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Traditional white dress, madly in love with her groom.
Italian to the bone.
It never bothered me before, and I’ve been to a lot of weddings. This wedding is different. I can’t take my eyes off the newly married couple. I keep envisaging myself kicking the ten-tier wedding cake down. Smashing it to smithereens.
Screaming to the whole world that it’s a façade.
The groom leans over and kisses his bride, and my stomach twists with jealousy.
Italian blood.
The lifeline of my heritage.
Fernando, my cousin, can marry her because of the blood that runs in her veins.
I tip my head back and drain the scotch from my glass.
Stop fucking thinking about it.
I feel two warm hands on my shoulders. “Enrico.”
I glance up and smile as I see my mother. She’s dressed in her mourning black and as beautiful as ever.
“What is it, son?” she asks softly as she takes a seat beside me. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing, Mamma.” I fake a smile. “Busy.”
“That’s not true. I’ve seen you every day this week. Something is wrong, I can feel it. A mother knows these things.”
I clench my jaw and look out over the party. “Leave it, Mamma.”
“Andrea told me.”
I run my tongue over my teeth as my attention drifts back to her. “Told you what?”
“You’ve met someone.”
“I said leave it.”
“What’s the matter, Enrico? Talk to me.”
I shake my head. “Nothing, I’m fine.”
“She doesn’t love you?”
I roll my eyes.
“She loves another?”
“No!” I snap, angered by the mere prospect. “She does not.” I drag my hands through my hair.
“Why can’t you have her?”
“Because I am Italian. Because I choose to honor my ancestors.”
Her face falls. “Oh, Rico,” she sighs. “My darling boy.” She watches me for a moment. “You are your father’s son. Honorable and brave.”
I stare into her big, brown eyes, and I see sympathy.
