Page 50 of Mafia Bride
“Everything’s open if you knowCuginoSantino.” Gia wraps her arms around one of mine and escorts me to a tiny boutique. We don’t even have to knock. As soon as we approach, a middle-aged woman in impeccable clothes—who looks far better than I could ever hope on my best day—throws open the door with a bright smile.
“I’m Stella. Welcome to Infidella.” Her smile is warm and inviting. Gia squirms like a giddy toddler next to me, still gripping my arm as she pulls me inside. I close my eyes and pretend, this could be my life with Rosetta and my own zia. We could be shopping together at some fancy boutique, laughing and drinking overpriced iced coffees and window shopping until Zio’s wallet begs for mercy.
I open my eyes to find a hoodie thrust in my face, Gia beaming behind it. “You like?”
The tag says eight hundred dollars.
That can’t possibly be right.
There aren’t many racks in the super-clean, overly curated collection, so I have to reach far to pick another shirt at random. $875. Where in the rabbit hole am I?
“This is good for you?” Santino’s at my elbow. I forgot all about him. I wish I could close my eyes and repeat the whole process until he was eliminated from my memory completely.
“You care?”
“Of course I care. You are my wife, no?”
I fucking loathe that word. “I’m your prisoner.”
Santino sucks in his cheeks and clamps his stoic jaw. He looks like a bomb at the end of a fuse. We stare each other down until Gia reappears with an armful of clothing.
“What size are you?”
“We run small,” Stella calls out. “Come here, darling. Let me look at you so I can see your size.”
Gia goes to the back with the armful of clothes and struggles to hook it all on the clothing rack at once.
“That’s too much,” I say, raising my arms so Stella can get a look at me.
“Just get whatever you want,” Santino says darkly and walks to the back and disappears. He must be sitting somewhere. Stewing. Likely plotting more insults to hurl my way or find more creative ways to threaten my family.
Fuck him.
I flick through hangers, letting Stella talk me into the most expensive things in the store.
“CuginaVioletta!” Hearing Gia call meCuginastirs up feelings I’m not ready for. Like how my only family was here, and how my children and my sister’s were supposed to be cousins, and now her kids don’t exist and mine will be fathered by a man who forced me to marry him. “Do you think he’ll let you wear red?” she whispers.
Santino appears in the mirror before me, sitting with his long legs crossed in a purple velvet armchair, staring at me with an intensity I don’t like.
I don’t like it because when he gets all broody, he gets deeply beautiful. Watching him be so gentle with Gia and knowing it’s a choice between that and raw, hair-pulling power is captivating in a way that’s uncomfortable. I hate him so much, which makes all of this more confusing and frustrating. Why did he have to be beautiful and evil? Why not hideous and evil? Beautiful and good?
“I don’t care what he thinks about red. I like it.”
“Lovely find.” Stella appears behind me, taking the sweater I forgot I had over my arm. “How about this skirt? It would go so well with the shirts you’ve got. Why don’t I take those and set up a fitting room for you?”
Gia hands over a dozen hangers’ worth of clothing I don’t remember ever seeing.
That’s how the entire morning goes. Not a single soul enters the store, but Gia and Stella shove thousands of dollars’ worth of clothing at me. Silks and cashmeres and tiny little things I never in a million years ever dreamed I’d be able to touch, much less wear.
It all starts to blend in together after a while. The entire time, Santino’s eyes follow me. Past every single mirror. He never relents. Never checks his phone. Just watches me.
I stare back, doing my damnedest to exude as much attitude as him. I’m not a kitten he can smother. I’m a Moretti. I am from a good family with high moral standards. I don’t have to be afraid when I have God on my side.
Gia eventually hauls me into the dressing room. I have no idea what’s on these hangers, but a few glimpses at the tags tell me there’s at least twenty-thousand dollars’ worth of statement clothing here. At least. I don’t think I should breathe on anything, never mind try it all on.
Before the door shuts Gia and me in with the merchandise haul, Santino pushes his way forward and hangs a piece of scarlet lingerie on the hook.
So, he must like red.
