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“Your father won’t like you discussing your affairs with everyone.” Jenny scolded her like a child.
“And who is going to tell him? You?”
“You’re being completely selfish, Alessandra. Why can’t you think of Marcello?” Jenny sniffed.
“I’m sorry, Jenny.” Alessandra frowned.
They were interrupted as Alicia re-entered, cradling a transparent plastic dress bag. She hung it on a rack and unzipped the bag with reverence. “This gown was custom-tailored for a bride whose wedding was canceled. If you’re interested, we can rush alterations.”
Alessandra tried on the show-stopping, cream-colored trumpet gown without batting an eye at the ten-thousand-dollar price tag. If she was forced to marry, her father would damn well pay for it. It was soft and sweet-meets-elegant and chic. Delicate floral lace, pearl beading, and textured tulle added a touch of luxe that an elite Chicago bride must have. The sheer back led to a lovely, ladylike train and didn’t hide the roundness of her ass or softness of her hips.
She couldn’t help the swirl of emotions as she ran her hand across the sweetheart neckline and down the side of the corset-style bodice. Her husband-to-be would surely appreciate the ample cleavage and her highlighted feminine curves.
“You look beautiful, Alessandra,” Jenny said.
“Does it matter?” Alessandra sighed. She turned back to the mirror and told herself not to get her hopes up. Looking the part didn’t mean anything.
Alessandra’s hands trembled as she fingered the four-carat diamond necklace and earring set she’d inherited from her mother. She said a silent prayer, asking her mother to bless her union. What wisdom would she impart to her daughter on her wedding day?
Everything about the exquisite dress, flawless hair, and runway-worthy makeup was perfect, leaving Alessandra feeling like an actual bride. But that damn veil—she sighed, turning it over in her hands again. The gorgeous smokey eye and luscious lashes accentuated her green eyes, and merlot lipstick was the perfect topper to bring classic elegance to her pouty lips. It was a shame the long, thick veil would obscure her face and the hard work of the woman who went to great lengths to achieve such results.
“I don’t understand, Papà. I don’t want to marry a stranger. Please don’t make me do this.”
Tony’s backhand connected with his daughter’s face so quickly she didn’t have time to brace herself. A loud crack resounded within the confines of the cozy bridal chamber. The sudden sting caused Alessandra to cry out and grasp her cheek.
“You will put that fucking veil on and walk down the aisle like you were told. You know better than to question me, Alessandra. It’s time you perform your duty to this family. Your brother, Marcello, wouldn’t question me. He’s the reason you are doing this. Don’t you want him back?”
Anthony Russo’s word was law. Alessandra’s dress would stain red if she argued further. She dropped her gaze from his stern face to avoid another blow from her heavy-handed father and spoke to his lapel.
“Yes, Papà. Of course.”
If Marcello was present at her wedding, she wouldn’t feel so adrift. He would walk her down the aisle or offer an escape route. But it was on her to brave the long walk alone, as he was currently incarcerated at the Cook County Jail that had housed numerous celebrity criminals, from gangsters such as Al Capone and Frank Nitti to serial killer John Wayne Gacy, over the years. If Tony’s plan worked, the first Russo behind bars would be released soon.
Alessandra rooted through the makeup bag the stylist left in case she needed a touch-up throughout the day. Luckily, it included concealer that she blended over the already-blooming bruise on her cheek. If there was one thing she knew how to do, it was hide marks beneath makeup and plaster a smile on her face, because men were so busy leering at her body that they never saw the pain in her eyes.
Tony glowered at her as she picked the veil off the dull, crushed carpet where it had fallen from her grasp and shook it out with a sob. She was thankful for that ugly thing now; at least the groom would no longer see her tears.
An attendant knocked on the door, signaling it was time to exit the bridal suite. She sighed heavily, rolled her shoulders back, and picked up her modest bouquet. Beneath the veil, her mask slipped back into place. Resolve filled Alessandra’s heart. She was prepared to dive headfirst and would prove to her father that she wasn’t weak.
Alessandra would be the perfect coiffed, waxed, and dressed mafia wife in public. She would stand aside while her new husband took as many goomahs to warm his bed as he pleased. When he wanted her, she would perform her marital duties as the perfect submissive sex doll and bear a son to continue the vicious cycle.
“Make me proud, Alessandra,” Tony said before slipping away.
She was a socialite in her own right, regardless of being hidden from the world. Marcello might be the one in jail, but Alessandra was the one who never experienced freedom. The scars on her back prevented her wings from sprouting. She wondered if her husband would continue clipping them or if he would set her free and let her fly.
The wedding march began, bringing her inner turmoil to the surface. Becoming a stranger’s wife was less than ideal, but there was no turning back now. With her fulfillment to her family complete, Alessandra Russo would be no more. Her new identity would be molded to suit her husband’s needs.
Those in attendance rose from the pews to watch the bride walk down the aisle. Many odd stares were cast in her direction due to her veil-obstructed face. She ignored them, putting one foot in front of the other and focused on the man at the end of the aisle.
Alessandra gasped in shock and lost her footing. A man shot up from the pew beside her and offered his hand, but she ignored it. She took a deep breath and resumed her walk with as much grace and dignity as she could muster.
The man of every lust-filled fantasy she’d ever had stood at the altar, waiting for her. The devastatingly-handsome Drake Walker was her husband-to-be. Standing in a black tuxedo with his hands behind his back, Drake commanded the room just like he did in court as Chicago’s top prosecutor.
Alessandra was captivated by his wavy brown hair and the dark stubble that adorned his chiseled jaw. Her nipples tightened as his hungry gaze peeled every stitch of clothing off her body, leaving her to walk bare. Depraved images flashed through her mind about what he would demand on their wedding night.
Why would her father choose the prosecutor on her brother’s case as her groom? With the evidence mounted against Marcello, it was only a matter of time before Drake won his case. She should lift her heavy skirt, turn around, and run away as fast as she could, but Drake smiled and reached out his hand. Like a moth to a flame, she fluttered closer.
His warmth radiated through her as he pulled her close. She looked at her small hand in his and thought for the first time that maybe marriage wouldn’t be as bad as she thought. Maybe he was sent to save her again and give her wings.
