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That in and of itself is concerning. When my father is angry, he does not whisper. He yells.
"I haven't done anything with her. Maybe she's in the bathroom," I say.
Papà backhands me and I stagger backward, both from the blow and the shock of it.
"This does not say she went to the bathroom." He shoves the paper toward me.
I look down, but it is hard to focus on the words. My eyes sting with tears of pain making the writing blurry. When I can finally read it, my heart climbs into my throat.
Dear Papà,
I am too young to get married. I do not ever want to marry a man so much older than me either. I want to go to culinary school. I want to have a life, not be an ornament on some man's arm.
I know you love me, so you will understand.
I'll call or write when I can.
Your Loving but Desperate Daughter,
Madonna Carlotta
What has she done? There is no coming back from this. Not with Papà and not with the don.
"Get in there and put the damn dress on, Catalina."
I stare at my father in confusion. Why does he want me to put my sister's wedding dress on?
"We need to find her." But even as I say the words, I realize what this morning's solitude was really about.
If Carlotta left right after closing herself into the room, she had had more than two hours to disappear. In a city the size of New York, with both a train station and two airports accessible, she could be anywhere. Or on her way to anywhere.
I never saw her makeup artist or hair stylist arrive, but assumed she let them in through the door to the hall in the other room. Doom settles over me.
Carlotta ran and she's not coming back. Not to marry the don.
Pain explodes in my cheek, and I go flying. This blow is much harder than the last one and I land on my butt, my head knocking painfully against the wall behind me. My father stands over me, his face contorted with fury, his eyes burning with rage. His fist is raised, but it's not his fist I feel next. It's a kick to my thigh.
"Get up and get the dress on you useless piece of shit."
The words aren't anything new. I've heard them, and worse before. But I still don't understand. Why would I put on my sister's wedding gown?
"We have to tell Aria what has happened." She will know what to do.
Only I'm afraid even Don De Luca's mother will be stumped for how to salvage the mess my sister has wrought. She ran away. I almost laugh because I was so sure it was something she would never do despite planning to do it myself.
"I will not be made a laughingstock amongla famiglia." He kicks me again. This time catching my ribs.
I gasp in pain but I do not cower. I push myself up against the wall and meet my father's enraged gaze, knowing I can't stop whatever is coming next. When my father is in a rage, there is no reasoning with him. However, I do not have to give him the satisfaction of showing fear in the face of it.
I have felt pain before. Either I will survive it, or I won't, but I will not cower.
No more blows come. "Get up. Get that dress on. It's the only way out of this mess you've made. Even someone as stupid as you should understand that."
I'm not stupid. If I were, I would not have lasted as long as I have in my father's home. I know how to avoid him, how to protect myself. Usually. I realize now that he would punch or kick me again, but his plan is for me to walk down the aisle, pretending to be my sister.
I can't do that if I cannot walk at all.
I climb gingerly to my feet, breathing shallowly, not sure if my ribs are just bruised. Or broken. Again.
