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“Please welcome, for the first time, Mr. and Mrs. Leonardo Moretti!” the priest announces.
And Leo twines our hands together, raising them above our heads as the audience cheers. Forcing a smile, I scan the sea of faces, my eyes falling first on my father, who gives me the subtlest of nods, a sign that he’s forgiven my transgression now that I’ve given everything to make it right. Then to my mother, who smiles with tears in her eyes. Her hands cover her mouth as if she’s so happy for her baby girl on the best day of my life.
Beside her are my three youngest sisters, their eyes wide as they take in the lavish scene of the day, oblivious to the true meaning behind it and how this will come for them, too, someday. I dare a glance over my shoulder as Leo pulls me toward the stairs. And Maria’s face is the only one that reflects the horror inside me. Our eyes meet for the briefest of moments.
Then I turn, the world seeming almost to move in slow motion as I follow my husband down the aisle.
Like a lamb to slaughter.
I can’t stop the horrible, icy feeling in my chest as I realize just what I’ve done.
I did it for my family. To protect my sisters. And still, I don’t know that I’m strong enough to survive the lion’s den.
Steeling myself, I square my shoulders and pick up my pace.
I will be strong enough. I have to be. Because I refuse to simply roll over and play dead.
I won’t give up until I have Leonardo Moretti dead at my feet.
11
LEO
Iglance at Tia from the corner of my eye as the plates are delivered to our guests as one. We hired as many servers as we have wedding guests filling the grand ballroom of the Moretti estate. And the opulence of the moment as the servers lower the plates before them in perfect synchronicity is like a dance. Because my family is nothing if not the image of sophistication and class.
But to Tia, it might as well be a typical Tuesday night.
She leans back subtly, allowing the server to deliver her own plate, then she offers him a soft thank-you before taking up her napkin to spread it across her lap.
“You look lovely today, Tia,” I say, curious what kind of mood she’ll be in now that we have a few relatively private moments at our sweetheart table.
Her gaze snaps in my direction, her mercury-colored eyes scrutinizing. Then she glances down at the intricate embroidery of her dress as if only just noticing what it is she’s wearing.
“Oh, this old thing?” she jokes, delivering a coy smile that hits me right in the solar plexus. “You’re too kind.”
I snort, unable to filter my response, as she catches me by surprise. I’ll need to keep that in mind in the future. She’s quick. Clearing my throat, I collect myself. Then I take my glass of red wine from the table and sip it.
Her eyes flash, then shift back to the sea of people that sit around the tables spread before us, letting my silent taunt roll off her shoulders. I think I might learn to like this game. Like chess—or battle strategy—but perhaps a lot less deadly.
“You’re upset with me for being late to the ceremony,” I state rather than asking because regardless of how well she handled herself, it’s a given that she would expect me to arrive on time for our wedding. But I’m curious what she’ll be willing to say to me.
“I’m sure whatever the delay, it must have been important,” she says, her attention turning to the perfectly golden-browned baked chicken on her plate. She lifts her fork and knife with the grace of someone born to privilege, who’s spent her life eating as if it were a performance.
“It was a matter of life and death,” I confess gravely, taking up my own utensils and cutting into the beef wellington before me.
Tia coughs, her composure vanishing momentarily as she practically chokes on the piece of chicken she is chewing.
“Are you alright, my dear?” I ask with feigned shock, resting my palm on the soft, cool flesh of her exposed back.
Tia guzzles water, her eyes watering as she chokes down her food. “Fine,” she rasps.
Then our table falls notably silent.
We exchange a few more pleasantries between dinner and dessert, performing the traditional cake cutting in between as a moment of reprieve.
Then it’s time for the first dance. And though I’m loath to do it, my father made sure I knew how. So, as the first notes of “A Ti Korita Vu” filter from the band’s instruments, I guide Tia onto the dance floor and bring her into a proper ballroom frame.
Her arms rest lightly on mine, her fingers delicately gripping my shoulders, and her head tips away from me in a picture of elegance that stuns me. Her dress fits her perfectly, revealing just a hint of her pert breasts over the sweetheart neckline before the start of the beaded corset that tapers down her thin waist. A perfect bustle cascades from the top of her skirt, giving her pronounced hips beneath the layers of fabric.
