I still can’t believe my father thinks it’s a good idea to marry him. A part of me doesn’t even believe the planned marriage is going to happen, that it’s some sick joke Papa concocted to get back at me for past sins. Like the time I stuffed a pebble into his panini. How was I supposed to know he’d break a tooth? I was a kid…
Unfortunately, I know all about alliances of convenience. I also know how much stronger my family will be after we ally with the Rizzos. We’ve always been at each other’s throats, fighting over the same territory.
A few weeks ago we almost descended into all-out war. The Cleaver’s brother badly beat up my brother Michelangelo, and my other brothers geared up at home, strapping on ammo and rifles. Before they could head out and start the war, The Cleaver’s father called mine and the heads of our families met and negotiated. My marriage to The Cleaver was the culmination of those negotiations, and the only thing ending our conflict—by tying our families together. War averted.
At least, that’s how it was explained to me. But I hate being used as a pawn. Hate it. My life is supposed to be a blank canvas, not a chessboard.
I try not to think about that now. I just want to get back to the jeep without bumping into The Cleaver. I’m sick of his gloating, and the sick faces he makes at me when he thinks other members of my family aren’t watching.
I search the stands once more as I descend the aisle steps. I don’t see The Cleaver, or any of the Rizzos in the retreating crowd, but someone does catch my eye. He stands out from everyone else because of his height and muscularity. His biceps are literally bursting from the sleeves of the tight T-shirt he wears. Tattoos ink the exposed portion of his arms, though I can’t make out any of the designs from here. His shoulders bulge, and his back tapers to a perfect V. He has short-cropped blonde hair and steely blue eyes. There’s something so very familiar about that haunted face—
My breath catches.
It can’t be.
Someone stands up in the seats next to the aisle and momentarily blocks my view of him. I continue downward until I can peer past them but he’s gone.
A ghost from the past.
I must have imagined it.
I shake my head. I haven’t hallucinated like this in years. It used to happen all the time after he disappeared. I’d see Massimo sitting in the backseat of the car next to mine. I’d blink and he’d be gone. And then there were the half hallucinations: I’d be walking down the street with my guards and someone would be taking long strides ahead of me, someone with his same build and hair, and I’d rush forward, thinking it was him, only to be disappointed when I saw the face.
But this time, only his face was the same, and the eyes. The body was different. Massimo never had such a well-built frame. Never had any tattoos.
Yes, it probably wasn’t him. I’m only getting these hallucinations again because of the wedding. My doomed mind will latch onto any fantasy to distract me from my shitty life.
Still, I can’t help but dream of what it would be like if hedidcome back into my world, swooping me off my feet, saving me from my marriage to The Cleaver.
I can only shake my head and laugh softly at my own stupidity. No one’s going to save me, least of all the man who abandoned me all those years ago.
We reach the parking lot. It’s congested, like church on a Sunday, with the cars lining up to leave via the choke point of the only entrance.
We approach the edge of the lot where our jeep awaits. Before we can reach it, gunfire erupts. Blood spurts from one of my bodyguards and he falls to the ground. I drop, too—petrified by the whizzing bullets.
“Leave him!” Maurizio shouts to the other bodyguards. “Get to the jeep!” He turns to me. “Are you hit?”
I don’t answer.
“Are you hit!” Maurizio repeats.
I look at him with my wide eyes and shake my head. I can only whimper in answer.
Maurizio hauls me to my feet and makes me move at a crouch. He shields me from the rest of the parking lot with his body. I’m barely processing what’s going on—events are transpiring in a blur.
Maurizio pauses next to the hood of an Alfa Romeo to return fire, then continues leading me onward. Funny how I notice the small details of a car’s make and model, when I’m barely aware of anything else.
We reach the jeep, a polished white Land Rover Defender. The other bodyguards are already inside and ducked beneath the windows. Maurizio opens the backseat door and shoves me inside.
“Stay low!” he tells me, and I crawl inside.
He follows behind me but then I hear a gunshot followed by an “oof!”
I look behind me and see Maurizio clutching his chest, where blood oozes from a wound. He collapses just outside.
“No!” I reach out, intending to somehow pull him inside. But he shoves my hands away with own bloody palms.
“Go!” he tells the driver, Donato. Maurizio somehow manages to summon the strength to slam the door in my face.
