It doesn’t feel okay at all.
"Will there be cake?" Laura asks, and there's so much hope in her voice it makes my chest hurt.
"Probably," I tell her, making myself smile. "Those fancy ones with too much frosting."
"The kind that makes your teeth hurt?" She giggles.
"Exactly that kind."
She settles back against the seat, satisfied for now. I wish I could find comfort in something as simple. I wish I was still young enough to believe weddings meant celebration instead of transaction, that marriage was about love instead of leverage.
But I learned better at nineteen. I learnt so much that I know that I want nothing to do with it anymore.
Father shifts in his seat. "You will comport yourself appropriately."
He's talking to me, not Laura. "Of course."
"No scenes."
"I wouldn't dream of it, Father." I drawl but we both know that’s a lie.
I'm dreaming of several, actually.
His eyes find mine in the rearview mirror and the warning there is clear.
Pfft.
The memory tries to claw its way up but I shove it down hard. Not here. Not now. Not with Laura sitting beside me vibrating with nervous energy because this is her first real public appearance and she doesn't understand yet what it costs to be Salvatore De Luca's daughter. Most people don't even know she exists.
I think happy thoughts, like the YouTube therapists teach.
Bunnies, pink fluffy bunnies, chocolates and pizza….
The car turns onto a smaller road. Gravel crunches under the tires. Trees press close on either side, their branches forming a canopy overhead that turns the sunlight into scattered coins of gold. This isn't the suburbs. This is countryside, remote and quiet, the kind of place you go when you don't want witnesses.
Okay, where the hell are we going? Seriously, where? Because this looks less like a wedding venue and more like somewhere they bury the bodies.
My stomach drops.What the heck is happening?
"Where is this church?" I keep my voice level. Curious, not confrontational.
"Does it matter?" Father still doesn't look back.
"Just making conversation."
"Curiosity is a dangerous habit, Gia."
So is raising daughters like chess pieces, but here we are.
I almost say it. The words line up right at the back of my teeth and I can taste how good it would feel to let them out. I glance at Laura instead. She's watching me with those careful eyes, reading my face the way she always does when she's trying to decide if she should be scared, and that's what stops me. Not obedience. Not fear. Her.
I swallow it down and go quiet, chewing the insides of my mouth.
Laura's hand finds mine again and I hold it, her pulse jumping against my palm. She's scared. I don't blame her.
The trees thin and suddenly we're pulling up to a small stone church, weathered and ancient, surrounded by cars that most people will never see in their entire lives because… why the hell not? Black sedans. Dark SUVs. Lambos. All of them screaming money and violence even in their stillness.
My pulse kicks up hard. I know this feeling. The way my chest goes tight, the way my breathing wants to speed up and I have to force it to stay even. It's fear wrapped in expensive fabric, terror wearing pearls.
