Page 47
Back in my quarters, the rage fuels me as I rifle through my wardrobe. None of the collection is fitting for a wedding—a couple of tank tops, some bloodstained shirts, leather jackets, old uniforms, and jeans—so I toss them all aside.
My eyes finally settle on the black suit in the back. It’s crisp and neat, only worn once…on my brother’s funeral. How ironic that this is the only suit appropriate for a wedding. As I open the door, I find Nonna Rosa standing before me, like she knew exactly when I’d emerge. Light pours in from the hallway, framing her silver hair. She studies me like she’s peering into my soul, her eyes sharp with age and wisdom.
“I saw her,” she says simply. “The girl you brought to the villa. Green eyes, stubborn chin. She has spirit. She’ll need that.”
I don’t waste breath denying it. “And I need your help.”
She smiles. “Then you’ll move into Dante’s mini villa. The small house on the east wing. A wife deserves better than a soldier’s cot.”
Dante. The name carves me open. Memories of laughter, training sessions, and blood spilled side by side flood my mind. I can almost sense my brother haunting the room, and I hope he approves of my decision.
“I’ll take it.” I nod.
She pats my hand, the gesture fragile but steady. “Good. Then perhaps there’s hope for you yet.”
She leaves me with my ghosts.
Alone again, I face the mirror. My reflection stares back. Clenched jaw. Dark eyes. Mouth still tingling with the taste of Sophia. A man who once buried enemies in shallow graves now prepares to claim a bride.
The glass distorts my image, but the truth remains clear. I can’t remove this mask.
Sophia Martinelli will be mine. Not just for protection. Not just for survival.
Because somewhere in this storm, she became the one thing I can’t relinquish.
Chapter 9
Sophia
My heart pounds a mile a minute, but I barely have time to think as three women enter the room. Heels click-clack, and skirts rustle like wind over silk sheets.
Three maids, six hands, and thirty fingers too many. They get to work instantly. The eldest—with gray-streaked hair pinned back and lines around her mouth from years of tight-lipped service—issues orders in rapid Italian. A younger one, barely twenty with nervous hands and wide brown eyes, fumbles with hangers.
The third, middle-aged and efficient, moves with the precision of someone who’s dressed a thousand brides and expects this one to cooperate. They chatter in a mix of Italian and English, overwhelming my brain’s attempt at interpretation. I have no space to think.
I hear the drawers fly open and hangers squeak. One woman slaps a measuring tape against my skin as they twist and spin me around. Everything feels surreal, like a dream that I could wake up from at any moment.
While life didn’t deal me the best hands, I still carved out goals and aspirations for myself. I’d hoped to get my master’s in education in four years and to become the principal of a grade school in five. Or move into private schools that will pay me enough to take care of myself and my mother…and maybe even fly abroad for vacations, because she’d obviously be well by then.
None of the plans I have involve getting married to a ruthless mafia enforcer…
“Scusami, signorina.”
I don’t understand the language, but the two women raising their arms is hint enough, so I obey them.
“Questo è troppo largo.”
Hands tug at my clothes, peeling me from one self into another. All my attempts at resistance are drowned out by the visible fear in their eyes.
Capo Ricci has given his command, and not getting his bride ready will land them in trouble or, even worse, cost them their lives.
I have no chance of escaping.
After the measurements, two women hold my hands while we walk into the bathroom. The lavender-scented water should relax me, but everything feels wrong.
This isn’t a spa. I blink, trying to will away the terror, but no matter what I do, the white tub comes across as a porcelain coffin.
My hands sit in my lap, pale and trembling. Every time I close my eyes, I see Enzo’s face and imagine his hot breath against mine.
