“It’s all right,” I tell her sweetly. “I can look it up on the Internet once they give me my phone back.”
She furrows her brow but says nothing more.
“What would you do if you were forced to marry a man and there was no way out?” I continue.
“I’d go through with the marriage of course,” Michelina replies. “And hold my head high, knowing that while he might own my body, he doesn’t own my mind or my soul.”
“You sound confident he wouldn’t break you,” I tell her. “What if your husband was The Cleaver?”
“I’d suggest not calling him that,” Michelina whispers, glancing worriedly over her shoulder to make sure no one heard. “He doesn’t like that name.”
“But that’s what he is,” I say. “And you didn’t answer my question. What if he was your husband? Are you sure he wouldn’t break you, and own your mind as well as your body?”
“He still wouldn’t have my soul, no matter what happened,” the maid replies. “Now be quiet while I adjust your dress.”
“He killed my mother,” I blurt out.
“Shush,” Michelina replies. “He did not.”
I smile sadly. Of course she’ll never believe me. No one in this household will. And even if they did, they’d never admit it aloud. Maybe she’s right, though. Maybe it was just my overactive imagination inserting faces into my nightmares.
“Well, well, well.” I cringe when I hear that voice. It’s The Cleaver.
His reflection appears in the mirror. He’s wearing a tuxedo. His hair is slicked back, and the scar running from his temple to his cheek is so faint today that I’m sure he’s wearing makeup.
“You look so much more fuckable today,” he announces.
Regardless of whether he killed my mother or not, I want to leap on him and pound his head in with my fists. He murdered Massimo after all, right in front of me. Too bad this damn dress is so tight—I’d probably end up hurting myself more than him.
“Get out!” Michelina says. “It’s bad luck to see the bride before the ceremony!”
He gives the maid a dangerous look and she takes a step back.
He returns his attention to me. “I can’t wait to bring you to my bed after the ceremony. I’m not going to wait until tonight. There’s no reception. As soon as we say our vows, I’m ramming my tongue down your throat and carrying you to my room. Who knows, maybe I’ll even fuck you right there under the altar? I’m going to take you in the ass first. That’s the only part of you that’s still a virgin, I’m sure.”
I turn toward him and taunt: “Massimo took me in every orifice. Especially the ass. He loved the ass. Sorry to disappoint you, but no part of me is virginal.”
His face turns beet red. He seems ready to slap me and I fully expect him to. In fact, I hope he does, that way we can show all the wedding guests his lovely glowing bride with the red handprint on her face.
But then his father’s tuxedoed reflection appears in the mirror. Achille Rizzo seems furious. He grabs his son by the ear and drags him away.
“You little shit!” I can hear Achille saying outside. “I specifically told you not to interrupt her while she’s dressing!” He says more, but they’ve moved too far away for me to make out anything else.
“You’re a brave one,” Michelina says sadly. “I only hope you have the same fiery spirit a few weeks from now.” She gives me a knowing look. “Always remember, if you have trouble with the son, go to the father. He will fix things.”
Thinking about how Achille treated me last night, I’m not so sure. I still have his claw marks around my neck.
I’m definitely looking up some poison recipes.
Finally she finishes making all her adjustments and then two of The Cleaver’s bodyguards escort me from the castle to the small chapel on the grounds, where a priest waits to marry us.
It’s actually an open-air chapel, with a roof supported by a colonnade that affords a great view of the sea beyond. Ordinarily I’d think it a beautiful spot to get married.
But not today.
The wedding guests seem composed entirely of The Cleaver’s immediate family, along with their servants and closest associates. Most of the men sitting in the white pews farthest from the altar are dressed in black jumpsuits rather than tuxedos, with pistols strapped to their hips.
Interesting, that half the guests are guards. I wonder if the Amatos put them here merely for the wedding photos. You know, to make it look like there are more guests. Either that or they’re expecting trouble.
