Page 21 of Mafia Bride
If only the day were different, with a different beautiful man. One with windswept hair flecked with the sun, bright blue eyes, a jaw shaped by moral strength and kindness and love etched in all the creases of his smile. Zio would walk me down the aisle, and I would feel like a beautiful princess, floating to my groom.
In this beautiful, perfect dream, I’d be wearing this same, perfect dress, in this same, glorious church with these same two spires piercing the endless blue sky.
“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” I say out loud, trying to convince myself. Because none of those things happened and I don’t want to cry through my entire wedding.
“It sure is!” Gia chirps, gathering my train.
I want my zia.
No, I want my mother. I want my sister. I want my father. I want them to surround me and cry happy tears, so I can say, “Don’t cry, Mama. You’re gaining a son.” And my papa would wipe them all back and walk me down the aisle.
Their absence threatens to topple me over, but Santino’s threats on my aunt and uncle keep me upright.
I’m led to the double doors by the circle of men in dark suits.
From inside, an organ begins to play. It’s deep, melodic, soulful. Almost a little sad.Dio mio, it sounds like my soul’s very song. A gift, maybe, from beyond—from my mother and father and sister, to tell me they are with me. I don’t realize my eyes are closed until I hear Zio’s voice near me.
“Violetta, I will walk you.”
I open my eyes to find the world dimmed behind the veil, but I see enough. Zio’s in his Easter suit. Moustache trimmed and black. Arm out for me to take.
Did he break every rule in the book to sell me? What do I owe him if he did?
Nothing. I thought he loved me, but I was just collateral. I never had a family.
“Get away from me,” I hiss. “You already gave me away once.”
He looks like I slapped him. Good.
The suits part, and through the veil, I can see the length of the long aisle lined with enough pews for an army of the devoted. But there’s only smiling Gia waving like I’m on the red carpet to receive an award, and Zia dabbing her eyes for the joyous occasion.
At the end of the aisle is the altar. No bridesmaids, no best man. Just an ancient priest and Santino—the groom in a simple tuxedo that makes him look like a black knife slicing the peace of the church.
I don’t know who shoves me forward, but I go.
Frescoes and sconces accent the walls, separated by maybe ten rows of pristine wooden pews. It’s positively gorgeous inside, no matter the size, no matter how fuzzy the veil makes it. It reminds me of my childhood church, back home. We would all go to mass and Papa’s deep baritone shook the rafters and Mama’s harmonies made me feel like I was surrounded by angels.
It’s like God is with me again on this day. For so long, I felt abandoned and alone, but in this moment, I can feel His presence, walking me down the aisle. He says it’s going to be okay, and though a part of me always believes, I also know He’s not coming to my rescue. He’ll give me opportunities to rescue myself, if I can find them.
The altar is covered in a beautiful red-and-gold cloth. The crucifix beams at me so clear I forget my vision is obscured.
I am not alone on this day. I will not be alone.
So I take a deep breath. I gaze upon the stained glass as I walk past. I turn away from Zia to face the transept of the Virgin Mary, nodding to her with a new compassion and understanding for a woman ripped out of her life by the expectations of a culture where she was invisible.
It is only then that I dare look who is standing before me at the altar. The priest is a hundred and two if he’s a day. Old camorra. Blind with cataracts. When he smiles, his teeth are like a broken fence.
And then there is Santino, looking like the tail’s side on the coin of my fantasy. Windswept hair the color of the night sea, eyes darker than shadows, and a jaw the right shape but for the wrong reasons.
With that realization, I lose my footing up the steps.
It is Santino who catches me and rights me on my feet. He’s surprisingly gentle which isn’t comforting. For some reason, it’s terrifying.
To deny the level of attraction this man carries is to be blind and a liar. But he’s my jailer, my captor, a cruel man with a cruel heart who ripped me from my family under the threat of death. He put me in this dress. Stole me away the very next day to bind himself to me.
What exactly does he want with me? What am I supposed to do? He can’t expect me to play happy wife after all this?
Zia Donna’s words come back to me: “Do you want to be turned into a street whore?”
