Nothing hurts more than misleading the man I love. But Tristan is not a man willing to understand my precarious situation, accepting that I have no say, even less.
For him, us ending up together is a done deal, as easy as him putting a stamp of ownership on my body and heart, deeming me his. Not that I am not.
“Deep in thought over there,” Evie says as she watches me pack my suitcase.
For the last time.
Tears prickle my eyes. A vicious current traps me, threatening to drown me.
She notices my disheveled state and rushes to my side. “It’s going to be all right,” she says, tone gentle.
I sigh, the sound ringing of destitution. Nothing will ever be the same.
How could it be?
Not being with him will kill me, agonizingly slowly, like an incurable sickness. It eludes me how people deal with an arranged marriage while their hearts yearn for someone else.
She hugs me in silent support, and I take comfort from her, needing it.
I’ve debated with myself for weeks in a row. Nights lying wide awake, considering how to tell him the truth. How to break up with the man I love and crave because I am arranged to marry another.
Every time someone has tried to talk to me about my fiancé, I shoot it down.
Dario did his best to get me out of my impending marriage by even suggesting we marry instead. I knew he would try. But the decision has been made. The merger happened. Women in the mafia are nothing but bargaining chips.
The only one overjoyed was my father, who said I’ll marry a man who has amassed astounding power. His not being Italian didn’t seem to matter. For my father to respect another man, he must be a formidable businessman and a proficient criminal.
That’s the thing with men in the mafia. The business only appears legit. Behind the prim and proper exterior hides an entire operation that demands blood and is built on the ashes of your enemies.
I’ve been surrounded by killers all my life. What’s one more to be married to? Violence is men’s amorphous mistress in our world in case they don’t have others.
My phone rings, and when I see Dario’s name, dejection ripples through me. He proposed saying that we’re so deeply in love that we want to be together. His suggestion didn’t work. My friend can charm like no one else, but behind the façade lurks something else, making me wonder who my future husband is, that not even Dario could have stopped the marriage.
Even if I considered the solution at some point, it’s another form of settling–accepting. Marrying him would feel like a betrayal—to my heart and to Tristan. That’s another reason I postponed finding out more about my official fiancé.
“Hi, you,” I say, putting him on speaker so I can continue packing for the weekend.
“I could kill the fucker,” he grits out.
Evie snorts beside me. “Hi, Dario.”
“How are you?” he asks her, genuinely interested.
He has been a friend to Evie as well. Their relationship developing during our college years.
“Just want to be done with college and move to New York.”
“I have little influence over there, so don’t do anything reckless,” he informs her.
We exchange secret glances. “Don’t worry. New York will be my playground.”
It’s his turn to snort.
“See you next weekend,” I say, hanging up.
I refuse to call it an engagement, even when it’s only a few days away.
I need one more weekend with the man I love, and hopefully by Sunday, I will have the guts to tell him we must stop seeing each other. That the secret relationship lasted so long borders on a miracle. I’ve risked too much, including his well-being. I can’t continue being selfish and reckless.
