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Chapter 2
Most of thegirls I knew growing up fantasized about their dream weddings.
My younger sister, Ariana, dreamed of soft pastels and virginal white, despite being anything but. Years of ballet meant she knew the exact song and dance she’d bring our papá out for, and she’d look incredible doing it.
Even Stella—the youngest, and smartest Ricci daughter—had the menu scribbled down on a piece of paper, using it as a bookmark for her textbooks.
I planned my funeral.
Up until today, my vision of a marble casket and bouquets of dahlias and lilies felt like little more than a pipe dream. A delusion I’d concocted to help alleviate the dull reality facing me.
Now, though, as I stare at my reflection in the mirror while my mother tries to yank my dress shut, I realize maybe the two events are synonymous.
My marriage to Boston’s favorite volatile playboy, Mateo de Luca, marking the end of life as I know it.
“Dio mio! Suck it in, Elena,” Mamá snaps, anchoring her elbow to my hip as she pulls. “You just got fitted for this gown two weeks ago, how is it possible you’ve gained this much weight already?”
Heat floods my cheeks at her question, shame slicing through my skin like the dull edge of a blade. “It’s only a couple of pounds,” I say, trying to obey anyway by inhaling as deep as I can.
“Probably just stress, or water,” my aunt, Anotella, says from where she’s perched on the edge of the bed, gnawing at a chocolate-covered strawberry from the lunch platter we had delivered. “Or all that time she spends with her nose buried in a book.”
“Or she’s giving up. Kids these days don’t go through honeymoon phases anymore.” Nonna, my paternal grandmother, reenters the room just in time, a bright blue gift box in hand.
“Explain, Frankie.”
Nonna shrugs. “Back in my day, a woman waited at least a few years before letting herself go. Now, they treat keeping in shape like an option, and then wonder why half the country ends up divorced.”
Humming, Mamá gives a final tug, stealing the breath from my lungs. Stepping back, she brushes a strand of dark hair from her face, huffing with finality. “There. Good thing we went with the lace ties and not a zipper.”
Face flushing, I glance down at myself in the sleeved gown—the smooth, flat expanse of my stomach, the excessive cleavage that I know is hidden beneath the conservative dress because Ariana insisted I wear it.
‘This is the first time Mateo’s seeing you naked,’ she’d said, beaming at me from the lingerie section of the bridal shop. ‘Make him eat his heart out.’
In truth, the only person I’m interested in inspiring something like jealousy within most likely won’t even show up for the ceremony.
Not that he’d see what’s underneath the dress, anyway. Not again.
Crossing my arms over my breasts, I spin away from my reflection, embarrassment making my stomach cramp. Perspiration slicks down my spine and along my hairline, and I busy myself with checking the seating chart, making sure every guest is accounted for.
Nonna walks over, licking the pad of her thumb and rubbing it across my cheekbone. “Anotella, get your makeup bag. We’re going to need to keep it nearby if she keeps sweating it off.”
My aunt hurries from the room, bringing the main hall of the de Luca estate into view for the briefest moment. Catering staff bustles by as the door swings back into place, the scent of lobster and marinara sauce heavy in the air, making my stomach growl.
I haven’t eaten since dinner yesterday, and now that my weight seems to be a topic of concern, I’m sure that if I try sneaking a bite in before the ceremony, Mamá will likely have my head.
God forbid there be a hair out of place on my wedding day unless it’s by her own hand.
Image has always been the most important thing to my family, though, especially in recent years with the shrinkage of organized crime. They still exist, but it’s with limited involvement—behind screens, hidden in the shadows. Papá and his men, along with the other families around the country, have to be more skillful about the way they conduct business.
‘Control the narrative,’Papá always says. ‘That way, you control the story.’
If people don’t think you’re a violent criminal organization, then they have no reason to report you.
It’s why I’m being married off to the heir of Boston’s premier media firms, despite the fact that the only feelings I hold for my future husband are those of disdain.
Not that my feelings matter, of course.
Not in this world.
