I smile, and Father Aldo swallows deep. “He didn’t mean that, my son,” the priest says to me, his gaze pleading. “Signor Caruso is distraught over his daughter being present, but no blood needs to be spilled. I pray I was not summoned to give last rites.”
His final sentence comes out as more of a question than a statement, and I understand why. In the underworld there are more requests for funerals than there are for marriages. However, I’m not sure if the reason I brought him here will ease his worry or heighten it. If he values his life, he’ll shut up and do my bidding until I dismiss him.
“My brother is quite busy,” I say with a casual shrug, “but even if he weren’t, this matter doesn’t involve him. There can only be one groom after all.” I laugh, and it’s full of neither amusement nor joy; the sound is meant to compound the weight of my words, as well as emphasize that I’m the one with all the power. Which is true, because Caruso is far from laughter, and his olive complexion has paled considerably. Finally, the reaction I’ve been waiting for.
And Emilia’s response to my announcement? She makes a choking noise like someone is strangling her, and that imagery causes my smile to linger for a moment more. Her entire body goes stiff against mine, and I delight in it. Terrorizing her is only a small reward, and it’s mostly for her father’s benefit.
Father Aldo makes the sign of the cross, while Caruso gapes at me, but Emilia has yet to move, perhaps even breathe. She better not faint and ruin this for me. Just to ensure that doesn’t happen, I drag my fingers across the seam of her inner thighs, brushing the mound of her sex. That has her sucking in a much-needed breath right before her body shakes with tiny tremors that couldn’t be felt if I weren’t holding her so closely.
Her signature is not required to be on the marriage license because I have a number of police officers on my payroll, but I want to make this as horrific as possible for her father. And watching the devil incarnate take your daughter as a bride is the same as watching her be fucked and then sacrificed on an altar.
But worse, since death will not come for a long while yet.
“Yes,” I say, my voice light and contradicting my dark intent. “Today I will take Emilia to be my lawfully wedded wife, and you are to bear witness. That’s why you are here, Father,” I say, glancing at the priest. “There will be no need for last rites unless Caruso dies from natural causes in the next ten minutes. With that being said, we wish to be married.Now.”
Emilia
My heart is racing so quickly I cannot distinguish one beat from the next. They are just one continuous rhythm, a thrumming that all but drowns out every sound around me. The loud hum fills my ears and distorts my mind, making it difficult for me to process the events happening right before my eyes.
My father sits with his entire brow wrinkled and his eyes gaunt. Maximus’s enforcer stares at him with one hand palming the weapon at his side, an expression of anticipation on his face. Meanwhile, the priest crosses himself so much that his hand is a blur, and he’s switching among English, Italian, and Latin in his prayers. These are the things directly in front of me, offering a visual that should be clear, but it fades.
And Silvestri becomes my sole focus.
His breaths fill my ears, and the warmth of them heats the side of my neck. Everywhere he touches me is burning as though he’s fire and I’m ice. My body even shakes as if I’m cold, but I know better. It’s from fear and nothing else.
But what I don’t want to admit is there are two types of alarm flowing through me.
The first is unoriginal and expected. Silvestri and his brothers have made a name for themselves in the crime syndicate. Even I’d heard of them before my rebellious episode, but I’m sure I would’ve anyway, since they are elite, even among the rest of the criminals in Chicago. Some say they descend—and carry pure blood—from those originating in Sicily. Other rumors insist their father was a fallen angel who was sent to prey on human women, which explains their unnatural attractiveness. I thought it was impossible.
Until the first time I laid eyes on him.
Maximus Silvestri was, and is, so beautiful he could be one of the Nephilim, or a demigod.
I thought so years ago in my youth, and I still do.
He may not have changed much physically since I first met him, except for becoming more handsome and his gaze getting more cynical but less compassionate. However, it’s enough of a difference for me not to recognize him as the man I fantasized about marrying. He’s grown into more power, and his body is no doubt stronger now that he’s in his early thirties, but none of it matters, since the Maximus I adored is dead, killed by a lifetime of crime.
Unlike his, the changes in me have not been in my favor. Yes, my body developed into that of a woman, and I’ve been graced with a decent figure and average looks, but my mind…well, it has both fractured and expanded. Much to my immense shame, the episode is not a secret, and if I had any doubt as to whether Maximus knows, it was confirmed when he said I was insane.
So why does he want to marry me?
The most logical conclusion is he has a personal vendetta against my father, but I shouldn’t be the asset Maximus confiscates. I’ve seen what most crime bosses expect to gain from their daughters: the securing of an alliance. From the way my father works his jaw from side to side and his outbursts earlier, it’s apparent this is more of a hostile takeover than a truce or show of trust.
“Otello and Leone,” Maximus calls out.
I jump at that, and he grips me tighter, preventing me from moving very much. Everything around me sharpens back into focus, and I silently lament the out-of-body state. I was still aware of Maximus behind me, but at least he was the only thing that held my attention, preventing me from dealing with the weighted stares of everyone else.
His chest continues to rise and fall, pressing into my spine at regular intervals, and his heartbeats do the same, pounding out a steady cadence. His cock hasn’t gone flaccid, yet it’s not fully erect like before. This is another part of him that pulses against me.
Two more of Maximus’s men enter the room, and between them is a man who’s wearing a suit and tie, carrying a briefcase. His attire is that of a lawyer about to storm through the doors of a courtroom and demand justice. In fact, he is more formally dressed than anyone else, including the groom. Maximus—who’s clearly the one in charge of this situation, regardless of his choice of clothing—wears simple black slacks, Italian-leather shoes, and a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows.
He doesn’t look dressed for a simple wedding.
And neither does his bride.
My nightgown isn’t sheer, but the newcomers’ gazes rove over me regardless, and I stare back in a stupor. I want to rail at them, at everyone, for what’s happening, but I’ve been conditioned to hide, to scurry back into my hole. Sometimes with a broken bone.
And always with a broken spirit.
