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He clenches his teeth. Stops marching me for a minute. Finally shakes his head and says in a rush of words, “Your future husband’s here.”
Before I can recover from the blow of what he just said, he grips my arm so hard I wince in pain. “No. Fucking. Running. I swear to God, I’ll kill you if you run. We’re here to discuss the details and if you fuck this up, there’ll be hell to pay.”
My mind is still stuck on… Future.Husband.
Of course I knew the chances of me being married off to someone were pretty high, but you think about it the same way you think about death. It’s there, it will come, but why worry about that now when it’s eons away?
I’m twenty years old. I haven’t even graduated college yet.
I think back to the look my mother had and the sinking feeling her obvious distress gave me. She loves to parade me around and cash in the clicks, and they love to take every penny I get, but this… this is different.
I try to yank my arm out of my brother’s grip, but it's too tight. His fingers are digging into me so hard it’ll bruise.
We start walking again, this time at a faster pace and his grip has tightened.
“I won’t run,” I say tightly. “You’re hurting me.”
“I don’t trust you.” The impeccable carpet flies under our feet, the scent of lavender cleanser hitting my nose. My mother’s prepared for our guest, probably all day. How could I have missed this?
I try to get a grip as my mind reels. I try to coach my way through it.
I’ve been through way worse than this. I can handle whatever this is.
And he didn't say I'm getting married today.
I can go play nice, pretend I’m docile… then find my way out. I've done it many times over the years. They’ve always found me, and there have always been repercussions, but I can do it. I know I can.
Do I hear a voice? I try not to imagine which one of the assholes my father hangs out with thinks he’s going to take me home.
Will it be the bald guy with the gold tooth? The one that's always telling me I'm so pretty, and patting me on the head or copping a feel when he gets a chance? Will it be one of my brother’s many friends, reeking of pot and whiskey? Or some no-name don from Italy who wants a trophy wife?
It doesn't matter who it is because I know how all of these men operate. I've spent my entire life as the daughter of a mobster.
They'll take you and doll you up for a little while. Then they’ll placate you with house cleaners, extravagant vacations, and credit cards so you’ll overlook the way they reek of another woman’s perfume when they come to bed at night. Some demand order with the back of their hands. But none of them, not one, is ever loyal or faithful. If I’m lucky, he’ll be the type thatwill let me do what I want as long as I don't scream at him when he decides to fuck some pretty little thing.
I won’t go, though.
I can’t.
The door opens. I lose the ability to speak when I hear the sound of a deep, accented voice, cold as ice and harsh as stone.
My knees shake, knocking into each other.
I thought by now I would've gotten braver, but I haven't. I'm as terrified as ever, just like that night…
No, I can't think of that now. I can't think of anything except going along with whatever happens so I can get through this before I plan my escape.
I've been stashing away some money from tutoring. It’s not a lot, but it’s enough to buy me time to get a cheap hotel and food when I'm on the run.
And Iwillbe on the run. It's complicated, though. So fucking complicated.
Saul and I stand at the closed doorway of the living room. "Smile big and watch your mouth. None of your fucking bullshit, Harper, or I swear to God…"
"What? You gonna pull this in front of my future husband? He’s cool with that?" At least my brother won’t be able to smack me around while he hands me over to someone who’ll probably fill his shoes.
"Harper,” he grits through his teeth.
Asshole.
