If weddings are funerals, I am the grim reaper’s bitch.
My feet hurt, but worse than that, my fucking boobs hurt, and for some reason, all I can think of is that one quote from a Disney movie.
“More good women have been lost to marriage than to war, famine, disease, and disaster.”Goddamn, who knew I’d be thinking of Cruella de Vil on my wedding day. Though, I do have to say the woman might have been right about something despite her psychotic issues with dalmatians.
Maybe you could skin one of the men holding you here and wear them as a coat, Mean Daisy suggests, pressing the tip of her finger to a switchblade that has magically appeared out of nowhere and rotating it until a bead of red appears. Then, with a grin my way, she lifts the bloodied tip of the digit to her mouth and sucks it into cushiony red lips.
Bitch, I snap.
She smiles.Jealous much?she inquires, and okay, yeah, she’s right. Putting the blade back to her finger, she arches a brow myway.Just give me the reins, and I’ll have you out of here in no time at all.
My inner psycho is my own personal Mephistopheles, and like the truly enlightened woman that I am, I ignore her bid to murder and skin people… for now… and return to scanning the room.
The reception that I should’ve been serving at is a breeding ground for uncomfortable questions that I don’t know how to answer. One of the mafia men who had brought me my gown had said they spoke with my manager. Did that mean I was fired now? I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the uptight woman who usually ran these types of gigs since.
I stare down at the ink staining my fingers from the papers I signed immediately following the wedding from hell with me as Satan’s bride—that is, if Satan looked like a fallen angel.
Wait… Satanwasa fallen angel,I remind myself with a shake of my head. Damn, I need to remember these things before I make comparisons.
“Smile, sweetheart.” Giulio’s best man—Dante—stops at my side as curious wedding guests murmur to themselves, their eyes scanning me from the bottom of my ill-fitting dress to my mussed hair. “It’s a party.”
My lips stretch into a faux smile as an older couple eyes me with serious confusion.
Nothing to see here, folks. Just your average bride and not at all a scared-witless girl who may or may not have witnessed a crime a few hours ago.
“They’re wondering if they know your family,” Dante imparts. He pauses, and then asks, “Speaking of, do you have any? It may be difficult to explain this to them.”
I reach for a champagne flute from one of the passing waitresses, wearing the exact uniform I’d been dressed in earlier. They don’t even seem to recall that I’d been working alongside them a few hours ago, or if they do, then they’ve been told to act otherwise. “I’m family free,” I tell Dante as I lift the glass to my lips and inhale half of its contents in one gulp. “So, we’re both off the hook for that explanation.”
“Interesting,” he says.
I arch a brow. “Why is that interesting?” I ask. “There are millions of orphans and foster kids in America.”
Dante hums in the back of this throat as he brings his own glass to his lips. Eyeing him, I wait for him to make another comment, and when he doesn’t, I turn my attention to the reception again.
It’s thanks to the foster system that I now have Mean Daisy to look after me. Getting the shit kicked out of you daily in an overpopulated foster home by both the guardians and other kids would make anyone lose it a bit inside. Now, she’s the one in my head keeping me calm as I face this man who most likely knows about how I made it to this reception—dead bride and all.
If Giulio is part of the mafia, then no doubt his best man isn’t just an average groomsman, either. He’s just as dangerous as my now-husband. A shiver skates down my spine, and I drain the rest of my glass before setting it down on a nearby table. “When can I leave?”
Dante arches a brow. “Tired of the reception already?” he asks. I make a face, and he chuckles. “Let’s go find out, then, shall we, sweetheart?” He finishes off his drink, and then placesa hand on my lower back, pushing me forward into the crowd of wedding guests still milling about in the hall.
He leads me toward where Giulio is standing amid a few of the guests, talking in low tones. “G,” Dante says, capturing his attention the moment we draw near. Giulio lifts his head, his gaze sharpening on me first, before moving to his friend. “I believe your bride would like to steal you away.” I glare at him, and Dante smiles. That wasnotwhat I asked or wanted. I do not want to steal anyone away—well, except for myself. I would very much like to steal myself far, far away from this place.
The group all chuckle with amusement and an exchange of glances that I recognize from the few big family functions Michelle took me to back in college. These people have the same gray hair and conservative dress and expressions. Their looks are knowing—as if they’re not at all surprised by a bride’s desire to be alone with her groom.Oh, if only they knew.
A wide masculine hand lands on the small of my back as Giulio moves closer. The heat of his palm burrows through the layers of fabric separating us from skin-to-skin contact. “Is that so?” Giulio says before glancing down at me.
His eyes are like ice chips trying to read into my soul. My insides quiver with awareness. His model-worthy face makes every single one of my girly senses stand up and cheer.Rah! Rah! Get him in bed!I beat the dumb bitches back with a solid dose of reality. The reminder that he’s dangerous doesn’t seem to make my insides less attracted, unfortunately. “Then, by all means, let’s go.”
My thighs clench in response to his deep baritone. I remain silent even as I throw Dante a look that I hope he reads well.The look should say, “Are you stupid? I wanted to be saved, not thrown to the wolves!”
Dante’s smile is just as feral as the one on the man next to me. I should’ve known better than to trust a criminal. I swear, if these fuckers do end up killing me, I’msocoming back to haunt their asses. Dante waves the two of us off as the group converges around him now that Giulio has stepped back.
Giulio nudges me toward the exit, the music having been lulled to a soft background noise to allow the others in the room to converse comfortably. We make it ten feet to the exit before a tall, skinny man with a sagging jaw steps into our path.
At my side, Giulio goes still, his fingers contracting against my back in a way that, once again, makes my insides flutter. How would it feel to have his hands on my naked skin? Then, my attention returns to the man who’s stopped us.
“Constantin.” Giulio’s greeting is tense at best, but the man, Constantin, doesn’t seem offended. Instead, he smiles warmly, the edges of his dark mustache, lined in gray, curling at the ends with the expression.
