Page 23 of Mafia Bride
“You are mine now. Do you understand?”
Not one tiny bit. But I nod anyway, because fear is a powerful incentive.
And I fear my new husband.
7
VIOLETTA
Everything turns into a streaky blur. We’re in a black car, we aren’t speaking or acknowledging what just happened, and the outside looks like one hot smudge of color.
I still don’t know where I am. I still don’t understand, truly, what happened. Until I look down at my hands and see the ring, the dress, the veil, all still attached.
These can’t be mine.
Santino sits across from me. I know because I can see his feet, but I’m not looking up at him.
This is it. This is the rest of my life. Before God, I’m tied to a man who was owed me in exchange for...what? What debt could have possibly caused this?
What was my uncle up to? What hellish fury did he incite to sell his adopted daughter off as part of a debt repayment plan? And what kind of man was Santino who took a wife to settle it?
How was this even a thing at this day, in this age, in our society? This isn’t Italy, circa the eighteenth century.
This is America. The land of the free. Home of the brave.
It’s right there. In the song. All over the place.
I, however, am anything but free and—after this—I’m sure I’m not brave.
Maybe I never earned being here in the first place.
I sneak another glance at the man who has barely spoken to me since he stole me. What does he expect out of me?
I hadn’t considered it before, and it brings a fresh new wave of anxiety and arousal that is infuriating. The more scared I become, the more arousal seeps in, filling me with a need I can’t place or ignore.
He’s more than beautiful. Elettra was dancing all over the kitchen just in his name alone. Something about him excites me in ways that just feel...impossible.
What does he want from me? What happens...tonight?
If Santino DiLustro thinks I’m going to smile for him and play the role of happy wife, he’s out of his damn mind. I won’t go through the motions of a loveless life.
Unless that’s the point. Maybe my utter misery is exactly what he’s seeking. Maybe, God watched as—under His roof—I was bound to the devil.
We arrive at his house. I’ll never think of it as “ours.” His door opens and he exits before me. The suits silently come from the darkened abyss of his home and escort me out. Armando makes eye contact, and with a nod, tries to tell me everything’s going to be all right.
I believe he believes it.
“Come,” Santino commands.
I have no choice but to follow. Through this monstrous prison with its archaic furniture and still-life oil paintings. A poor man’s version of wealth. Too gaudy. Too garish.
It seems out of taste for him, the man living in the Lego brick house of clean lines and modern details. The man in black who steals people and issues commands with lightning.
What kind of man, what kind of king, stole me away?
He leads me to the living room, a bright space with too much heavy furniture and floor-to-ceiling windows lining the entire side of the house. The surface of the pool is as still as glass, reflecting the clouds moving over the sky. Freedom is just outside these windows, and I am so very far from it.
He clears his throat because my attention has wandered away from him. It appears he does not like that.
