So, why can't I stop watching her?
She saunters over to me. "The rehearsal went well.”
I grunt in response, keeping my eyes fixed anywhere but on her. What I want to say is that I think all this pomp and circumstance is shit. I don’t need to rehearse standing at the altar. I don’t need a dinner to commemorate it. I just need to say “I do” and sign the fucking license.
The waiter motions for us to sit as the meal is ready. I do the minimum of guiding Isabella to her seat, careful not to touch her.
Marco raises his glass. "To the future Don and Dona Dante!"
Glasses clink.
I sit next to her, my elbow nearly touching hers. I shift away under the guise of adjusting my chair.
"I was thinking," she begins quietly while others chat around us, "about our living arrangements after?—"
"It's all been arranged," I cut in. "My housekeeper prepared the east wing."
Her fingers tense around her fork. "The east wing. Not your?—"
"Separate accommodations would be best." I take a deliberate sip of wine, refusing to meet her gaze.
Someone asks about honeymoon plans. I answer before she can speak. "We’ll have a week in Capri."
"I wasn't aware." Isabella holds a brittle edge to her voice.
I signal the waiter for more wine. "It’s all about tradition and show."
Throughout dinner, she tries again. Comments about the food. Questions about the ceremony. Each time, I respond with clipped sentences or deflect by engaging others at the table. I know I’m being a dick, but the sooner she understands that she’s not going to have a relationship with me like my brothers have with their wives, the better.
By dessert, she's stopped trying. The light in her eyes has dimmed, replaced by something harder. Good. Let her learn now what this marriage truly is.
Yet with each rebuff, something twists in my gut that feels too much like guilt. It's necessary, I remind myself. It's protection.
After dinner, the wedding party continues to chat and mingle in the room. For fuck’s sake, I just want to go home.
"Should we start taking bets on how long before you crack that ice queen persona?" Adriano sidles up beside me as I watchIsabella across the room, chatting with Eva. "Or did you get cold feet about the whole marriage thing and freeze her out first?"
I drain my whiskey. "Shut up."
"Ah, there's the warm brotherly love I've missed." Adriano signals the bartender for two more drinks. "Seriously, though, what's with the North Pole routine? The girl looks like she's waiting for you to announce her execution date."
"It's not a routine. It's clarity."
Adriano raises an eyebrow. "Clarity?"
"She needs to understand what this is. A business arrangement." I take the fresh drink. "She's barely eighteen. She has her head filled with fairy tales about love and happily ever after." I purposefully leave out that my brothers and sisters are the source of her flights of marital fancy.
"And God forbid anyone believe in those," Adriano mutters.
"In our world? Yes, God fucking forbid." I lower my voice. "She's Marco Vitale's daughter. You think I can just forget that, trust her?"
Adriano follows my gaze to where Isabella laughs at something Eva says. Her smile transforms her entire face, making her look even younger, making me feel even more perverted for taking her virginity.
"She's just a kid," I continue. "She doesn't understand what she's walking into."
"Maybe," Adriano concedes. "Or maybe you're the one who doesn't understand."
I scoff. "Please, enlighten me with your infinite wisdom."
