“Donnelly,” my father repeats with cold fury, ignoring a politician for once. To this day, his hatred runs deep. As does mine. Beppe’s death is on that man’s hands along with the imprisonment of several loyal men. If I ever find him, I’ll take immense pleasure in tearing him apart with my bare hands over several days.
A door to the side of the sanctuary opens the next moment and Francesca Donnelly walks out, dressed in a dark blue dress that compliments her fair skin. Her curly red hair is swept up in an artfully messy bun with tendrils hanging loose around her ears. There’s a glint of silver hiding among those gorgeous red tresses.
The corner of my mouth tips upward, simply from seeing her again, but an angry buzz ripples through the assembly as she’s recognized by some and pointed out to others.
She looks nervous.
But she looks good.
Too fucking good.
Three years since I last saw her. She’s eighteen now. Time has banished the childishness from her features. A grown woman, taller than I remember and far more statuesque. Beautiful. Bold. Red. Why is she standing up there?
Alessio’s Best Man walks toward her, handing her a microphone. Ah, I recall she was singing to Beppe that day. I barely heard her before my interruption ended the performance. Alessio is ballsy, allowing her to perform at his wedding while knowing many will be offended by her very presence, but I admire him for it. The Best Man… Armando is his name, I believe, whispers something in her ear. She smiles at the soldier, a sight that strangely makes my fingers itch to crush his throat.
The hum of gossip stirs louder from the conclave, and her nervousness is evident again. I’ve sometimes wondered how shame and sorrow over her father’s actions may have affected her. I have my answer a moment later when she resolutely lifts her chin, full of spirit just as I recall.
Rays of sunlight stream through the stained glass setting her auburn hair ablaze, and she begins to sing. There are devils walking this land. I should know. I’m one of them. Yet, it never occurred to me there might be angels, too. Francesca’s voice would make even the deepest cynic a believer in such things.
I have never been moved by music this way.
I have never felt a shred of resentment toward my expectations or responsibilities until now.
I have never wanted anything the way I want this divine creature, the seductive siren singing in front of the altar.
I have never been so…fucked.
5
Francesca
“You sounded nice," Bibi's cousin, Piera says. She's only a few years older than me and usually rude, but I smile at the compliment until she adds, "You're lucky you and your mother aren't living on the streets."
"I'd like to toss you into the street," I mutter as she glides away.
This is why I hate attending things like this.
This, and high heels.
“I should’ve broken you bastards in beforehand,” I complain to my shoes. "Then, I could've stomped on Piera's big toe and-"
“Is that spiteful witch why you’re not dancing?” Gia asks, joining me by my chosen wall.
I feel my cheeks growing hot as I nod. She doesn’t realize me lurking at the perimeter has more to do with the fact no man here will ask me to dance than Piera or my shoes. Not that I care. I’m used to either being whispered about or ignored at functions by now.
But uncomfortable shoes at a wedding reception with Carlo Vicini nearby is giving me déjà vu. Except this time, I’m not stepping on his heel. I’m watching him twirl my cousin across the dancefloor after the newlyweds have shared their first dance. Sofia looks like she’s on Cloud Nine in his arms.May he strive to deserve you.
Newspapers and gossip sites are always hungry for new photos of Carlo with whatever model or socialite he has on his arm that week. Sofia makes excuses, saying it’s merely to reinforce his public image as a legitimate New York executive working for his wealthy father.Sofia must own the best pair of rose-colored glasses in existence because I know exactly what our men are like. They think monogamy is a variety of expensive hardwood.
I notice Caterina slipping away toward the ladies’ room in her fairytale perfect wedding dress. We’ve become very close over the past two years, and I love that she’s officially family today. I know she’s terrified about tonight with Alessio and the bedding. I pray my cousin is a better man than the world believes the Reaper to be for her sake.
“We girls get the raw end of the deal without a doubt,” I complain to Gia, thinking of our traditions - the obsession with mafia brides being pure while the grooms have a free pass to sleep around before marriage and even the opportunity to cheat at the Seconda Notte.
“Tell me something I don’t already know,” she replies, bitterly.
“Sorry, Gia.” The fading bruise under her make-up is still visible. Her horrible husband abuses her. I hate it and hate how it reminds me of Da.
“Don’t be sorry. Why don’t you dance with Alessio? I’m sure many men would enjoy dancing with our beautiful songbird once they see she’s not opposed to it.”
