“Yep.” I hand it to him without another look at the rack. “Wrap it up.”
Chapter 4
MATTEO
THE SUIT FITS AS IFit was made for me, and the scarf at my throat is knotted exactly how Amalia tied it back at the shop. I reach up and touch the knot, then leave it alone, because I know if I mess with it, she’ll probably notice and fix it in front of everyone.
I’m getting married today. What the actual fuck? It’s surreal.
I never once pictured this, since I gave up on the idea of marrying years ago. My father was always going to hand me off to whoever served him best. A daughter from some allied family or something. I figured one day he’d point at a girl I’d never met and tell me she was mine, and I’d nod and marry her, just to try to please him.
But this isn’t even the strangest version of how I imagined my wedding, so whatever. I run a hand down the front of the jacket and check the cuffs. The bruise on my cheek has faded to almost nothing now. A week of decent food and a real bed definitely helped. I should be grateful. And I am. A little. But I already know there’s going to be a problem, since I don’t do well with being told what to do.
My father ran our house like a dictator who enjoyed watching people flinch.Sit there. Eat that. Don’t talk back. Stand up straight when I’m speaking to you.He’d grab the back of my neck and squeeze to remind me he could break it if he wanted to, and I learned to go still and quiet and wait for it to be over. I got good at obeying him, but I never got good at liking it. And when I grew up, I fought him constantly.
And now I’ve signed up for more of the same, except this time it’s a woman holding the leash. She wants to control everything I do, and I doubt that’s going to work.
Amalia isn’t my father. The second I start treating her like him, I’ll end up doing something stupid. But she needs someone who’s not twitchy and resentful, and I bet she’ll be clever about it. There’s no cruelty in it for its own sake, which is more than I can say for the man who raised me.
She seems decent, even. Or well, as decent as anyone in this life gets. When I jerked away from her and apologized like an idiot, she didn’t mock me or poke around.
A knock sounds at the door, and Marco leans in. He’s the one Amalia actually trusts. I can tell, because he always watches everything and says little.
“They’re ready for you,” he says.
“Already?”
“It’s a small wedding.” His mouth twitches.
I take one more look in the mirror and follow him out. My eyebrows shoot up when I see the backyard. I figured a woman with this much money would throw the kind of wedding with white tents the size of houses, a band, and hundreds of guests she hates. But it’s just rows of white wooden chairs on the grass, split by an aisle that runs down to an arch covered in white and green at the far end. It’s almost cozy, and it surprises me that she’d want something this sweet for a marriage that’s really a business deal.
Or maybe that’s the point. Maybe she wants it to look real so everyone believes we’re marrying for love, or whatever.
The guests look at me as Marco leads me down the aisle. I know what they’re doing. They’re sizing me up, since I’m a stranger about to marry into the Petrelli name, and I give them the easy smile that makes people think I’m amused. Let them think I don’t have a single care in the world.
I take my spot under the arch next to an old man in a dark suit who nods at me. Marco moves off to the side, near enough to put a bullet in me if I do something Amalia doesn’t like. Most of the men out here are armed under their nice jackets. A Petrelli wedding is a big thing.
When the music starts, Amalia walks through the back doors, and all thoughts vanish from my mind. She’s fucking gorgeous. Her white dress is simple, and there’s no veil. She’s looking right at me as she comes down the aisle, her dark hair down around her shoulders. I’ve seen beautiful women. I grew up around them, but there’s just something about her...
I stare at her, and I can’t make myself look away. Fascinating.
She reaches the arch and stops in front of me, her dark eyes finding mine. I should say something charming or funny, because if I get her to like me, then maybe my life here will be better, but my brain offers nothing.
“You look amazing,” I manage.
The corner of her mouth lifts. “So do you.”
The officiant starts talking, and I tune him out because I’m too busy looking at Amalia. What happens after this? Will she expect a husband in the full sense or just on paper tonight? We never talked about that part. The whole arrangement was about her enemies, her family name, and the orders. Not once did either of us bring up what we’d actually do once the guests went home. Do I have a wedding night, or do I have a roommate who happens to own me? Or do we get separate rooms?
I find myself hoping it’s the first one, and that’s a dangerous thing to hope about a woman holding my whole life in her hand.
The officiant says my name, and my attention snaps back to him. Vows. Right.
I repeat what he says, looking straight into Amalia’s eyes. I sound like I mean every word, because if there’s one skill my father managed to beat into me, it’s how to lie with a straightface and a warm voice. The guests are watching. Whether they want to believe we’re really in love or this is just an arranged marriage is up to them. Let them guess.
She says her vows back to me, her voice steady. I don’t think she has wavered at anything in her life.
When I’m supposed to kiss her, I lean in, but she turns her head slightly and lifts her hand to my cheek to shield our mouths from view. Her lips brush my cheek instead, and her lips come close to my ear.
