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It’s soft and ethereal and beautiful, and I feel like a princess.
I feelperfect.
Caterina audibly gasps when I walk out. Ana’s eyes go round, and she gets up to stand next to me as I step up onto the little platform. “It’s beautiful,” she says softly. “You look beautiful, Sofia.”
“We can add soft chiffon sleeves for the ceremony,” Jennifer adds, “and they can be removed after for the reception.” She disappears for a moment and then comes back, slipping a comb into my hair with a long, floor-length veil attached. “There. Now you look like a bride.”
I can feel my throat tightening as I look in the mirror, a dozen emotions flooding me at once. I’m both happy and sad that my mother isn’t here—happy because she would be horrified at the entire situation, sad because I would give anything for her to be able to see me in what I’m certain will be my wedding dress. I think of my father, who I won’t ever be able to have walk me down the aisle—but if he were here, I wouldn’tbewalking down any aisle. He wouldn’t give me away to a man like Luca if he were alive.
I’m only standing here in this beautiful dress because my parents are dead. Because no one can protect me anymore except for a heartless, mercurial criminal who is poised to run the very same organization that took my parents away from me. And as I look in the mirror, I’m horrified that I can find any joy at all in the dress that I’m going to wear to marry that man.
And yet—I can’t help but think that I do look beautiful. That if I’d chosen to get married, this is the dress I would pick.
I turn around and see Caterina watching me, and to my surprise, I can tell that her eyes are a little misty.Why?I can’t help but wonder.Why does Rossi’s daughter care anything about me? “You are going to make the most lovely bride,” she says, smiling at me. “Even lovelier than me.”
“I don’t know about that,” I say wryly, glancing back in the mirror. I can’t imagine ever being as polished or glamorous as Caterina is, or Ana. Even now, standing next to me, Ana looks graceful and rosy, pale and pink as a porcelain doll in the skinny jeans and cropped tank that she’s wearing, her nearly concave stomach on display, her silky blonde hair cascading everywhere. She’s the perfect picture of a ballerina, elegant in her every movement, and I’ve always felt slightly clumsy and graceless next to her.
But now, in this dress, I look like a princess. I look like a girl who could marry someone like Luca Romano.
And I don’t know why that sends a flicker of excitement across my skin.
“This is the one,” I tell Jennifer quickly, stepping down off the platform. “I’ll take the veil, too.”
“Very good,” she says, her face glowing, and I’m sure that she’s already calculating her commission off of whatever ridiculous price tag is on this gown.
When I’m safely out of it, pulling my jeans back on as I look at it hanging in the clear garment bag, waiting to be taken to the alterations department for the quickest work they’ve probably ever done, I feel that knotting in my stomach again.
Four days.
Four days until I’m Luca Romano’s wife.
Sofia
Wednesday, two days before the rehearsal, is my meeting with Father Donahue. I dress as conservatively as possible, throwing a light spring-weight cardigan over my t-shirt, and touching the cross at my throat as I meet the driver at the elevator. I haven’t been to a church since my mother’s funeral, and I’m almost shaking with nerves. I can’t imagine what this priest will be like, a supposed man of God who still does the bidding of the mafia.
Once I’m in the cool darkness of the car, I lean my head back against the leather, trying to calm down. The last few days haven’t been the blur that I expected them to be, instead, they’ve dragged. I haven’t seen Luca, he seems to have made a point since that last morning that I saw him at breakfast to be gone when I wake up, and to not come home until I’m settled in my room for the night. As a result, I’ve been left to wander through the penthouse alone, trying to find anything I can to distract myself from my impending nuptials.
But it’s impossible to do. It’s not that there’s nothing to occupy me—the penthouse has a legitimate theater room, with a screen the size of an actual movie theater’s, soft reclining chairs, and a library of every movie or television show I could want to watch and every streaming service available. There’s a gym in the building, which I haven’t been able to access due to the code-locked elevator but probably could get someone to escort me to if I asked, and a rooftop pool, which Ihavebeen able to access.
I guess Luca trusts me not to jump off of the roof, or drown myself. Or maybe he’s just hoping I will before the wedding.
That’s where I spent the majority of the last two days, stretching and working out on one of the mats that I found stashed in the cubbies on one side of the roof—along with towels and sunscreen and anything else I could need. There’s even a self-serve wet bar up there, but I stuck to laying out on one of the lounge chairs in my new bikini and swimming in the pool sober. The last thing I needed was to get drunk and make a stupid decision, like trying to run away again.
I’ve determined that the best course of action is to play along. Of course, that’s been easy when I haven’t even seen Luca the last few days. Without him there to push my buttons or ignite the strange feelings that always seem to flood over me whenever he’s around, making me lose my temper or my better judgement, I’ve been able to actually think through my situation.
And I’ve also seen what my life will be like married to him, but without him anywhere around.
It’s notthatbad. Sure, I don’t think he’s going to put me up in a penthouse of my very own, but I have no doubt that whatever apartment he gives me is going to be stupidly luxurious and expensive. It’s not the life I planned for myself, not even close, but it’s far from torture. It’s better than looking over my shoulder every time I walk down the street, wondering when one of Rossi’s goons is going to pull me into an alley and finish me off with a silencer to the back of the head. And I’d be stupid to say otherwise.
So my best bet is to grit my teeth, get on with it, and behave as if I’ve accepted all of this until the day comes that Luca is in charge. And then, with Rossi and his hard-on for my death gone, I can plot my escape.
And all the while,I think with the tiniest bit of satisfaction,I’ll know that Luca is probably furious as hell that I’m the one woman in Manhattan who won’t fall into his bed.
I’ve never been inside St. Patrick’s before. I cross myself habitually as I walk inside, the habit sticking despite years away from church, and walk into the nave. It arches high overhead, the architecture taking my breath away as I walk down the central aisle, and I think about what it will be like on Saturday to take this same walk in that dress, with Luca waiting at the end of it for me. I can’t help but wonder how he’ll look at me, if his expression will be cold and hard the way I’m already used to, or if he’ll pretend to be an overjoyed groom.
I’d rather he just be honest, but I’m sure he’ll play his role to perfection. And he’ll expect the same from me.
A tall, balding man in black clothing and a white collar who I can only assume is Father Donahue steps out as I make it to the front of the church, and smiles at me. His expression is welcoming, and I feel myself relax just a fraction as I step forward to shake his hand.
