Page 7 of Urgent Vows
"Oh, that." She seems surprised I remember.
I don't point out that the red mark on her cheek is already darkening to a bruise. I am not likely to forget. "Yes, that."
"My ribs hurt, but they're bruised, not broken."
Her ribs? Fuck. How badly did he hurt her?
"And you know this how?" I keep my rage at her father, my nowformerconsigliere, banked.
She does not need it right now and we have a wedding reception to get through.
"Because I've had both before and I can tell the difference."
"This is not the first time he hurt you?" The lying piece of shit, pretending to adhere to the requirements set by me and my father, while being a fucking child abuser.
"Not even close."
No wonder Francesco made such a big deal of keeping his family out of the limelight. He'd always said it was for their protection, to keep them from becoming targets because of his role in the mafia.
If my consigliere can hide this shit from me, we need to take a closer look into how my married capos treat their families.
"A doctor will be there to give you a thorough examination once we reach the hotel."
"That's not necessary." She seems to be under the mistaken impression that it is her decision.
"I do not agree."
"I don't want to take my dress off and have to get back into it for the receiving line," she says like she's ashamed of the admission. "Right now, the bodice is acting like a compression bandage for my ribs."
"Wrapping your ribs is not the best thing for them," I inform her. It can lead to complications like a collapsed lung or pneumonia.
"In the long term, you're right. But to get me through the rest of today, I'm willing to risk it. I'll do some deep breathing exercises once it's over and I can take my dress off for good."
Though I'm tempted to take her straight home, I can't. There was enough scandal at the wedding with the change in brides, a well-orchestrated reception is more necessary than ever. This isn't just about me and my pride, but the strength and stability of the Genovese family.
The New York Cosa Nostra is only as strong as its leaders. And I am at the top of that food chain.
"The list of guests that will be allowed through the reception line is limited." Though no doubt long enough to make it difficult for her. "Is there anything we can do to make it easier for you?"
"Yes," she says, surprising me. "If I could have something to stand on, so I can take off my shoes, that will help. My sister and I don't wear the same size. No one will be able to see under my dress, so I won't embarrass you."
"I am not easily embarrassed."
"That's good to know." There's humor in her voice.
I like this proof of her spirit.
"You'll have to wear your shoes for the rest of the reception," I warn her.
"That's what you think. I'll have my shoes off while we're sitting at the head table, and no one will be the wiser."
I am amused, rather than irritated, by her sass and smile. "So long as you remember to put them back on before we leave the dais for our first dance."
I'm surprised that wearing heels makes her bruised ribs hurt more.
"I like it when you smile." Her lips curve in response to mine.
I don't reply. Smiling isn't something I do a lot of.
