But she didn’t smile.
That bothered me more than the blood. I killed a man for stealing her laughter like he tried to take the chain around her throat. Now she knew what I was capable of.
If she was smart, she would flee.
It was a good thing I wasn’t going to give her the chance.
“Well, I suppose dinner will have to wait.” Mrs. Morelli set her napkin on the table. “If you want to join me in the front parlor, I’ll see if we can have dessert while the men clean this up.”
The don’s wife was a true underworld queen. Unphased by the violence and bloodshed that plagued our lives. I wondered if my bride was made of the same stern stuff.
My question was answered a moment later when Gabriella rose to join her, followed meekly by her mother and sister, both looking green. The same affliction didn’t affect my Roman goddess. Her color was as beautiful as ever.
Those warm, whiskey eyes flicked in my direction.
Slowly, they shifted. She scanned the scene. I swore I saw her pulse hammering in her throat. But then…those amber-flecked irises slid back to mine.
She didn’t look away.
Saints above.
There was a cruelty in wanting something so pure when my hands were dirty. I didn’t care. I would wash them before I touched her.
Chapter 6 – Gabriella
My mother took to planning my wedding with gusto. But I couldn’t stomach the sessions spent helping her. Not when she began to weep uncontrollably every time we met to work.
Big, fat tears rolled down her cheeks as she thumbed through the catalog of wedding cakes. I groaned, wishing one of my sisters would call from the other parts of the house, needing my mother. It was almost eleven, and I needed to leave if I was going to enjoy my Tuesday morning.
“You might not be the boy we prayed for,” she sniffled. “But I can’t believe your father is selling you to that murderer!”
Clearly, my mother didn’t remember the countless times Papa drank one too many glasses of wine and raged about how I’d poisoned my mother’s womb, cursing her to only bear daughters.
“Let’s go with the white cake, raspberry filling, and Chantilly cream,” I insisted.
Mama shook her head, tears dripping down her nose. “That’s too common. Your father will hate it.”
“He thinks I’m his greatest shame, what does it matter?” I muttered.
“Gabriella? What did you say?” Mama reached for a tissue.
“Nothing.” I flashed her a reassuring smile and fidgeted with my horn pendant, sliding it along the chain around my neck. “I just think the white cake is traditional. And raspberry is a nice flavor.”
Plus, it was the color of blood. Which was likely going to be spilt at the wedding, regardless of how nice we made it. The groom had no problem opening his kinsman’s throat at dinner, why would the wedding feast stop him? He’d warned me what would happen if I tempted a monster.
The funny thing was, I didn’t remember consciously doing it.
Mama blew her nose. “No, it has to be perfect. It sets the tone for the other girls.”
Yeah, but Papa thinks I’m corrupting them.My wedding should be a disaster. That way he could bluster and shout about what not to do.
“I need to pray, Mama, before confession,” I blurted out, rising from my chair. “I see Father Giuseppe at one.”
“Such a good, pious girl.” Mama patted my cheek, eyes welling up. “If—if your father seems harsh, it’s because he loves you.”
I bit my tongue—hard—to keep from bursting out laughing. Was that what she told herself to cope with her husband? Such a big, fat lie!
“I just don’t understand why he’s letting Signor Morelli marry you off. Hemurderedsomeone! Right in front of us. During the salad!” Mama bordered on hysteria.
