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“Fuck.” I grit and spin around, jogging past the last of our security loading into the car.
“You have five minutes!” He yells after me and I take a long drag, waiting to puff it out until I get inside the hotel. I continue to smoke it all the way up to my room, right past my brothers watching tv on the couch, and up to Kias’ room for the first time since he died. I take as many drags of my cigarette as I can before I’m dizzy, walking into the starchy, cold room and straight to his closet. The suit is hanging right on the back of the door, and I pull it out, reviewing it for a second. Black and emerald silk-stitched, shining underneath the clear plastic cover. He bought it to wear when he would inevitably court Espie.
It’s been mine since he’s passed, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to retrieve it.
I blow out a thick cloud. “Fuck you, Kias.” I wince after saying his name because it brings the memory of his death back, then high tail it out of his room and right to mine. Quickly, I change into this ridiculous costume. That’s really what it is. By the time I’ve changed, I’ve worked the cigarette down to nothing. I smudge it out in the ashtray on my bookshelf before lighting another and sprint downstairs, gunning for the elevator.
“A! What the hell, bro?” My littlest brother Alek bares his teeth in disgust at the cloud around me and then eyes trails to my shiny kiss-ass of a suit.
“Ooo,” I bite my cigarette, snapping my finger. “Would love to catch up, but I’ve gotta be somewhere…” I look down at my empty wrist. “Like, five minutes ago.” I twist around again.
“Adrik!” Another one of my brothers growls as my boots squeak over the marble floors and I continue my jog without a care, right to the car where I gladly bring my half-finished cigarette inside.
At the click of my belt, something cold and sharp presses under my chin, threatening to slice open my throat if I move another inch.
“Toss that out. Now.” My father warns, his 8-inch blade making its way to my carotid artery. I slowly turn my eyes towards his rage and offer a smile that’s only made possible by my nicotine buzz, and flick the bud out the window. He pulls his blade away, and I try not to make it obvious— my gasping for air— as we pull out of our spot and head to the San Giovanni’s.
There’s something solid in the front right pocket of this suit, and it’s not my cigarette pack. I didn’t notice it for the entire drive here, but just as we arrive at the gates, I’ve discovered it.
I inconspicuously press on it with my open palm and realize it’s a fucking metal hip flask. God, I fucking hope it’s filled with alcohol— brimming with it. I’m going to need everything to be completely out of focus than it is right now. There’s no way I’ll make it through this wretched night with something as useless as sobriety. The last thing I want, after being forced to marry the San Giovanni spawn, is to socialize with them.
I’ve killed some of them, you know? Yep. Shot em, broke their skulls, stabbed a few through the heart. The Sicilian mafia has been a long-time enemy of my family’s. If it wasn’t abundantly clear. So, yeah, not really bursting at the seams with excitement having to walk into a home that doesn’t want me there.
If anything, the guys in this mansion would like nothing more than to shoot me right on the spot. And I’d deserve it, too— I’ve got way more deaths on them than they do on us. But their code of ethics allows such brutality as ours to throw a knife through the cracks of their pompous morality.
So, I’ve killed and continue to. And somehow I sleep at night. Just fine, I might add.
I slide out of the car and walk to the front doors, my father clicking after me and the rest of our security trying to keep up. I snark a laugh at the ridiculousness of this entire event, and it earns me a punch to my already bruised rib as we step up to the front door.
“Good evening.” My father plasters on a grin for the boys guarding the entrance, and they nod to us before opening the front door.
“Not conversationalists, lads?” I raise my brows to them and neither meet my eyes as we step inside.
Vince is first to greet us again, and I’m almost too distracted by his overly kind welcome to notice the grandiosity of their home. It could easily be mistaken for a castle. Victorian looking with sweeping steps, marble and gold accents, and rich cherry wood cascading around the over-decorated space.
It’s all glossy and bright and pure. Nothing like my home in the Magdalin. We’re like gothic vampires, and they’re the annoying cherubs floating around with knowing grins and expensive tech that we’ll never touch without this stupid marriage contract.
“Welcome to our home.” An older man who looks like an elder Vincenzo with an Italian accent greets us.
“Giuseppe San Giovanni.” He shakes my hand, and a flicker in his eyes tells me he’s not impressed by my presence. I’m not here to impress anyone,grandpa. No need to get your perfectly tied bow-tie in a knot. After pleasantries that I am barely paying attention to, we’re guided through the home. A long hall where pictures of past leaders are hanging in one consecutive line down the length of it. All the way up to Vincenzo at the end.
I try not to laugh at how seriously they take themselves as they lead us to a dining room that even I can’t pick apart because it's like the Sistine chapel meets Balmoral castle. I take a seat close to the end of the table and my father sits in his, beginning a conversation with Giuseppe at the head of it. That's far too pleasant considering his off-putting aggression only minutes ago.
“And what about you, boy?” A hoard of eyes trail to me as the room begins to fill up with the rest of the San Giovanni’s.
“What?” I take a sip of champagne that I wish was a dirty martini and square up to Giuseppe, who chuckles knowingly at my question. My father joins in, and they continue to discuss something I really can’t give two shits about. I watch the bubbles in my glass rise instead, trying to forget where I am.
Before I can get too pissed that this champagne is doing nothing for me, I realize I still have that hip-flask. And I don’t normally pray, but tonight I will if it means I can be drunk off whatever concoction Kias has whipped up. When no one is looking, I pull it out and turn it over in my hands, trying to gauge if it has anything in it at all.
“Please.” I grit, twisting the cap off, still not sure of its contents until the burning glory of vodka reaches my nostrils. Hastily, I bring my champagne glass to it, tipping the flask into my cup. The room falls silent after a moment, but I continue to pour under the table.
“Oh my God.” Espie’s voice whispers, saturated with annoyance, and I know I’m the reason. I look up to see her, standing over me, staring at her pushed-in chair. Quickly, I place my glass on the table and screw the flask shut, slipping it into my pocket before standing to pull out her chair for her.
I will say, she looks incredible. This gold dress, billowing out at her hips and showing off her taut waist. Her breasts are practically spilling out of the bust portion, where a soft square neckline and two-inch straps hold her in like a second skin. Her long hair is pulled off her neck, showing where the dips of her delicate shoulders and glowing collar bones meet. She’s brushed something on there, some kind of makeup that makes her glow in the candlelight–or maybe it’s just her.
I’m a little gobsmacked, but I won’t admit just how much of an understatement that is because I still hate this entire shit-show. She’s not looking at me in any way that would tell me she feels remotely different about our situation, either.
I pull out her chair and watch her sit, pushing it in as she adjusts, then sitting back down next to her. Her scent carries to my nose, a sweetness and subtle woody undertone that is unfairly alluring. I tilt my head to her accidentally, and she notices far too quickly.
