I don’t need a pity fuck if that’s what you’re hinting at.”
His mouth hardens. “Are you serious? You think I’m insinuating I want sex?” He lets out a disgusted sound. “I was trying to see if you needed anything to help you settle in. I know you must be very stressed.”
“Since when do you care about things like that where I’m concerned?” I huff. “You’re usually an a…” My voice trails off.
He narrows his eyes. “What? I’m usually an asshole?”
If the shoe fits.
“Marcello—”
He holds up his hands. “Never mind. Goodnight, Elio. Forgive me for giving a shit. Sleep well.” He turns and heads down the hallway toward the stairs.
I watch him go feeling bewildered. If I didn’t know better, I’d say his feelings were hurt. But how can that be? He’s made it very clear he doesn’t care what I think of him. Yet, as I watch him stride away, I can’t shake the feeling that what I said actually bothered him.
And I have absolutely no idea how that can be possible.
****
The morning of the wedding, I wake up disoriented.
For about three seconds, I think I’m back in my apartment in Millhaven.
Then I open my eyes and the carved headboard and expensive soft linen sheets bring reality crashing down on me.
I’m getting married today to a man I barely know.
A mobster. A thug. A self-centered alpha who I’ve pledged my life to for the next three years.
As a wave of panic surges through me, I remind myself that with this sacrifice comes the surgery for Fabio.
Without it, he’ll die, so it’s okay. Everything is fine.
I can do this. I simply need to remain focused on the reason for all of it.
That will make the time go by easier. So long as Fabio ends up healthy and happy, it will all be worth it.
I crawl out of bed, stomach churning, and stumble into the bathroom to shower and shave.
The next two hours are a blur. A tailor arrives for a final adjustment on my tux, which fits me perfectly.
A barber appears and trims my hair so skillfully that before I know it, I look less like a penniless bartender and more like someone who has money.
I stand in front of the full-length mirror in my room and between the clothes and the haircut, I barely recognize myself.
Someone knocks on my door and when I open it, Noemi hands me a glass of champagne. “Here, drink this. It’ll help with the nerves.”
I laugh, but I take the glass. “It’s only 10:00 a.m.” Noemi has been very kind to me. She’s my favorite of Marcello’s family. Mama is also wonderful to me, but I can feel she’s more careful. Ginevra I’m not sure about yet. Noemi is just warm and open, which I need, because I feel so isolated.
“Wow, Elio.” She gives me an encouraging smile. “You look amazing.”
“Thanks.” I smile self-consciously, smoothing my hand down the front of my tux. “I feel like I’m wearing someone else’s clothes.”
“Don’t be silly. You look like you belong in those clothes. Your tie is a bit off. Hold on.” She straightens my bow tie with the focused attention of someone defusing a bomb. “There. Perfect.”
“Thank you.” I gulp the champagne faster than I should because I’m so nervous.
“Listen.” She puts her hand on my arm. “I came by to tell you that you don’t have to talk to all of the three hundred guests.
I know you were worried about how many people are coming, but you don’t have to be.
If someone is important, we’ll make sure you meet them.
Marcello will be glued to you, but if he wanders away for some reason, stick close to Mama or me and we’ll run interference. ”
“Thanks, Noemi.”
“Of course. Now finish your champagne and I’ll see you downstairs soon.” She gives me a warm hug and then heads down the hall.
I’m not sure if I’ll see Marcello before the ceremony.
I’m not even sure if I want to see him before the ceremony.
He’s been very standoffish ever since the first night I had dinner with his family.
Seeing him would just put me more on edge, and I’m already so nervous I could pass out.
In the end, I don’t see Marcello before the wedding.
A young boy comes to my door and informs me it’s time to go down to the formal garden.
I follow him out and stop short. The gardens have been transformed.
Hundreds of white chairs stand in two perfect blocks along a grass aisle scattered with rose petals.
At the far end, a weathered stone arch is wound with white lillies, jasmine, and olive branches, framing the water beyond the cypress trees.
A string quartet is playing La Vie en Rose as the sun comes through the trees in long gold bars, catching the petals and the silver on the tables.
None of it feels real. It’s the kind of thing I’ve only ever seen in the glossy magazines portraying how the one percent live.
My stomach somersaults when I realize every chair is full.
Three hundred people in suits and dresses and hats, turning to look as I appear at the top of the aisle.
Hundreds of faces I don’t know. Not one person here came for me.
I don’t even have my brother here. Nobody back home even knows I’m getting married today.
I don’t know if I’ve ever felt so alone.
And it’s not like that feeling of isolation will vanish after the ceremony.
I’m facing three years with an alpha who’s a stranger to me.
Marcello is at the end of the aisle, standing under the arch.
He’s so handsome it takes my breath away.
Even if I think he’s a jerk much of the time, there’s no denying he’s gorgeous.
He’s in a black tux that fits him like it was stitched directly onto his body.
His dark hair is neat, his jaw freshly shaved, and he’s looking at me so intently it makes my stomach churn.
He actually looks nervous, which surprises me.
Next to him is Carlo, the man who drove me to the house. He’s tall and lean, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with sharp features and an easy smile. He’s watching me approach with open curiosity.
I walk down the aisle alone toward Marcello as music plays.
I couldn’t tell you what the song is now, I’m too distracted.
I feel all the inquisitive eyes on me and I hear whispers.
My hands are shaking horribly so I clench them as I walk.
My eyes meet Marcello’s as I near. His expression is odd.
He looks guarded, but also surprisingly vulnerable.
I have no idea what he’s thinking. Maybe he’s as panicked as me.
Because even if this marriage is fake, it doesn’t feel fake. It feels real and serious and solemn.
The ceremony itself passes in a strange haze.
A judge presides. He says words that mean little to my spinning brain.
At one point, Marcello takes my hand. His grip is firm and warm and steady and I realize that my fingers are ice cold.
He seems to notice because there’s a slight tightening of his hand around mine.
He adjusts his grip to cover more of my fingers, and I realize he’s trying to warm my fingers.
That protective gesture is surprising and oddly comforting.
We exchange rings. His slides onto my finger easily, a platinum band that feels heavier than it looks.
Mine slides onto his finger easily as well.
I wonder who chose them. Probably not Marcello.
Probably Kessler or Mama. It doesn’t really matter.
They’re a symbol of a fake union so who cares who picked them?
“You may kiss,” the judge says once our vows are done.
Marcello looks at me, his eyes dark and unreadable.
For a second, the mask of control slips and I see something raw underneath.
It’s a mix of hunger and caution. Then he leans down and kisses me, firm, brief, but somehow still possessive.
The guests all applaud and just like that I’m married to an alpha I don’t know.
A man I wouldn’t even want to know under any other circumstances.
Marcello guides me down the steps from the altar, his hand gripping mine tight.
Even though he’s basically a stranger to me, I know him better than the others who are staring at me.
I lean into him, instinctively seeking my alpha’s support.
His hand tightens and he says something in Italian that I don’t understand, but his voice is comforting.
The reception is in the grand hall, which I haven’t seen until now.
Marcello skipped it on our little tour. It’s the largest room in the house, with arched windows along one wall and a ceiling painted with some kind of Renaissance-style mural.
Long tables are set with crystal and silver and, of course, more flowers.
A band is playing softly in one corner. Lobster canapés and mini lamb chop hors d’oeuvres are already being served by staff in black and white.
With Marcello’s hand firmly on my lower back, I’m introduced to so many people in the first half-hour that their names start blurring together: capos, cousins, business associates, old women in pearls, and men who smile at me like they’re taking inventory.
It goes on and on. I feel like a horse at auction as they look me over.
I’m surprised they don’t check my teeth, slap my flank, and ask if I come with papers.
I smile. I shake hands. I say thank you so many times the words lose meaning.
My face aches from performing a happiness I don’t feel.
Thankfully, I don’t have to say much. They all have plenty to say and Marcello has plenty to say.
I feel a little like a prop, but I guess that’s kind of what I am.
I’m Marcello’s omega in title only. We don’t share that bond that most omegas and alphas have when they marry.
It’s not love that binds us, it’s necessity.
Or more to the point, self-preservation.