I’m not surprised. Most of the men and women here only care about one thing, money. Nothing else matters to them. As long as they’re wrapped in designer labels and flashing diamonds, they couldn’t care less about the unfair game life plays with other people.
I sit at the bride’s table, my hands folded neatly in my lap. Fabiano hasn’t left my side since we entered the reception hall, and his presence is the only thing keeping me sane. I haven’t seen my husband since the church, not that I’m complaining. He’s probably off somewhere planning his next crime.
My gaze drifts over the crowd again. At one of the tables, Don Fernando, my father-in-law and the feared capo of the Bruni family, sits with my father and brothers. After nineteen years of living with my father, I know him too well. Behind that mask of calm indifference, he’s celebrating wildly inside, lighting fireworks in his heart over this twisted triumph.
I tear my eyes away from him and scan the room again.Carmen, Don Fernando’s wife, stands among a few politicians’ wives, chatting away with them. In her long gold dress that perfectly matches her blond hair, and with the regal way she walks and talks, she almost looks like a queen mother. Almost. If she were Carlo’s real mother, she could earn that title, but she’s not.
Across the hall, I see Brando, Carlo’s half-brother.He’s standing off to the side, casually sipping champagne while openly staring at a young waitress’s ass. From the wide, toothy smile she shoots him, I can already tell how their night will end.
Brando is only eighteen, but like every other man in this family, he started using women to satisfy his desires from a very young age. He’s as tall and broad-shouldered as Carlo, but his face is all his mother; blue eyes, light olive skin, and blond hair.
I sigh, frustration bubbling in my chest. Where ishe? I haven’t seen him since the church. Even Rafael, his ever-present assistant, is nowhere to be found.
“You okay, Lucia?” my brother Fabiano asks, placing his hand gently over mine.
I smile at his innocent, young face. I still don’t understand how someone as sweet as Fabiano came from a man as wicked as our father. Sixteen years, and he hasn’t taken after him at all. I can only hope it stays that way.
“I’m fine, sweetheart,” I say softly. “Just a little tired. This dress is so heavy, and I’ve been wearing it for hours.”
“Go to the bridal suite and take it off for a bit,” he suggests.
Honestly, I’ve been thinking the same thing for a while now. Scanning the crowd again, I debate whether it’s a smart idea to slip away. But as I watch the sea of faces, none of them even glance in my direction. It’s obvious, I’m the least important person here tonight.
I make up my mind. I’ll slip away and be back before anyone notices.
After pressing a quick kiss to Fabiano’s cheek, I push back my chair to stand. Just as I reach the base of the stairs, a rough hand clamps down on my arm, spinning me around. I tilt my head back as far as it will go, my eyes widening in shock.
It’s Carlo.
His face is blank, but his gray eyes are anything but. They’re cold and threatening.
“Where are you going?” he asks, his cutting tone twisting the question into something more like,Who the hell gave you permission to leave?
In the two years I’ve been engaged to this man, we haven’t spoken enough to fill one conversation. I was never worth his time, not even enough for him to bother knowing me before deciding to own me. Maybe that’s why I’m gaping at him now, unable to force a single word out.
When his hand tightens around my arm, I come to my senses and clear my throat.
“I… I thought it would be better if I…”
“Don’t,” he cuts me off. “Don’t think. Don’t decide. From this moment on, every move you make, every decision you even think about, will require my permission. Do you understand?”
He doesn’t raise his voice, but the authority in his tone rattles me to my core. My eyes sting as tears well up, blurring his face.
“Keep it together. Don’t make a scene here,” he hisses.
I blink quickly, forcing back the tears threatening to spill.
“May I go to the bridal suite to use the restroom?” I ask, my voice barely making it out.
God, listen to yourself—begging like a child. A lifetime spent asking my father for permission to breathe, and now here I am, begging someone even worse.
His grip loosens, and he releases my arm. “Go, but don’t take too long.”
I glance up at him cautiously. “I need to take off my dress and put it back on. It might take a while.”
His gaze sweeps over my body, quick and impersonal. Then he gives a curt nod and walks off.
I turn around and hurry up the stairs as fast as my legs will carry me. The bridal suite is grand, dripping with extravagance, but I don’t care about any of it. I close the door shut, lean against it and take a deep breath of relief. Finally, alone.
