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“Paolo, you cannot seriously be considering this.” Vincenzo says, his voice thick with anger.
“Croccifixio.” Paolo starts to talk but I cut him off.
“Sophia is my only request. Everything else stays as it is. However, if you say no to me, then this is war, Paolo. Not to mention the public shame of your daughter, Vincenzo. That type of dishonor will stain you forever. So, what’s your final answer, gentleman?” I say triumphantly.
They both look at each other in defeat, knowing they could not turn down this request. I give Paolo a victorious smile which he returns back with a look of pure hatred.
Shock whips around the room as Angela makes her speech, I glance at mama, who makes a sign of the cross over her chest and starts to pray in rapid Italian. Zia shrugs and lights herself a cigarette, whilst pouring herself a generous glass of Champagne. Papa abruptly stands up looking furious and making a beeline for Don Vincenzo with Gennaro and Claudio following behind him. Rocco is the only one who looks indifferent. He has on the ultimate poker face, his eyes don’t linger on the seat where Angela sits, either. Instead, he only gazes forward while smoking a cigarette.
Two of his men are sitting on either side of him but they don’t wear the same pokerface as their Don. After a few minutes I see Rocco turn towards his men and exchange low conversation. The tables are starting to be cleared now, and mama stands up in irritation as Don Rossi’s men start shooing the guests out quickly. I attempt to steal one last look at Rocco before leaving, but he has left the bridal table. It strangely seems eerie now that the bride and groom seats are empty, almost an omen. We walk out of the large mansion, the sound of seagulls breaking the silence in the air.
“A storm is coming,” Zia says, interrupting my thoughts.
“What?”
“They’re fleeing from the storm,” she continues while gazing at the squawking seagulls before getting into the car.
It’s likely she’s right. Gray clouds are starting to roll over once blue sky and small drops of rain are beginning to fall, getting heavier with each second.
“Sophia,” Papa shouts from the mansion terrace as I am about to get into the car.
“Yes, Papa?” I shout back but he only beckons me over. I peer over at Mama who gives me a strange look and orders me to go to him.
“What is it?” I say when I reach him, except he doesn’t answer. His jaw seems to be clenched in anger.
I follow him through the maze of the mansion until we are in a small office. My heart jolts as I see Rocco standing next to a visibly unsettled Don Vincenzo. “What is going on?” I say turning towards papa.
“The engagement to Pietro has been canceled,” he says blankly.
“It has?” I say feeling euphoria start to flood me.
“You will bemarrying Don Croccifixioinstead, taking Angela’s place. It has been arranged.”
“What?” I say blankly, my eyes roving from my father to Rocco who stares back at me with a neutral expression.
“You heard me,” he seethes as his nostrils flare slightly.
“I’ll be in touch,” Rocco says quietly before leaving. Don Vincenzo gives papa a bitter look before following him out.
“I can’t,” I say, taken aback.
“You can and you will,” Papa replies as the door clicks shut. “It’s not like it will be your first time in a wedding dress,” he comments icily.
My mind jerks back to all those years ago in Chicago.
Everything had been arranged, and those involved had been sworn to secrecy—at least, that is what we thought. Just as the ring was about to slip on my finger, men with machetes burst through the church doors and gunshots rang in my ears as I ducked to the ground.
My white dress soaked with blood as the scent of death reverberated around the chapel, I searched myself for wounds, but I hadn’t been hit. An arm jerked me up and put me over his shoulder, one of papa’s captains. As we walked out, I saw it from the corner of my eye. Anton lying dead on the floor with papa standing over him. It was the last thing I saw as I was carried out of the chapel.
“I think of his riddle. How do people like us take off our armor?
One piece at a time.”
—Holly Black
CHICAGO TO NEW YORK IS NOT A LONG FLIGHT, BUT IT FEELS LIKE A LIFETIME.
Papa sits opposite me but never says a word. His face is a mask of anger that is pulsating venom.
