He can’t do this to me.
He’s totally fucking with my head, and I won’t let him.
“Not until I have proposed to my fiancée.” He takes my hand, holding it firmly.
“This is ridiculous, and I’m not doing it.” I wrench my hand from his hold, almost yanking my arm from its socket with the strength involved in extricating myself from his tight grip. “You seem to be laboring under a misapprehension,” I say, grabbing my wineglass and moving away from him. I gulp back a mouthful to help steady my nerves. “Let me clear it up for you. This marriage is a business arrangement. It will never be anything more, and I’m not like other women. I don’t need or want a proposal. I’ll wear your ring because it’s expected, but I will not entertain any romantic charade because you are fooling no one. Whatever you hope to achieve with this grand gesture, you can forget about it. I’m not buying the bullshit you’re selling.” I glare at him, relieved when I spot tension bracketing his face and stiffening his shoulders.
He climbs to his feet and stalks toward me with a thunderous expression on his face. “I have never met a more ungrateful rude bitch, and trust me, I have known a lot of women.”
I level him with a cold sneer. “That’s hardly news to me.”
Snatching my hand, he roughly thrusts the ring on my ring finger. “You’re welcome,mia amata,” he hisses, projecting fire from his eyes. “You don’t need to worry about any more romantic charades. I got the message loud and clear.”
He storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him as I stare at the glistening diamond on my ring finger, wondering why this feels like I’ve lost something when I clearly won that round.
ChapterEleven
Catarina
“You look beautiful. Elegant and regal, just like a queen,” Dario says, attempting to reassure me with his words and his proud smile as if he can sense nerves firing at me from all directions. It’s not like me to be this anxious, but Massimo Greco tends to set my nerves on edge and ignite an uneasy fire in my blood. It’s disconcerting, and I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t had second thoughts about marrying him this past week.
Dario pats my arm, and I focus on my breathing, using it to settle myself. We are waiting at the end of the aisle in the historic cathedral in midtown Manhattan, watching Nicolina stride elegantly up the red-carpeted floor toward the front of the church.
The place is packed with the crème de la crème of high society and powerful Italian Americans from across the US. The archbishop of New York is conducting the ceremony, and I truly feel like mafia royalty.
It is exactly two weeks since Massimo and I reconnected and one week since we signed our marriage contract. To pull together a wedding of this magnitude in such a short space of time is nothing short of miraculous. Nic handled the arrangements with The Commission’s event planner, and I owe my friend and personal assistant a massive bonus for her hard work.
“Thank you,” I say, running my free hand down the front of my wedding gown. I smile at myconsigliereas he prepares to give me away.
I opted for a fairly simple fitted lace dress. The beauty is in the sharp lines that mold to my curves and the pretty handmade lace overlay. The neckline dips into a subtle V, flashing a little cleavage, but it’s respectful, and the material sweeps over the curve of my hips, flowing in straight lines to my feet. Long, sheer lace sleeves cover my arms. At the back, a line of tiny pearl buttons runs from the nape of my neck to just above my ass. The train is a loose-fitting mermaid style because I didn’t want to be too restricted when walking. I also needed some room to strap a thin dagger to my inner thigh. I never go anywhere without some form of concealed weapon, and even with the high-level security in place today, I refused to leave home without the means to defend myself.
I opted to wear a veil, as is tradition at Italian American weddings. It’s constructed of the same delicate lace as my dress, and it falls from midway down my chignon to the ground. I chose not to wear it over my face because I don’t hide from anyone, and I’m far from the blushing bride.
Imade the decision to do this, and I will own it.
“You are far too good for him,” Dario says, his features softening as we watch Rowan and Raven Mazzone walk up the aisle next.
It’s kind of sad there are no kids in my family or Massimo’s to act as our ring bearer and flower girl. Ben and Sierra didn’t hesitate to offer their eldest children for the roles when they heard of our dilemma. This church is packed with armed made men, and security guards roam inside and outside perimeters, so it’s completely safe to allow children to join in the celebrations. Natalia and Leo have brought their eldest child, and three of Serena and Alesso’s kids are in attendance too. There are several teenagers in the congregation as well. Most of them are boys, which isn’t surprising when they initiate at thirteen and are training to be fully indoctrinated in our world. But there are a few girls here too. Most likely daughters of important made men who will suffer this fate at some point in the future.
“I know.” I agree as the pianist switches music, indicating it’s time to get this show on the road. Holding on to Dario’s arm, I grip my white-rose bouquet tightly in my other hand as we proceed to walk forward.
“If he makes any move to hurt you, you mustn’t hesitate to call me or Renzo,” he softly murmurs, keeping a fake smile plastered on his face as we walk toward my fiancé and his best man, Fiero Maltese. I’m surprised he didn’t choose his brother Gabriele, but it’s not an unwelcome substitution.
The Maltese heir isveryeasy on the eyes.
“He won’t,” I say with confidence born of nothing but gut instinct. “He’s not like his brother.”
Dario subtly flinches. “You can’t say that for sure, and you can’t let your guard down.”
I hold my head up high and proud and nod and smile at several men as we pass by—familiar and unfamiliar faces; dons and their underbosses andconsiglieres, and important contacts I conduct business with. “I never let my guard down. You know that. I’m merely pointing out I don’t believe I have to worry about that with him.”
Up ahead, Massimo angles his body, turning to look at me as I approach. Our gazes lock, and naked appreciation is evident in his intense stare. Forest-green eyes roam me from head to toe, eliciting a subtle thrill of excitement as my body approves of his single-minded attention.
Massimo is drop-dead gorgeous in a black tuxedo that is custom fit to his tall, broad, muscular form. He’s had a haircut since I saw him during the week, and his beard is trimmed tight to his jawline.
If the circumstances were different, I imagine I could be smitten with such a man and thrilled to be marrying him. But that’s an alternate universe where his brother didn’t rape, abuse, and torment me, killing something vital deep down inside me.
“Besides,” I murmur, keeping my eyes pinned on the man waiting for me, “I know how to handle myself. If he tries anything, he’ll be sorry.” A sudden bout of nausea crawls up my throat, and I pause for a few seconds until it passes. I draw a deep breath. “No Greco will ever put hands on me again without my permission. That is a guarantee.”
