What harm could it do? If it gets rid of him…
I stand. Achille wraps his arms around me, giving me the creepiest hug ever, slipping one hand underneath my hair to wrap his fingers around the nape of my neck, and the other squeezing my butt. The overall effect is quite repulsing.
I try to slide out of his grip but he tightens it.
Fuck!
What’s he doing?
“Signorina,” he hisses into my ear. “Do not embarrass me tomorrow during the wedding. You will exchange vows with my son, and you will kiss him as if you love him. If you don’t, I’ll shoot you in the head in front of the entire congregation. Do you understand me?” When I don’t answer, he tightens his fingers around the back of my neck. It hurts like hell and I’m having trouble breathing. “Do you understand?”
In that moment I believe every word he’s saying. If I don’t marry his son tomorrow, or if I embarrass him in any way in front of his friends and family, I have no doubt this mafia don will follow through with his threat.
I can’t breathe, and I just want the asshole to let go, so I blink away the tears of frustration and manage: “Yes.”
He loosens his grip and I use the opportunity to slip from his grasp. He pretends to come at me again from the right, then feints left. He’s wearing a twisted, evil smile on his face.
Finally he stops this cruel game and chuckles heartily. “It’s going to be so much fun having you around,Angela.” He says my name with a mocking twist, like he’s addressing a naughty child.
He turns to go, and pauses at the front door to address the guards: “Have someone clean that up.” He jerks his head toward the pool of blood on the floor.
“Right away,capo,” one of the men says.
A maid comes to mop up shortly. She also throws away the dropped pastries.
“Would you like something to eat?” she asks when she’s finished. Her voice is stiff, nervous, like she’s afraid of invoking the same wrath that killed her coworker.
I quickly shake my head, and she sags in relief, locking the door when she leaves.
Another maid arrives later to take my measurements. She seems very old fashioned: she’s got her gray hair pinned into two buns on either side of her head, and she’s wearing a prim black dress with a white apron down the front.
“I’m Michelina,” she introduces herself. “Your tailor and personal assistant. I’m on call to serve you twenty-four hours a day.” She gestures toward the nightstand. “When you pick up this phone, I’m the one you’ll talk to on the other end.”
“Okay,” I tell her.
“Hands up,” she orders. “It’s time to measure you.”
I sigh and raise my hands.
“What kind of clothes do you like?” she asks while stretching a tape measure down my arm.
I merely shrug. “Buy whatever you think will look good on me.”
She frowns. “You must have something else you like besides blouses and jeans?”
“Not really,” I tell her truthfully. I don’t care how I look. The more slobbish, the better. The last person I want to dress to impress is Vittorio The Cleaver Rizzo.
When she’s done, she pulls up her phone and enters some web address. Then she hands the screen to me.
“You have to pick out a wedding dress,” she says. “I’ve sorted these by your waist size.”
I look at the pictures but I’m not really into it.
“Pick something for me,” I tell her, handing back the phone.
She sighs, then shakes her head. “Marrying Vittorio isn’t the worst thing in the world, you know. His family is rich. He can buy you anything you want. You’ve seen the estate. You’ll be living a life of luxury. With a hundred servants at your every beck and call. You should be thrilled, ecstatic! Not moping about like you are.”
“I hate him,” I tell her.
