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Chapter 8
Adalina
As I enter the exquisitely decorated banquet room, a wave of despair washes over me. The room is adorned with lavish floral arrangements in shades of red and white, while crystal chandeliers cast a warm, illuminating glow. Round tables, draped in pristine white tablecloths, are meticulously arranged, each displaying a centerpiece of red roses, baby's breath, and verdant foliage. Soft melodies permeate the air, skillfully performed by a small band situated in one corner.
An engagement party is meant to be a joyous celebration, a commemoration of a couple's recent engagement and their declaration of commitment. However, this couldn't be further from the truth for me. All I feel is an overwhelming sense of dread and unhappiness. I can't fathom the fact that my parents are compelling me to marry Mario Alfonso, a man whom I loathe. He's old enough to be my father, and his presence repulses me. I want to vanish into thin air and never return.
Dressed in a highly provocative gown meticulously chosen by my mother, I can't help but perceive it as more of a costume. The pale pink hue screams innocence and youth, which is ironic considering I feel anything but that. The dress clings tightly to my body, its hemline daringly above my knee, leaving little to the imagination. My mother wants me to appear at my best for my future husband, yet I can't shake the feeling of being objectified, like a piece of meat on display. Though I am merely eighteen years old and still a virgin, apparently that's insufficient to pique his interest. I'm imprisoned within my own body, ensnared by this attire and a life I never desired.
Taking a deep breath, I strive to compose myself as I traverse the banquet room, acutely aware of my vulnerability in this figure-hugging dress. The room teems with influential individuals from the Chicago Outfit and New York Mafia families, all assembled to celebrate my engagement to Mario. Security is tight, and it's evident that this event is meticulously supervised to ensure seamless proceedings. However, I find no solace in the festivities. My mind fixates on my profound entrapment, the injustice of having no say over my own future. This is my predetermined destiny, and I am powerless to alter it. The weight of my parents’ expectations and the pressure to uphold our alliances is suffocating me, and I can't bear it anymore. I can’t breathe. I can’t escape.
Across the room, my parents mingle with the New York Families, including Bobby and Paul Vincenzio. In a corner, I catch sight of the familiar faces of girls from New York, whom I often spend time with during such gatherings. The embarrassment of marrying Mario engulfs me, rendering me too self-conscious to approach them. I am certain that among the young mafia princesses in New York, I have become a laughingstock, being forced to marry a 40-year-old Soto Capo from Chicago.
I put a fake smile on my face as I greet the guests who offer their congratulations on my engagement. I can sense their curiosity and speculation as they exchange hushed whispers about my impending marriage. I yearn to shout and reveal to them all that this is not my desire, that I am being coerced into this union against my will. My parents have orchestrated this alliance to cement ties with the Chicago Outfit. The notion of being a mere pawn in this game, a bargaining tool, repulses me. I long to forge my own path in life, but such autonomy remains unattainable in our world.
The room is abundant with delectable food and drinks, and I quickly seize a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. I need something to help me endure this ordeal. The guests mingle and engage in conversations, sharing anecdotes and offering their felicitations for my impending marriage.
Amidst the crowd, I catch sight of Mario seated at a table with his comrades, his gaze fixed upon me with his piercing, beady eyes. A shiver runs down my spine, overwhelmed by a mixture of repulsion and fear. Is this the man I am expected to spend the remainder of my days with? The mere thought is unbearable.
With determination, I down my glass of champagne in a single gulp, seeking a momentary escape from the suffocating reality surrounding me.
I observe Mario Alfonso as he makes his way towards me. Ugh! He stands tall and slender, donning a black suit and a black button-down shirt. His slicked-back hair, dyed black and heavily gelled, gives him the appearance of a stereotypical Italian mobster. I notice beads of perspiration on his forehead, and his prominent nose detracts from any notion of attractiveness. The mere thought of him makes me want to gag. As he snatches the empty champagne glass from my hand, I can't help but recoil at the sight of his hairy hand.
"Hello, sweetheart," he greets me, leaning in to plant a kiss on my cheek. Instantly, his arm envelops my waist, trapping me in his possessive embrace. I discreetly attempt to pull away, but he only tightens his grip.
"You look beautiful, Princess," he compliments, his dark brown eyes scanning my form in a manner that unsettles me. I shift uncomfortably, feeling exposed in my pale pink dress that clings a little too snugly to my curves.
A sense of embarrassment washes over me, acutely aware of my predicament. Here I am, an 18-year-old girl, coerced into marrying a repulsive 40-year-old man. I inhale deeply, striving to compose myself and maintain a polite smile.
"Thank you," I reply, striving to maintain a neutral tone. "It's good to see you, Mario."
Mario extends a small black velvet ring box to me, his eyes brimming with anticipation as he urges me to open it.
"Go ahead, open it!"
For a moment, I hesitate, my heart racing with apprehension. Slowly, I lift the lid of the box, revealing a garish diamond ring that dazzles me with its excessive brilliance. The stone is oversized, in my opinion, and its multitude of facets reflect the light in a manner that feels almost vulgar. He appears proud of it, as if believing that the size and ostentation of the ring can compensate for the fact that I am being coerced into this marriage. But to me, it serves as a stark reminder of the prison my life has become.
"Will you marry me?" he asks, his eyes brimming with expectation. I resist cringing as he leans in closer. I can detect the perspiration on his brow and the scent of garlic on his breath.
I remain silent.
Mario retrieves the ring from the box and forcefully slips it onto my finger. He embraces me, drawing attention from the onlookers who gradually comprehend the situation, their applause filling the room. I feel a wave of despair washing over me. He releases me and gazes into my eyes, likely believing this to be a romantic gesture. He is repulsive. I catch a glimpse of my sister, attempting to hold back her tears, in the corner of my eye. Meanwhile, my parents are consumed by sheer elation. In a few days' time, I will be surrendered by my father into this man's custody. Perhaps he will meet his demise in a shootout or encounter a fatal accident. A girl can hope.
"Are you excited about the wedding?" he asks, his gaze fixated on my boobs.
"No," I reply, unable to conceal the revulsion in my voice.
Mario's expression turns into a frown, and I sense the simmering anger just beneath the surface. I know I've made a mistake, but I don't care. I stand there, longing for escape, willing to do anything to break free from this man.
Leaning closer, he whispers in my ear, "You're a virgin. I can't wait to fuck the virgin right out of you! I can't wait to break you in." His hand forcefully grips my butt.
"Don't touch me!" I shout, consumed by anger. In a surge of fury, I slap him hard across the face. The room falls into an abrupt silence, and I can feel the weight of everyone's eyes fixed on me. I don't care. I refuse to be treated as an object.
Suddenly, a man's voice pierces through the silence. "Wow, Mario, she's a spitfire! You've got yourself a real firecracker." Laughter fills the air.
Mario conceals his anger and retorts, "And I can't wait to tame her." More laughter ensues.
I turn on my heels and storm out of the party, my father following closely behind. When we reach the bank of elevators, my father grabs hold of my arm and forcefully spins me around. His face is contorted with rage, his grip tight and unforgiving.
