Page 48 of Twisted Vows

My lips still feel bruised from the kiss, and my heart hasn’t slowed down.

The bath takes twenty minutes, and then I’m thrust into another storm.

The wedding dress is a white-satin boned bodice that’s waiting on a mannequin. Who even knows where they found this gown or how they altered it so fast. As they lace me up, the delicate fabric snakes up my arms like vines.

When I step in front of the mirror wearing this heavy dress, I find a stranger staring back.

This isn’t me.

This isn’t how I envisioned myself on my wedding day. For one, the dress is about fifty times more expensive than anything I could’ve afforded on my teacher’s salary. Beyond that, this is not the groom I envisioned or the circumstance I pictured myself walking down the aisle in.

A sob breaks loose, and the maids go quiet for a second before murmuring to each other in rapid Italian and going about their jobs. One pretends not to notice. The other two glimpse away, still chattering.

Once the door opens again and another woman enters, instant silence settles over the room. She’s clearly a septuagenarian. Her silver hair’s wound tight, and she walks in grasping her cane like a scepter. Her eyes shine like polished coins, yet they manage to calm me somewhat.

“Mi chiamo Rosa Benedetti,” she says, her voice velvet-wrapped steel. “You can call me Nonna.”

The maids scatter.

Nonna Rosa shuffles closer, places a hand on my shoulder, and smiles. “I know this probably feels overwhelming, my girl. My wedding wasn’t what I expected either.” Her eyes go distant as she loses herself in the memory. “Arranged for my own protection, my father said. I hated my husband for three years. Then I loved him for forty.”

“Did he kidnap you first?” I mutter, going for sarcasm but mostly just sniffling.

Nonna’s smile doesn’t falter. “Worse. He showed up late, not because of the bar fight during his bachelor party, which the stupid man started to defend my honor. No, he was late mostly because he couldn’t pick the right color of tie to match his black eye.”

We both chuckle, and as I gaze into her eyes, I feel almost safe.

She nods at me and points her stick to the door. “I know these aren’t great circumstances for a wedding, my dear, but Enzo Ricci is a good man, and he’ll do well by you.”

For some reason, I believe every word she says, so I enter the hallway with my arm linked to hers. We pass the guards lining the walls, and two of them start to flank us, guiding the way toward the Benedetti chapel.

With every tiny stride I take in heels a size too big, my breath hollows out, my heart thundering in tandem until we arrive at the awe-inspiring chapel.

Light pours through the stained glass, casting long, reverent ribbons of red, blue, and gold hues across the marble floor. Sculptures of saints stare from the walls with knowing eyes, and lush roses line the pews, their sweet smell tangled with the incense in the air.

I wonder how many generations of these cold-blooded people have knelt here with hope in their throats and fear in their hearts.

I haven’t been religious in years. My mother was the believer, and her sickness meant I traded Sunday Mass for hospital corridors and the slow, mechanical hiss of machines. My faith slipped away when she did, and standing here now feels like reliving a memory.

Too many people fill the pews. Some faces I recognize from the compound, but most are strangers. They’re all watchful and tense, as if they’re bearing witness to some sort of crime. Every pair of eyes tracks me as we stroll by, my hand looped through Nonna Rosa’s arm. Her grip remains warm and steady as she guides me down the aisle toward the man that is my salvation.

My husband-to-be waits for me at the altar, speaking in hushed tones to the priest.

He’s in a perfectly tailored black suit that he’s paired with a crisp shirt.

He’s got no tie on, but he’s combed back and greased his salt-and-pepper wolf’s cut.

In that slice of light, he’s absolutely the perfect dream groom, and my lungs forget how to work.

How can he look so beautiful, calm, and collected? Like he’s done this before. Or like this is just another one of his missions.

I stop for a moment so my eyes can drink in that chiseled face and sharp jaw, the broad shoulders filling the suit, and the dangerous grace that oozes from him.

He senses me and turns until his eyes find mine.

His gaze travels over my face, down to the dress, and back up again. His jaw tightens, and I swear he gulps.

For one second, I imagine he’s not a mafia killer with blood on his hands. He could be an investment banker or a wall street stockbroker who fell madly in love with me when he came to pick up his niece at kindergarten.