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Caterina
Every mafia bride knows that there may be a day when she has to dress for her husband’s funeral.
This is a dangerous life we all lead, after all, especially the men. This is a world of blood and violence, riches and excess paid for with short, fast lives that burn hot and bright and flame out just as quickly. I’ve always thought that was probably one of the reasons why love so rarely factors into mafia marriages.
It’s easier to see a black dress hanging side by side in your closet with your wedding gown if the marriage is made for convenience and not love.
I hadn’t loved Franco. Not in the way that most people think of love. There was nothing of romance novels in our relationship, very little in the way of passion. The roses and jewelry and grand gestures were because they were expected, not because he was madly in love with me. I was—am—a mafia princess, after all. Courting me meant pulling out all the stops, even if the eventual decision about my marriage hadn’t really been in my hands at all.
It had been in my father’s hands, and I had always known that was how things would be.
My father.
It’s my late husband’s fault that my father is dead. That my mother is dead. That I’m standing here in front of the full-length mirror in my childhood room, my knee-length black dress still unzipped, the tulle of the half-veil I’m expected to wear to the funeral crushed in my hands. This is the third funeral I will have gone to in nearly as many months. The third funeral of someone close to me, no less.
How much is one person supposed to take before she breaks?
Gingerly, I touch my forearm. My dress is long-sleeved, not because of the weather but because of the yellowing bruises running up and down my arms like grotesque bracelets. Franco left his hands off of my neck and face, at least, although not all the other parts of my body were so lucky. And it’s less than he did to poor Anastasia, at least. He knew at least enough to keep the evidence from the one other man left who would have been furious to learn that Franco had laid hands on me.
Luca Romano. My father’s heir. My late husband’s supposed best friend. The don of the Northeast chapter of the American mafia.
And now, my only possible protector. I am a woman without a close living male relative, without a husband. In the world I live in, that’s a dangerous, vulnerable position to be in. Even my status as a mafia princess, the only daughter of the late former don, won’t save me from any number of possible unfortunate fates if I don’t have someone to look out for me. If anything, it makes my position even more tenuous. I’m a valuable hostage, an excellent bargaining chip, a coveted bride despite being newly widowed.
But I hope that Luca will protect me from all of that. I’ll be able to come back here, to the home I grew up in, that now belongs to me, and grieve in peace. Not for Franco—I can’t feel much grief for him after what he did—to my family, Luca, Sofia, and Ana. But I’m still grieving for my parents, and now I’m mourning something else.
The life I’d thought I would have.
Slowly, I cross the room to the closet, ostensibly to get my shoes—sensible black pumps with a pointed toe and short heel, nothing too provocative. But next to my shoes is a long flat box, and I know what’s inside of it.
My wedding dress.
I know there’s no point in looking backward. But I can’t stop myself from cracking the lid anyway, reaching inside to touch the cool satin. Sofia Romano, Luca’s wife, helped me pick that dress out only a few days after my mother died. She was a good friend to me when I needed one most, when I was jolted out of my grief into a hastier wedding than expected to keep me safe from Viktor Andreyev, the leader of the Bratva here in Manhattan. And Franco tried to kill her. He tried to killLuca.
So no, I won’t grieve for him.
But what Iamgrieving for is the man I thought he was. The carefree, laughing, red-headed, boyish man who my father chose for me. I’d known him already, of course. He’d been Luca’s closest friend since childhood, and Luca’s father had been close to mine. We’d all grown up together. I’d thought he was handsome, if reckless and a little childish. More boy than man, always. I’d never imagined he would be my husband. But I hadn’t been upset that he’d been chosen for me, either. It could have been much worse—or so I’d thought at the time, anyway.
I’d always been aware that my eventual marriage would be to someone who benefited my father. I’d come to terms with that long before my engagement. It was why I’d never really dated, even though it wasn’t expressly forbidden. There was no point, in my mind. Why date when I knew I would have no choice in my future husband? Why put temptation in my way when I knew that my virginity was a precious commodity and not my own to give away as I pleased?
The most sensible thing to do was not torture myself with crushes and flings that could never be anything more.
And I’ve always been nothing if not sensible.
But what that meant was that Franco was my first kiss. My first everything. I’d thrown myself headlong into the relationship after our engagement, wanting to please him. I’d expected him to stray—I knew very well that almost all mafia husbands did. But I’d wanted to delay his eventual unfaithfulness as long as I could.I went down on him in a limo just after he proposed to me, for fuck’s sake.
The bitterness of the thought startles me. I hadn’t expected close emotional intimacy between us, or faithfulness, or even real love. I’d thought that I’d been as practical as I possibly could about what our marriage would be. But Ihadexpected some things.
I’d been thrilled that my father had chosen someone my own age. Someone fun and full of life. Someone who didn’t take things quite as seriously as so many of the other men around me. I’d seen Franco as, if not a devoted partner, an adventure. Someone that could maybe help me cut loose a little, lighten up. Someone that I could have fun with, laugh with, enjoy being with. Someone who would be an adventurous lover, someone who I could unashamedly explore all the things I’d always been curious about in bed with. A friend, maybe.
Very, very briefly, I’d thought that I’d had that. Our first nights together had been good, even if he’d seemed slightly frustrated by my inexperience. My virginity hadn’t seemed so much a turn-on to him as an annoyance, but I’d told myself that was good. At least he wasn’t the type of man to fetishize virginity. We hadn’t gotten a honeymoon, but we’d gotten a few days to hide away in my family home. I’d done my best to be a happy new bride, even at a time when I was also a grieving daughter.
But Franco had had no patience for that. And our relationship had devolved quickly. I’d seen his irritation, his impatience, his lack of caring for me almost immediately. I’d realized very soon that I was a stepping stone for him, nothing more. That he hadn’t had any hopes for our marriage other than to hope that I wouldn’t be too much trouble.
That hurt. But everything that followed hurt so much more. And the revelations that came with his death?
Those nearly broke me.
I pull my hand back from the box, pushing the lid shut as I grab my shoes and stand up, slipping them on quickly. Sofia told me to take as much time as I needed, but I know I’ll need to emerge sooner rather than later. It wouldn’t do for the widow to be late to her own husband’s funeral.
