Page 2 of The Mafioso’s Bride

“Tape fixes that,” Giuseppe said. “I can put it over her mouth when I fuck her. Her pussy will be warm whether she’s strange or not.”

Everyone laughed again. Except me.

Later, while I stood beside the dining room door, Giuseppe came behind me and pinched my backside hard enough to bruise. I screamed. My glass struck the floor and broke.

I don’t like to be touched, especially when it’s unexpected.

He found it hysterical. Like a party trick.

Papa made me apologize for the glass.

I turn to Mama now and ask, “Will Giuseppe hurt me?”

Her lips press flat. “He’ll be your husband. He’ll do anything he wants to you.” Her stare hardens. “And you’ll let him.”

My sister fixes her curls in the mirror. “Maybe he’ll keep her locked away so she doesn’t embarrass him.”

Mama grunts and drops the veil over my face. It brushes my nose and catches on my eyelashes.

The bell rings again, and I cover my ears.

Mama slaps my hands down. “Stop. Can you act normal for just one hour?”

The door opens before I can tell her I don’t know what normal means, and Papa fills the doorway.

His eyes settle on my hands. My fingertips are moving again. I can’t stop.

Papa steps inside. He takes my upper arm. His fingers close hard enough to leave marks. “This union means a lot. An alliance between the Rafinellis and Lombardis is tremendously beneficial to our family. Remember how lucky you are, Giada, that any man at all agreed to marry you, much less Giuseppe Lombardi.”

“I don’t feel lucky.”

His fingers tighten. “Beggars can’t be choosers. You’ll walk down that aisle, speak only when the priest tells you, and don’t make any noises during the vows.”

“What kind of noises?”

“Any noises.”

Papa pulls me into the corridor.

The hallway is warm. Men stand along the walls. Their jackets bulge over guns. A man pats Papa’s shoulder. Someone presses against my arm.

I jerk away.

Papa bends close. “Behave, or so help me, Giada…”

He doesn’t finish his threat before the organ crashes into the wedding march, but he doesn’t need to.

Every note shakes the floor under my shoes. The bell rings again above it. The handful of guests rise in the sanctuary, a scrape of wood and shoes and a dozen or so bodies moving together.

The double doors ahead are open.

White flowers cover the pews. Candles burn along the aisle. Winter coats pack the benches in dark rows. Faces turn toward us.

At the altar, Giuseppe waits beside the priest.

His tuxedo strains across his protruding stomach. He wets his lips when he looks at me.

I stop.