“I’m dressed,” I answer. “That’s as close as we’re going to get.”
She gives me one quick, fierce look—something likeI’m sorry and be careful and you are stronger than you thinkall wrapped into one—and moves to open the door.
My mother slips in, her champagne-colored dress is tailored and elegant. Her eyes find me. “You look very nice, Victoria.”
“Thank you.” I force a crooked smile under the veil. “In my opinion, I look like a very expensive hostage.”
“Victoria,” she warns.
“What?” I ask. “Too soon?”
Helen’s eyes flick to mine in the mirror, a silent plea to stop. Not make this worse. As much as I love her, I’m not sure I’m able to do that. I’m feeling extra prickly today.
I exhale slowly, lungs pressing my corset. “Is he here?”
My mother hesitates a moment too long.
My heart drops. “He is,” I answer myself, the words flat. “Of course he is. God forbid he ditch me at the altar. I’d happily welcome that.”
Her jaw tightens. “Your father is waiting in the hall,” she says instead. “We should go. The priest . . . he doesn’t want to be kept waiting.”
Of course, he doesn’t. Poor man probably didn’t expect to risk his soul over a private Mafia-adjacent hostage wedding when he woke up this morning.
Helen steps back, smoothing invisible wrinkles from my skirt. “Walk slow. The dress is heavy.”
“The dress is the least heavy thing in this room,” I mumble, before my mother hooks her arm through, pretending to be the perfect mother.
Too little, too late, woman. No one in this house is fooled by your act.
We move toward the door, then head out into the hallway. We keep walking until we see my father. He’s waiting at the end, near the side entrance that leads toward the backyard, where my mother wants the ceremony to take place.
While Lorenzo has been clear that this wedding will be a secret—why, I have no clue—my father still dresses the part despite the lack of cameras to document it.
He’s in his black tux, shoulders rigid, expression carefully arranged into something neutral and proud. But his eyes are . . . off. Too bright. Too sharp.
He looks at me, mouth opening to speak.Here it comes.“You’re late.” He checks his watch purely to be an asshole.
“I’m worth waiting for,” I answer, my chin lifting.
He huffs through his nose. “Let’s not keep him,” he says, holding out his arm. “The sooner this is done, the sooner—”
“We can start pretending this wasn’t your idea?” I finish, sliding my hand into the crook of his elbow.
His jaw flexes. “It was this or ruin.”
I look straight ahead. “You chose you,” I say quietly. “It’s fine. I expect it by now.”
He goes stiff beside me.
Neither of us speaks as we continue to walk down the side corridor.
We pass the garden. My peripheral vision catches a flash of the weathered building all the way by the water.
The boathouse.
For a second, my mind plays out a picture, but I shake my head.
Not today, Satan.
