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“Good. Now, back inside.”
We look at each other one more time, and it’s the start of a war between husband and wife. What a world, what a life this will be. I finally move and make a mental note to never forget the hatred I feel in this moment for this man.
* * *
WEDDING DAY
I look myself over in the mirror. My hair is styled in a slicked back bun that falls just above the nape of my neck. My eyelids are a smokey color, and my lips are stained a glossy red. I look like a stranger.
My dress, though I wish I was wearing it for someone I want to walk down the aisle to, is beautiful. It’s a mermaid gown, all silk with a lace overlay, off-the-shoulder with a sweetheart neckline, and the sleeves match the lace, connected by a thin piece of fabric under my armpit. The lace goes all the way down my arms and ends over the back of my hand in a point with a piece of elastic around my middle finger.
My brown eyes look large, and they’re filled with sadness. I don’t want to do this. I don’t. I look down at my white satin heels, and a tear falls.
“Shit,” I say under my breath.
Damian should be here. It should have been him. I hate him in this very moment for breaking all those whispered promises made in the meadow, the lies given against my skin as he kissed away the bruises my father left me.
“You can’t be crying. You will ruin your makeup, and if your father sees that, he will be very angry, Emelia. Please, let’s not set him off today. All types of men from other outfits are here, and we don’t need the scene. Can you just marry Nico with a smile on your face?” My mother enters the room like a mouse—quiet yet a disgusting creature you don't want to come near you. If I could, I would jump on a table and scream as I try to get away from her.
“Yes, Mother. I will go out there with a smile on my face and pretend everything is okay,” I tell her with the least bit of pleasure.
“Good. It’s time. Your father is waiting at the chapel doors. Let’s go.” With one last look in the mirror, fixing my makeup with the tissue my mother gave me, I turn and make my way toward my new life. A life I already existed in but may just end up being ten times worse. Tomorrow morning, I will fly to Seattle with a stranger I was forced to marry just so my father can get intel and take down Valiente.
Meeting my father at the doors, he takes my arm but says nothing. No “you look beautiful” or “I’m so proud of you.” I get absolutely nothing that a bride would normally hear from a doting dad. He takes my arm, stands tall, and the doors slowly open. Everyone stands, and all the men are dressed head to toe in all black, as if it’s a funeral.
And isn’t it?
It’s the death of the last bit of freedom I had. I know none of these men but do know there are a lot of murderers in the pews of my wedding ceremony. What an eerie thing to think of. I smile politely like I’ve been trained to do, and when my eyes finally meet Nico’s, his face is stone-cold.
Neither of us wants to do this. Difference is, he will still get to live his life the way he sees fit, and there will most likely be other women, ones he could fall for. Where I will never be able to even talk to others without his permission. How 1940s of the mafia.
Making it to the altar, my father lifts my veil, grabs my shoulders with force, and leans in to kiss my cheek. To onlookers, it must seem sweet, but they don’t hear what he whispers.
“Obey and know your place, Emelia. Get the job done.” With that, he hands me off, one devil to the next.
I see Damian in my head then, smiling at me, whispering to me how beautiful I look. That’s not the case with Nico, but never did I think it would be, nor want it to be. But the image of Damian being the one standing across from me makes this bearable.
Besides, Nico will be dead soon. I must remember this is a job, and one day I will be a made woman alone and won’t have to answer to anyone. I’ll take my money and live in a house by myself with a couple of dogs and my own emotional scars, drowning in my trauma from the life I was born into.
Nico takes my hand, and I must admit this gesture shocks me. I didn't expect him to touch me at all. When the pastor begins to talk, I look from him to Nico and see he’s intensely staring at me. His jaw tight, his eyes focused on me, it’s more than intimidating.
Why does he look like he wants to have my head?
I’m behaving, aren’t I?
I almost roll my eyes at the idea.
“I do,” he says, then it’s my turn.
I make my promises to obey and cherish my husband, and it’s like signing my own death warrant. “I do.”
We lean in and kiss, and it’s brief but telling. His lips are soft, full, and if I were interested in him, I would say I like the feel of them against mine. There is power, control, and experience, and I can tell all that from the simple peck. If he ever kisses me deeper, I can only imagine what that would be like.
I push that image to the back of my head.
This isn’t love. No. This is a transaction, and I’m the product. The church pews fill with cheers, whistles, and applause, but inside, I am petrified. This has to be a nightmare I will wake up from and not be trapped in anymore. It just has to be.
The birdseeds are thrown, the applause is loud, and handshakes continue for Nico as we make our way out of the chapel and into the limo. Once inside, it’s as if the noise is turned off, and we’re in a cone of silence. The lack of ruckus is eerie. Nico sits on the opposite side of the bench as he checks his phone and avoids any contact with me. God, this really is the saddest, most pitiful wedding day.
