In four weeks, I would be a Capo dei Capi’s bride. I would lose myself trying to survive a dangerous, emotionless man, but Iwouldsurvive no matter what it cost me because no man got to ruin me.
“Four weeks,” I repeated, the damning time frame clogging in my throat. “Fuck.”
MILAN
“Areyou out of your goddamned mind, Milan?” Adriano had remained silent for the entirety of the car ride home and only now that we were within the clean, mildly lemon-scented confines of our home did he speak. “Marrying the youngest one wasn’t even a good idea, butthatone?”He began to pace as I sat rigidly on the long cream couch, the only furniture we had bought for our new house so far.
I stared at the white walls, at the pillars and archways of pure white stone. If I lived alone, I would have kept it this empty forever, possibly placed flowers on the windowsill. It stabilized my mind as it had my mother’s, to exist somewhere quiet and empty, pure even, and I certainly required recalibration after entering the Bianchis’ gray manor.
It had reminded me of Hugo’s house, and that had made me think of the blood.
“I require a wife, Adriano.” I raised my brows. “I successfully found one.”
“Yeah.” he scoffed. “But nother!”His tone was short and his pacing fast. This indicated anger, but I could not place what he was angry about.This was not his marriage. This did not concern him. Adriano’s emotions had always been easy to learn, but this was not something I was familiar with.
I pressed my thumbs into my aching temples as I said, “I do not understand your emotions.”
“I don’t understand your logic!” he shouted, and I winced. “Did you not hear her? Did you not hear what she was saying about ‘some of us want to protect our sisters’like you fucking didn’t?”
“I did.”
He made a sound that sounded like a laugh, but I believed it to be one of those angered noises. “And you want to marry somebody like that? Somebody who sure looks like she won’t accept you?”
“I would prefer to marry Sicily over Fiorella, yes,” I answered, still rubbing the sides of my head. “It was evident that Fiorella’s mannerisms and choice of clothing were not her own. She allowed herself to be shaped into somebody that she was not, and I am incapable of unseeing that. But Sicily…”
Sicily Bianchi had given me a headache with her improper attitude. She did not conform to what I had expected her to, had smelled faintly chemical, which I assumed was explained by the unusual paint splatters covering her clothes, but most importantly, Sicily had protected her sister, the person that Fiorella truly was beneath the persona their parents had wanted her to be for me. She had not permitted anybody, includingme, to become somebody that they were not, and that was…intriguing.
There was no requirement for me to enjoy her company to respect aspects of her personality. She was part of a business arrangement; I would marry Primo’s daughter and help repair their reputation, and he would fall under my rule, like the Gioffres would once the marriage had been finalized. That meant that I was not expected to have emotions toward her, and Adriano’s dislike was irrelevant.
My Consigliere sighed loudly, tipping his head back as he said, “Four fucking weeks then?”
You are capable, Milano.
You are capable, Milano.
You are capable, Milano.
“Yes,” I replied. “Four weeks.”
5
MILAN
I had never queriedthe concept of time until I was standing at the cathedral’s altar observing Sicily Bianchi walking down the aisle toward me.
Time was not an illogical concept, but the speed at which the past month had passed felt disproportionate. I had had time to plan the event, time to strategize on how to exist in the same estate as another person who was not Adriano, yet it had still not been enough.
The black suit and smart white dress shirt scratched my neck. Adriano was distracted at my side, staring into the crowd of thousands. The cathedral’s high ceilings and white stone beams echoed with strings of a thirty-piece quartet that made my teeth hurt. There were too many tall, stained-glass windows with too much brightness and far too much boiling hot sunlight. It was colorful and bright, ornate and opulent, and I had never wanted to go home as badly as I did then, not even at the funeral.
It was overwhelming, and so was Sicily’s untraditional, tightly fitted dress.
I was malfunctioning, yet I could not be extracted from this situation because it wasmine.
You are capable, Milano.
You are capable, Milano.
You are capable, M?—
