“It stormed like crazy. I watched from upstairs as the trees swayed, and I kept thinking you’d come running home to apologize.”
“Most terrifying night of my life.”
“I was proud of you. Pissed as hell, but proud.”
I lean against his shoulder and slip my hand through his arm. “Got my stubbornness from you.”
“A proper Russo woman.”
“It’s going to be okay, Papa.”
“I know, sweetie. I just hope you really believe it.”
The wedding march starts and we walk forward together. He pushes aside the curtains and slides the door wide.
I’m assaulted by midafternoon sunlight as we transition outside. I take a moment to adjust. There are two sets of chairs placed on either side of an aisle. Past it, the old gazebo is draped in lace and flowers. It looks surprisingly nice. There are maybe fifty people in attendance, even fewer than I had guessed, and they’re all staring at me. None of them are smiling. My family is on the right and the made men and associates are on the left. The groom has nobody with him.
My future husband stands inside the gazebo at the makeshift altar in a black tuxedo spread tight across his impressive stomach. He watches me with a dour frown, clearly not interested in his future bride. I wonder what he’s thinking. Maybe he wishes this weren’t happening too. My feet feel heavy, and I almost stumble except I notice Rosie sitting on Mama’s lap in the front row. That gives me a little strength.
I’m not doing this for my parents. I’m not doing it for my family or even for me.
This marriage is for Rosie.
She needs stability. She needs a father, even one like Sal Mancini. He’s a bigshot lawyer, and he’ll be able to provide a good life for her.
Everything seems normal. At least as normal as it can be, given the circumstances.
I take a breath and keep walking as the piano plays on. I get closer and closer to the altar, and I almost don’t notice him standing patiently toward the back.
But then I look at the replacement priest, and I nearly scream.
He’s staring at me. I know that cold look. The intensity of the gaze. His eyes are a deep, crystal blue, like frozen arctic water fresh from a glacier. He’s wearing a crisp black suit, and I have no idea how anyone believed he could be a man of God.
Not with the face of a demon.
A beautiful hellish monster.
His jaw is cut and sharp. Stubble covers his cheeks. His hair is slightly curly and kept short. His full lips are pinched into a frown like he’s trying very hard to concentrate.
His stare doesn’t waver from me.
This can’t be happening. I look around in a panic. Doesn’t anyone recognize him? Don’t they know who’s standing up there waiting for me?
“Allie, what are you doing?” Papa hisses in my ear. Only then do I realize I’ve been standing still and not walking. Everyone’s staring. Mama seems on the verge of slapping me into motion. “You can’t stop here.”
“But… that priest, he’s…”
Papa pulls me on. “It’s fine. I thought you said you weren’t going to make a scene?”
“You don’t understand.”
“Just keep moving. Say the words. Don’t embarrass me further.”
He deposits me roughly across from Salvatore, but I can’t even look at him.
The fake priest eats up all my attention. He seems to glow with intensity and beauty. It’s like a dark flame burning in his eyes. Masculine energy and power roll off him in waves and make my core tense as I remember that one single night we spent together.
I knew him for hours at most.
