“Papa!Papa!” my sisters sang in chorus. “Aren’t we beautiful?”
“Bellissime.” His warm smile raked over them before dropping several degrees as it landed on me.
I rose.
“Will I do?”Am I a fitting sacrifice?
“It’s time to line up,” he announced, gesturing for the girls to scuttle out of the room.
After the line of daughters brushed past him, he snatched my mother’s arm. “Fruit punch? Really, Marcella?”
My mother blanched. “I just thought it would be a nice touch,” she stuttered.
His fingers dug into the long sleeves she preferred to wear. I didn’t have to guess why.
“Get ready. I’ll seat you in a minute,” he snapped.
My mother bent her head.
I ached for her. I really did. But the solution was simple in my mind. Poison in his supper, micro doses, would have taken care of the problem years ago.
His malicious gaze turned on me. “Let’s go.”
Why the hell haven’tIbeen poisoning him the last eight months?
That was going to be my biggest regret today. So focused on my own heartache, I didn’t have the mental capacity to turn vicious. Maledizione! A missed opportunity. It would have solved a hell of a lot of problems.
There was always my husband.
My fingers played over the golden horn hidden on my chest. The lace neckline brushed my collar bone, so the pendant was concealed. I could do it. Taking a life wasn’t hard. Poison him, act the grieving widow, and take his money. It seemed that my reading choices were going to be helpful after all. True crime and thrillers. I could murder my husband and get away with it.
But everyone in the two organizations would be looking at me. There would be no running with so much focus.
Papa took Mama’s arm and marched her into the sanctuary.
My younger sisters cheered him on, while the older ones gushed at the display of chivalry. I looked away from the brutal sight of his fingers digging into her forearm.
Dust motes shimmered in the evening light. The vaulted ceiling of the knave was filled with hot, stale air as the western sunbeams streamed through the high windows. The hushed, vapid excitement radiated from my sisters as we waited. I tuggedat the long sleeves, desperately wanting to rip the material free. I couldn’t breathe.
Didn’t they feel the danger, barely suppressed beyond the doors? Two groups of people who weren’t bound by history, blood, or even religion were forced to sit across from one another. A courthouse or hell, even an outdoor wedding would have been better. Easier to contain the tension that threatened to explode.
Pushing past my sisters, I cracked the door. Merciful saints! They were openly glaring at one another! Our home church was packed with hostility. It wouldn’t have mattered if we were across town at the Irish’s cathedral. This was a mistake.
A black shape loomed at the steps of the altar. One glance, and my stomach twisted.
Papa came back from walking Mama to her seat. I scooted back before he saw me peeking through the crack. When he pulled the doors open, the music started.
“Ragazze, move,” Papa instructed.
Reality snapped into place. Two by two, my sisters began their march. The youngest pairs in white, the older ones swathed in dusty rose. Only Carmela, my maid of honor, walked by herself. She paused to press a kiss to my cheek before making her entrance.
Papa stepped forward, elbow extended.
I froze.
My feet didn’t move.
“Gabriella,” the vicious bite cracked sharp and low.
