Page 22 of Sinful Bride

I push away from the dresser and pace to the window. The gardens are dark below, lit only by the soft glow of pathway lights. I can see the spot where Alessio found me and reminded me of my duty and my place.

You will do what Father commands.

The words echo in my head, mixing with Declan's voice from the hallway.

You're going to be my wife, and my wife deserves a ring.

Neither of them asked me what I wanted.

I press my forehead against the cool glass, closing my eyes. My reflection stares back at me when I open them—olive skin, dark hair, the elegant dress I wore to dinner. I look composed. Controlled. Every inch the perfect mafia princess.

But inside, I'm screaming.

—

The morning of my wedding dawns cold and gray. I wake before my alarm, my body tense and alert. I barely slept. The sky outside my window is the color of steel, heavy clouds promising rain. Fitting, I think. The weather matches my mood perfectly.

Maria arrives at seven with coffee and a tray of food I won't eat. She's been with our family since I was a child, and she knows me well enough not to comment on the dark circles under my eyes or the way my hands shake when I reach for the coffee cup. "Your dress is ready," she says quietly. "And the hairstylist will be here at eight."

I nod and sip the coffee. It's hot and bitter, which is oddly soothing. It, too, fits my mood.

The next three hours pass in a blur of preparation. The stylist arrives with an assistant, and they transform my hair into an elaborate updo that's sleek and elegant, exactly what a Capetti bride should wear. My makeup is applied carefully—subtle smoky eyes, nude lips, and soft shimmering highlighter for a glow that makes me look radiant even though I feel hollow inside.

The dress is last. It's a custom Valentino of white silk and lace, fitted through the bodice and flowing into a full skirt that pools around my feet like water. The neckline is modest, the sleeves long and delicate. Staring in the mirror, I can't help but think it makes me look like a virgin sacrifice.

A few of my cousins are here to help me get ready, and they help me into it and fasten the tiny buttons up my back. I stare at myself in the full-length mirror and barely recognize the woman looking back at me. I look like a magazine example of a bride, flawless in every way, beautiful and elegant.

And I wish, for one fleeting moment—one I bury so quickly it's almost not there—that my mother was here. She would know what to say. Maybe she would even have talked my father out of this somehow. She was a perfect mafia wife and mother, but she was kinder. She tried to soften the realities of this life when Alessio and I were younger. But she got pregnant again, unexpectedly, when I was twelve. And she died giving birth, along with the little brother or sister that I never got to meet and was never talked about.

No one else in the house has talked about her since, either. My father refused to allow it. He removed every picture of her, fired anyone who said her name, punished Alessio and me if we did or if we asked questions. And I remembered one thing in particular—why she died.

She died doing her duty as a wife. Giving birth to another mafia son or daughter. Her marriage to my father sealed her doom.

I've been terrified of that future ever since, and I've tried to manage that fear in the only way I can, by clinging to routines and rules and expectations… and trying not to think about when that will come to pass, only all the ways my life will continue to be good if only I obeyed.

And now it's all falling apart. I'm being given to a beast. An unworthy man. One who will undoubtedly demand far more from me than any mafia husband who wants a wife only when it's necessary ever would.

A man who will upend my entire life.

I take a deep breath. Then another, trying to hold myself together.

You can do this, I tell myself. You've been trained for this your entire life. Smile. Be graceful. Do your duty.

Survive.

The word echoes in my head as I slip on my white silk heels and fasten my mother's pearl earrings in place. As I pick up my bouquet of traditional white roses and lilies.

I look like a bride, and I feel like a prisoner.

The car ride to the cathedral is silent. My father sits beside me, looking satisfied in his expensive suit. He doesn't ask how I'm feeling or offer any words of comfort or wisdom. He simply looks out the window, his expression calm, like this is just another business transaction.

Which, I suppose, it is.

When we arrive, there are already guests filing into the cathedral. I recognize most of them, other mafia families and business associates. They're here to witness the alliance and see the Capetti family strengthen its position through marriage.

They're not here for me.

Inside, the cathedral is breathtaking. Sunlight streams through the stained glass windows, casting colored light across the floors. The pews are filled with people in expensive clothes, their faces turned toward the altar where Declan waits. My breath catches when I see him.