Page 24 of Mafia Bride
“Sit,” he says, stopping in front of a massive wet bar along the wall, lined with dark bottles, crystal clear glasses, and shining lights. Even in the daylight hours, he looks illuminated. King of the Castle. Heartless bastard who owns people for debts they have nothing to do with.
I don’t sit. I’m still in my fucking wedding gown. I’m supposed to be dancing my first dance as husband and wife and drinking prosecco from a fluted glass.
“Care for a drink?” he asks.
“I’m not 21.”
“You’re my wife. If my wife wants a drink, she may have a drink.”
This is a very strange first conversation to be having, and the oscillating feelings at hearing the wordwifeare no more clear than they were at the altar.
Part of this—if I pretend it isn’t me for just a few short breaths—is exciting. This would be on television. Zia would watch this with me, and we would gasp over the beauty of the captor, how charming he was with his prisoner.
Those visions die with each breath. And again, they begin. Because it’s beautiful on television—charming, exciting, thrilling, engaging, enigmatic even. But the crushing reality is not what I expect.
“I do not want a drink.”
I say no more. I’m afraid what may happen if my mental faculties are impaired even more.
“Your choice.”
“Is this what you thought your wedding would be like?” I ask as he pours himself a drink.
He scoffs. It’s a laugh without humor. The sound of a million unsaid words.
“No.” He caps the bottle.
“What did you think it would be?”
“When? This morning?”
“When you were my age.”
He slams back the drink, puts the glass down and uncaps the bottle again.
“When I was your age,” he says, pouring. “I thought I’d take vows knowing my wife’s cunt was already sore from my cock.” He drinks, wincing as if the booze burns him as much as his words burn me. “You’d already have that dress around your waist, spreading your legs and begging for it again.” He pours himself a third. “But here we are.”
And that is the end of our conversation for the next several hours.
His mobster friends from the chapel arrive shortly after, reverberating joy in stark contrast to how I’m regarded. I recognize some of them from the neighborhood. I crossed to the other side of the street when guys like this headed my way. I saw them in the stores and in cars as they waited for a light. They never had names, but I knew who they were.
“Drinks!” one hollers. “Drinks to celebrate the man of the day!”
This is more of a bachelor party than a wedding reception. I always thought weddings were supposed to be about the couple, but I’m not even there. I’m apparently worth nothing more than pretty garbage.
Does he not even find me interesting? Did he not even choose me? Apparently Elettra would be a suitable replacement over my life, so there must be some sort of wish list. Or was it purely because I lived in the wrong house at the wrong time?
Does the most beautiful, most cruel man find me beneath him?
Suddenly, I need a drink.
As I peel off from my tiny corner, I hear my name being thrown around in rapid Italian. The pacing of this conversation is less serious, less intense, and stunted by alcohol. I can’t keep up with the different dialects.
I can only understand a few toasts and my name, mentioned more than once.
I stop dead in front of the bar, expecting to hear another command like last night, terrified of what it may be, but nothing follows besides more drunk Italian.
I pour a shot glass full of amaretto and return to my corner, where I’m just as decorative as the glass balls in a coffee table bowl.
