“You don’t think he’s hot?”
I look over at Nate like he’s stupid, which sometimes I think he might be. “Of course I think he’s hot, you’ve seen him.”
“Right,” Nate says. “But you don’t like him?”
I shrug. “What do I need to like him for?”
“Mary.” Nate pinches his nose like he’s already tired.
“Look, I like him fine. He’s hot and already way more attentive than I bargained for and I will have his tall babies that will probably destroy me in childbirth from being so broad shouldered. Happy?”
Nate sighs, but doesn’t keep on asking dumb questions.
I thought it was obvious that this marriage was not one born out of mutual affection. Maxim doesn’t wantme, he wants what I can offer him. The same can be said vice versa. Nothing wrong with a business deal wedding, and honestly two out of three of the Morelli daughter marriages being out of love instead of obligation is a shock. One of us was bound to have to marry strategically.
“Why are you always so nosy, anyway?” I ask.
“Alright, okay.” Nate holds his hands up like I’m threatening him. “I bet he’ll worm his way into your cold, cold heart yet.”
“Sure,” I say, though I know this isn’t an option.
I won’t let it be.
7
MAXIM
Marianna wearsa deep purple gown the night before our wedding, thin straps and with a low back, hugging her body’s every slope and curve, and a slit up almost the entirety of her leg. Pure white heels complete the look and match the delicate white ribbon one of her sisters threaded through her hair. It’s striking seeing her in this color; it makes her pale skin look even paler, and her brown hair almost auburn.
I cannot take my eyes off of her, but she, as usual, has no difficulty keeping hers off of me. She scans around the room, eyes bouncing constantly to each of her family members as if counting them in her mind. I’m beginning to realize that she is never relaxed; even now she’s too on guard to even enjoy the events of her sham wedding to an old man.
I have lots of valid reasons to look at her tonight, so I don’t try to stop myself; first the rehearsal, as she walks down the church aisle to me while the lawyer Morelli directs us like an elaborate production. We are just players here, in this life, perhaps, but especially in this marriage.
Behind me stands Sasha, the one man on my side of the wedding party, and behind him stands Nate, Leo Morelli, and Sean Donovann. The kind of line up that would make my dad rollin his grave. He would rather have died than see his son marry a Morelli with a Donovann also in the party, and that thought pleases me.
Marianna will have a host of bridesmaids between her sisters and mine. Willa was first to propose the idea of inviting my sisters to the wedding party, and the three of them were all too excited to be involved. Nadia and Vera were with my mother in Russia, and Sofia has been navigating her own, new, loveless marriage arrangement to a boss in Chicago, but they all deemed my wedding reason enough to get together. They’re all here tonight and were fast friends with every Morelli.
It’s uncanny, my three sisters talking with the three Morelli sisters. The make up of our families isn’t so different, but where the Morellis were raised in a home full of love, trust, and respect, we had a monster of a man who preferred fear to friendliness. I’m amazed my sisters turned out as lovely and personable as they have. All thanks to our mother.
Mother didn’t make the trip, the city too haunted by her twenty-nine years of marriage for her liking. I cannot blame her.
“Mary, you’ll stand here,” Willa points to the spot in front of me. “But first, offer your hugs, and at this point, the wedding party will take a seat in the front row.” Marianna hugs her mother, who has a mist of tears in her eyes alongside what I believe to be guilt. Grief for her daughter’s loveless future, I gather.
The rest of the wedding party sits in the first row and looks up at us expectantly, save for Vera and Sofia who are whispering like teenagers. I stand beside Marianna, Willa still buzzing around us, nine months pregnant but not missing a beat.
“This is when you’ll hand Angel the flowers. You can’t forget, okay?”
“Mhm.” Marianna mimes handing off a bouquet.
“I’ll take them and then you’ll hold Maxim’s hands in front of the priest.”
Marianna stands opposite of me, though doesn’t take my hands, instead letting them fall at her sides. Beneath the left strap of her dress I see the star-shaped scar from where she was shot last year. I want to run my thumb across it.
“Go on,” Willa urges. I think for a nonsensical second that she means I really should reach out and touch the scar, but come quickly to my senses.
Marianna sighs slightly before putting her hands in mine, her fingers warm in my palms. She looks me in the eye, maybe for the first time since the rehearsal began, and my lungs constrict in my chest. I would be concerned if this wasn’t how it always felt to be in her thrall.
“Good! Perfect,” Willa says. “Then you’ll have the ceremony, the kiss, and then everyone will cheer and be so excited.”
