Day 0 – Caterina
Murmured words sound around me. Muttering, rustling.
Someone shifts, a hard leg pressing against mine.
I stay still, keeping my breathing level as my body tightens in increasing awareness. My thoughts are… slow. Sluggish.
Luc.
Luc, bleeding. The shock in his eyes as he stumbled back. Crawling on his hands and knees as if he could stop them from taking me.
And Matteo, strolling away with my daughter in his arms.
My chest squeezes, constricts, but I force it away. I’ll be no good to either of them if I panic. The thoughts are faster now, stumbling over each other as they batter my skull. Too much has happened this evening, more than should happen in a fucking lifetime, and now I’m half-conscious in a car travelling to who fucking knows where.
Bile rises in my dry throat as an apologetic cough sounds.
“Sign here, if you would. And… here.”
Cold fingers suddenly grip my own, twisting them. The pen is warm in my hand, and I try to stretch out my fingers as they’re dragged across a page.
The cold tightens, squeezing. “You’re awake.”
Salvatore Asante’s voice is as cold as his touch, and I allow my eyes to slide open, although it feels like weights are holding them down. I’m strapped into the backseat of the car, the engine beneath us almost silent. Night has fully fallen outside, the overhead light above our heads the only illumination as I fix my gaze on the older man seated opposite us, a terrified expression on his lined face.
He doesn’t meet my eyes, glancing away as he takes the paperwork Salvatore holds out with a dismissal. “Thank you for your help, Father Brennan.”
My breath hitches as I drop my own eyes. Taking in the black cassock, the white collar around his neck. As familiar to me as breathing, the result of a childhood filled with Sunday services as the men of the Cosa Nostra prayed on their knees for redemption they did not deserve.
A priest.
The man nods as he folds up the paperwork, looking uncomfortable. “I… congratulations.”
And those fingers – hisnails, icy and sharp, scratch against my skin. “Thank you.”
No.
No.
The car slows, the man shifting in his seat. He’s desperate to leave, to escape. With those papers in his hand – the papers falsely binding me to Salvatore Asante.
As hiswife.
No matter that I wasn’t aware enough to consent. That sort of thing doesn’tmatterto men like these. Only the promise of thereward. And a line scrawled across the page with a pen shoved into my hand will do the job just as much as a full signature.
That sluggishness still fills my veins - my fucking limbs - with treacle, as the car stops. Clumsily, I lunge for my belt, trying to undo it as the door opens and the priest disappears without another word. Taking my marriage paperwork with him.
Salvatore says nothing, barely even turning his head at my attempt. His nails only grip the soft underskin of my arm, pinning me in place as the doors close, too quickly for me to do anything but force air into my lungs as the car starts up again. Pinpricks of pain spring up where he holds me, flickers that don’t register as I fix my eyes straight ahead and try to think around the panic.
I have to fix this.
The nails release from my arm. Replaced by the pad of his fingers, trailing over the marks.
“It’s done. Turn around and look at me, wife.”
A horrified sound escapes my throat at the moniker. My struggling increases as I throw myself away from him to the other side of the car, my fingers scrabbling for the door handle as we leave that priest behind.
Hands, solid and unyielding, drag me back. Salvatore yanks me into him, and I explode.
