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Holding my head high, I walk from the apartment. One high-heeled foot in front of the other moves me toward the elevator. The silence is deafening. The plush carpet mutes the sound of my heel. No music plays through the hallway speakers. Even the lift moves silently.
The dress I meticulously chose from my closet—the sexiest one I own—brushes my upper thighs as I step into the elevator. Anxiety rushes over my skin, but I force myself to stop fidgeting. I push my shoulders back in a posture that screams confidence.
My racing heart pounds against my rib cage. I’m convinced I’m only moments away from a heart attack. At eighteen.
My eyes move to the digital read on the elevator, the metal cage moving closer and closer to the ground floor with every second that passes. My body wills to shake, to tremble with dread. I refuse to let it, holding it in. It inverts, my organs rocked by tremors that make me nauseous.
Life changes so fast. You blink, and your world turns inside out. Six weeks ago, I was told I would marry Salvatore Bianchi in a peace deal brokered between our family and the Chicago Outfit. I wasn’t surprised, certainly apprehensive, but I hid my hesitation well—as would have been expected. Salvatore was due to arrive in the coming weeks. I was of age, having just celebrated my eighteenth birthday, which meant by my family standard, I was ready to belong to a man I was yet to meet.
I know the basic facts about my future husband. Thirty years old and boss of the Chicago Outfit. Never formally married. Mama assures me he’s handsome, but she’d say anything to make me agreeable. Honestly, I couldn’t care less if he had two heads. I just wanted to know whether he’d hurt me. Mama tells me that men can’t hurt us if we don't let them infiltrate our hearts. I told her I meant physically. She told me to learn to disassociate. Inspiring, no?
On the same day I was told of my union with Salvatore, Caterina was told of hers with Roberto Ferrari. An act to preserve powerwithinthe family.
Caterina and I knew this was our path.Thisbeing the accepting mafioso women who we were, we’d accept our fate. Only, I couldn’t acquiesce my sister’s.
Caterina Rossi would never belong to the consigliere of Cosa Nostra. Not if I had anything to do with it.
I pretend I can’t see myself in the reflection of the elevator doors. My lipstick is smeared, but I don’t fix it. My hair has lost the neat silk of the wave I’d styled it into, the strains a messy resemblance of what they were a simple hour before.
The elevator comes to a stop with a delicate jerk, and I take a fortifying breath, relaxing my face into what I imagine an eighteen-year-old woman stupidly in love would look like.
I adjust my dress purposely as I step from the open doors, the resounding click of my heel against marble loud enough to steel my nerves. The black Town Car parked curbside is impossible to miss, and I’m both elated and petrified at the sight of it.
My brother, Tony, eyes me warily as I exit the building with balletic strides. He stuffs his hands into his black dress pants. The leather of his gun holster is visible, his jacket haphazardly thrown open, and I eye the concealed weapon with trepidation.
God, if he makes Tony kill me.
My brother dips his chin inconspicuously enough that if you blinked, you would miss it. I return the indecipherable gesture. The success of a scheme coming together without issue passed through silent conversation between siblings.
Tony was surprisingly agreeable when I came to him with my plan. Our sister is naïve and amorous. Traits that wouldn’t fare well in the possession of a monster. Our father had no issue with pushing her into the lion’s den. Mother would stand by idly and watch the carnage. I would not, and Tony wasn’t convinced he could close his eyes to the slaughter of Caterina’s soul either.
Tony steps forward when I’m mere steps away from the car, grabbing my upper arm roughly. “Well done,” he whispers, his face a contradiction to his praise, twisted in disapproval to make my father believe he’s reprimanding me.
He pushes me forward unexpectedly, and I stumble on my stilettos, falling against the car roughly. I scowl at him, my reaction one-hundred-percent real. “Ow.”
I straighten myself, retreating onto the sidewalk and adjusting my hair. Normally, a driver would be waiting, car door held open for me to slide into the sanctuary of my father’s presence. Not today. Today, I’m forced to remain outside, waiting for a punishment I had hoped for.
Bile twists itself in my stomach, and I’m thankful for the heat New York City slathers my skin with. The sweat grasping my upper lip will be mistaken for the humidity in lieu of what’s actually causing it—crippling nerves.
He could kill me.
Men have died for less.
The dishonor I’ve drenched my father with is a scandal my family has not had to overcome for generations.
I was the golden child.
The swan in a gilded cage.
I was my father’s most prized possession.
The key to the expansion in the business.
And I’ve just fucked it all.
There will be blood on my hands. The loss of life resting heavily on my shoulders for eternity. But I can’t find it in me to care. My hands might forever be bathed in red, but I would wear it proudly. If only to myself.
