My eyes burn with the urge to cry. Fuck, am I about to start my period? I always get emotional when bleeding out of my uterus. That has to explain the overwhelming urge to break down.
Those tears halt in an instant when, instead of a gun, the man withdraws a handkerchief. Then, with more than a little confusion, I watch as he gets to his feet and steps back over to the dead woman. Bending down, he uses the handkerchief to slide something off her hand. A ring, I realize.
I’m gonna be sick.
Returning to me, the man quickly smooths the fabric over the ring before displaying it for me to see. I glance from the dead woman’s now empty hand to the obvious engagement ring he’s holding up. There’s no matching wedding band, but that’s supposed to come later, right?
My head is ringing with shock as the man reaches for my hand, pulling it away from my body. I want to resist and tell him to fuck off with a dead girl’s jewelry as he slides the ring onto my finger and holds my hand in his much larger one. What in theInceptionbullshit is happening?
“Then, Miss Daisy,” he murmurs, “let’s get you ready for our wedding.”
Our fuckingwhat?
3
DAISY
Karmasutra: [noun] a list of all the ways I’m getting fucked in the ass by Karma and life, sans lube.
I don’t know what I did to piss Karma off, but I really,reallyneed to find that girl’s address so I can send a very heartfelt apology and maybe one of those edible bouquets. Whatever act of arrogance I performed to put me on her shit list is definitely not worth this level of fuckery.
I’m currently standing in a wedding dress, and a godawful wedding dress at that. Where the hell a bunch of mobsters found a wedding dress on such short notice, I doubt I’ll ever know, but it must be something straight off the rack because the damn thing doesn’t fit. It’s tight where it shouldn’t be and could stand to lose a layer or two of the big tulle ruffles that scratch at my legs. This dress is more torture device than it is a once-in-a-lifetime kind of gown.
Before standing where I currently am—right outside the double doors that lead into the small private chapel—I was forced into a separate room not dissimilar to the one where I found theoriginal bride. Half an hour later, a sweaty, red-faced Gabriel—the younger man who had been in the room with me, the other stooges, and the dead lady—arrived with a large black bag.
“It was the best I could find under the circumstances,” he mumbled to Otello as he unzipped and shoved the damn white contraption of hell into my arms before stalking out.
Now, here I am in a big, poofy, Cinderella-style wedding dress. Cinderella was never my favorite princess—give me a Merida or Moana any day. The tight vise of the fabric around my chest squeezes my ladies together into one big uni-boob that threatens to combust with each breath I inhale. The large skirts around my thighs and calves protrude outward due to the layers and layers of tulle. I reach down absently and scratch at the back of one leg before Otello nudges me to straighten.
If this were my wedding, I would not be wearing this.
Itisyour wedding, Mean Daisy comments.
Oh shit. She’s right. Well, fuck a duck.
You can still get out of this, you know, she says. Her attention on the man at my side has me looking that way, too. Otello is stoic, as if he’s trying not to look at me lest I start crying. I’m not much of a crier. Never have been. Even when I want to cry, I shove that shit back. Why? Well, because foster kids have no one to cry to, that’s why. The only reason I’d been even remotely close earlier is because I’m pretty sure shark week is on its way—even non-criers can’t help emotional bullshit when their period hits.
I’m not supposed to be here, I think, half numb by my befuddled panic.I’m supposed to be setting up the reception hall as a waitress—not the freaking bride!
So, do something about it, my inner psycho insists.I bet he has a gun on him. You could get close, just act like you stumbled or something, and slip your hand inside his suit jacket, find it, flick off the safety, and then—she mimes the illusion of pointing a gun with her fingers—Pop! Pop! It’s done. Before anyone realizes what’s happened, you’ll be gone.
I sigh. This isn’t the first time she’s suggested murder. It’s a wonder I haven’t taken her up on the idea before now.
Yeah, and then what, smart-ass?I reply, trying for reason.They know who I am, and you can bet your sweet ass they’ll come after me.
She crosses her arms over her chest and plops down onto the floor of my mind with a scowl.Fine, then marry the guy, she says.Why should I care?
Because she is me, and whatever happens to me happens to her, too.
“Don’t worry, Giulio is a good man,” Otello says, as if saying so will offer me a modicum of peace. Considering that I suspect he’s only standing next to me on the chance that I decide to run, I’m not sure how to take his words. He pats my arm in an almost fatherly sort of movement. It’s nice, even if he is a mobster about to haul my ass down the aisle to marry his boss. “He will take care of you.”
Giulio.The man’s name rolls around in my head. I’m marrying a man named Giulio. Totally not the name I would’ve attached to the dark-headed, olive-toned man who had given me the ring currently sitting on my finger. That’s the one thing thatdoesfit in this entire ensemble, ironically enough.
He should have been a Fabio—like the dude gracing the covers on my collection of old romance novels hidden under mybed back home. I could’ve made fun of a name like Fabio in retaliation for what he said about my name. After all, it wasn’t likeI’dchosen it. It came on my birth certificate—minus any parentage because, yeah, even the woman who birthed me refused to acknowledge my existence.
Another thought occurs to me, and I turn to Otello, the skirts of the big, both-too-large-and-too-small ballgown swishing around my legs. “What’s his last name?” I blurt out.
Otello just frowns at me, his face pinching as if that information is too much for someone like me to know.
