Otello shifts nervously on his feet, moving slightly closer. “Actually, Signore,” he begins, “there may be a solution.”
I jerk my head in his direction. “Speak.” It’s one word, but it does the job, and Otello begins talking in harsh whispers so fast that his words collide with one another as if he’s using one breath to say it all.
“The waitstaff I mentioned is one of the waitresses who was hired for the reception—she’s seen the body, and we’ve kept her contained.” Otello stops to take a shaky breath before continuing. “I know we try not to involve civilians with our business, but if the girl is a witness to the crime, then we can’t let her leave. Perhaps she…” He drifts off, but his meaning is clear.
“Take me to her,” I demand. “Now.”
Otello nods and steps down from the dais. I follow, and as I do, I hear Dante’s mellow voice ring out at my back as he attends to the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll please remain seated, the ceremony will begin in a few moments. Giulio has to take care of a small issue, and then we’ll be back on schedule.”
Yes, we’ll be back on schedule soon—if the girl is amenable to our plans, and if she issingle. If she’s not… well, she’ll soon find herself with little other choice.
Don Luciani’s twisted view of family and expectations is a tightening noose around my neck as I follow Otello toward thebridal suite and my potential bride. I never thought I’d see the day when I’d have to not only marry aciviliangirl—my lips tighten at the reminder of her innocence—but threaten her with death if she refuses.
The idea of marriage sours in my gut like expired milk. Were God not an understanding Being—and I have to assume He is considering He’s yet to killmefor the things I’ve done—I’d have no doubt He’d strike me down the second I enter the chapel with my captive bride. But in this world, we all make sacrifices for the greater good—even if that means marrying a complete and total stranger.
2
DAISY
Dear life, fuck your lemons.Squeezing them in people’s eyes isn’t working.Please send a shotgun, instead.Thanks. Xoxo, Daisy.
Calm down.” The man who shoved me into a nearby chair the moment the older man—Otello, I dimly remember—disappeared casts me an annoyed look when I gasp out a breath and settle my head deeper between my knees.
I’m doing everything I can not to fall into a full-blown panic attack. I mean, who in the world wants to see that anyway? I guess I’ve already experienced death today; might as well check another box off the bucket list of things I never planned to do or experience.
Also, let’s take a vote. When in the history of ever has a woman calmed down after you told her to do so? No worries. I’ll wait for you to answer. No one, that’s right. But telling him that feels about as useful as asking for help from the dead woman still sprawled out on the floor. I hope they don’t plan to keep her there much longer.
“Youcalm down!” I half cough, half sob as tears prick at my eyes.
Stab him, Mean Daisy orders, side-eyeing the prick.In the guts. And then wrap them around his neck like you’re stringing lights on a Christmas tree.
No, I reply, because unlike my inner psycho bitch, I recognize it’s probably not a good idea to yell at a man who might kill me, but I’m also not thinking too rationally at the moment.
Kill me. They’re going to kill me. Oh God, I’m too young to die. I’m too—hungry, I recognize a moment later as my stomach grumbles in displeasure.
A groan rumbles up my throat. Yes, I’m too hungry to die. I can’t die hungry; that’s just cruelty on top of cruelty. I glance mournfully at the old wall clock hanging above the door. If things had gone as planned, I’d be finishing up in the reception hall by now and on my way to break for lunch before the wedding guests flood in.
The thought of my homemade peanut butter and jelly sitting in a Ziploc bag in my purse only serves as another reminder of how screwed I am. A small whimper escapes me, and I curl my arms around my middle. PB&J on white bread and a bag of plain ol’ potato chips sound divine right about now. The sweet jelly and the salty chips dance round and round in little happy, sentient, jerking movements in my mind.
Lifting my head, I peer at the two men still left in the room, both of them quietly talking in low tones. “Hey,” I croak, my voice thick with the flux of my emotions taking over now that I’m totally expecting to die. If I’m going to die, I deserve a last meal, right?
They turn and look at me, the younger of the two—a man likely in his thirties with short, dark hair that’s shaved practically to baldness—answers me. “What?” he demands.
“I’m hungry,” I tell him. “If you guys are going to kill me, don’t you think you should offer me a last meal or something? I mean, even murderers on death row get a last meal.” And I’m not a murderer—at least, not in real life. Video games and my imagination? For sure. But in reality? I’m an innocent bystander.
Brown eyes blink back at me, but instead of responding, he merely turns toward the door as it opens. The older man from earlier comes walking in behind a tall, well-built man with a shock of jet-black hair and angular features that belong on a runway rather than a mobster’s wedding.
Holy shit—they kidnapped a model. Why would the mob kidnap a model? Does he owe them money? Why would they bring him here?
The man turns his attention to me, and wickedly brilliant ice-blue eyes meet mine. My whole body goes quiet as our gazes collide—or at least, it would if it weren’t for the riotous hunger in my gut. A loud gurgle sound erupts from my belly, and heat steals over my cheeks. I don’t know why. There’s nothing embarrassing about being hungry, and Ididwarn them.
The man—model?—doesn’t appear that concerned with his current predicament, or that he’s stumbled upon a woman being held hostage while another lies on the floor—dead,literally, to the world. He strides farther into the room with only a cursory glance at the dead bride on the floor. No reaction, words, or scream? Weird. It’s really his lack of reaction to the dead body that tells me he’s not a second captive as I originally thought.
No normal person just looks at a body and scowls inannoyance, which means this man is not normal—not at all. He steps over the white-heeled foot of the would-be medical cadaver and then comes to stand over me.
Straightening where I sit, I quickly wipe my cheeks with the backs of my hands and sniff indelicately. “Are you the one in charge?”
Confidence, I try to project.I am total, undeniable confidence…that is, if confidence had tear streaks down her face, cheap, smudged makeup, and a weird sort of hive reaction to stress starting to make itself known on the back of one of her arms.Yup. Total confidence.
