ONE
Lucia
The black Mercedes comes to a stop in front of the ancient church. I stare at the tall, intricately engraved doors, and all I can see are the gates of hell, flames waiting to devour me.
Someone opens the car door, and sunlight filters through the sheer white veil covering my face. The day is warm and sunny, but I feel a chill that cuts straight to my bones.
I can’t make myself move. I’ve rehearsed this day a thousand times, but my feet stay rooted. My pulse races like prey that knows the hunter’s already too close.
A firm hand wraps around my arm, guiding me out of the car with just enough pressure to remind me I don’t really have a choice. I glance down at that hand. There’s nothing gentle about it; no flicker of care, no emotion at all.
It was meant to be my protector, a shield against others’ cruelty. But now it’s the same hand dragging me to the altar of my sacrifice, a place from which I’ll never return.
“Get it together, Lucia. You know exactly who’ll pay the price if you make a scene,” he mutters under his breath.
Of course, I know who my father is threatening. My brother, my dear brother. His own son. The only person I’d give up everything for. The only reason I’m standing here, walking toward my executioner like I’m on autopilot.
The bridal march begins to play, and I let my father lead me into the church without resistance. The long red carpet stretches ahead, lined with lavish, expensive bouquets on either side. I wonder how long these flowers will last, perhaps just long enough to decorate my funeral.
Guests on both sides rise out of respect. Respect for the poor girl walking straight into a tragic fate. I lower my head, too tense to look at the man standing at the end of the aisle. The man who will be my husband in a few minutes.
My fiancé is a man of great renown. A successful Italian businessman and the next capo of one of the most powerful mafia families in Europe. But his notoriety isn’t for any of those titles. No.
His reputation comes from something far darker: his wives. Or rather, his dead wives.Two women who, not long aftermarrying him, ended their own lives, supposedly driven to it by his cruelty.The same fate waiting for me.
Yes, that’s what he’s most infamous for, and disturbingly, it’s also what makes him so admired. Most men in the mafia worship him like a god. Carlo Bruni. Better known asThe Wife-Killer.
Finally, we reach the end of the foreboding aisle. My father takes my hand and places it in Carlo’s. Our skin touches. Every nerve screams to pull back, but there’s no escape. I muster every shred of courage left in me, raise my chin, and meet his gaze.
I don’t know why he feels the need to amplify his intimidation by shaving his head to a sharp gleam, like his face alone isn’t terrifying enough.
His expression gives nothing away, but his gray eyes tell the truth. This man is a killer. No amount of designer suits stretched over his broad shoulders can mask the predator within. It’s written all over him. Every inch of Carlo Bruni radiates danger, and all he’s missing is a scythe to complete the image of Death himself.
His stare burns. I drop my gaze. Even with a brother and a cousin, men who share his blood, he still chose Maxim, his friend and partner in crime, to stand by his side as best man. Of course he did. They’re a perfect match, like a lock and its key.
As the priest starts droning on about the sanctity of marriage and all that nonsense, I glance toward the first row on the left, looking for a sliver of comfort. That’s where my detached father sits, flanked by my three even more detached older brothers, and finally, my younger brother.Fabiano.
The suit makes him look older, his blond hair slicked back perfectly. But it’s his worried blue eyes that undo me, squeezing my chest tight. He shouldn’t be like this. He should always be smiling, always be happy. He deserves to live, to laugh,and to have a future that doesn’t start and end in this nightmare.
For the first time today, I smile, really smile, at him. One of those smiles I know warms his heart every time. Thank God, it works. I see the tension drain from his face, his shoulders relaxing as his whole body softens.
The weight of a stare pressing down on me makes my gaze drift across the space before landing on a pair of black eyes. Something heavy drops inside me, sinking from my chest straight into my gut. My poor heart lets out a hopeless cry, so loud it drowns out everything else in my ears.
Those eyes belong to Antonio Bruni, the cousin of the man I’m about to marry. But why are they brimming with hostility? Maybe it’s just the Bruni way. They seem to hate everyone and everything.
Does he know who I am? Does he remember what I was to him before they forced me into this marriage? I don’t know. And I probably never will.
The priest’s voice rings out: “Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?
My voice trembles as I whisper the words that seal my fate,“I do.”
The priest skips the part where Carlo and I are supposed to exchange vows, where we should promise to love and honor each other. Of course, Carlo Bruni doesn’t bother with vows. I’m just his now, no ceremony needed.
He takes my hand and slides a gold ring onto my finger, its twenty tiny diamonds catching the light with a delicate glint. The ring can’t weigh more than a fraction of an ounce, but to me, it feels like a thousand pounds pressing on my finger, like the weight of a future I was never allowed to choose.
***
The room buzzes with joy. People laugh, carefree and oblivious, dancing, drinking, and eating like this is the wedding of two soulmates. Like there’s anything worth celebrating tonight.
