“Okay,” I croak. “We’ll talk later. Help me with the damn veil.”
The music gets louder, as if imploring us to move or else. A man appears behind us—one of Rafaele’s—and nods toward the entrance of the church. “Go.”
“Jesus, we’re going,” I snap.
Veil in place, I take Vince’s arm. We climb the dozen or so steps, moving slowly because of my dress. Someone lifts the train behind me, probably the same guy who rushed us along, but I don’t even bother looking to check.
My pulse is racing. I can’t believe I’m about to get married.
The massive doors to the cathedral are propped open. Inside are rows and rows of people I’ve never met with the occasional flash of a familiar face. My family is somewhere here, but I don’t seek them out.
The sheer volume of witnesses to my downfall is staggering. I keep my gaze focused on the ground and count my breaths.
The world is a blur, and I’m a tiny speck being propelled through it. Sweat collects at the small of my back, seeping into the fabric of Gemma’s wedding dress. My mouth is bone dry. I wish I’d asked for some water on the ride over instead of spending it silently pondering my bleak future as a married woman.
I clutch Vince’s arm tighter, and he shoots me a worried look. He can’t see my expression beneath the veil. If he could, he’d look far more worried.
My horror builds with every step I take. This is what I’ve always feared. The complete surrender of my autonomy to a stranger.
I’m living through my own personal nightmare, and there’s a demon waiting for me at the end of the aisle, ready to tear the thing I’ve always held most dear to me—my freedom—to shreds.
I might throw up.
Maybe it doesn’t have to be forever. I have to hold out hope that somehow I’ll convince Rafaele to eventually let me out of my cage. But how long will that take? Weeks? Months? Years? Years of living with the enemy.
Rafaele may have helped Gemma, but he’s still my enemy. He’s looking forward to owning me. I could see it in his eyes last night when he looked at me like I was another one of his possessions.
What will he do to me? Whatever he wants, I suppose. That’s the point, isn’t it? Starting with our wedding night. Whatever I don’t give to him willingly, he’ll take by force.
My breaths are coming quickly now. A pressure appears on my forearm. I look down to see it’s Vince’s hand.
“Cleo, you’re shaking,” he says in a low voice.
Yes, I’m about to have a panic attack, I want to say to him, but I can’t speak.
Dark spots appear in my eyes.
And that’s when I notice the flowers. Bouquets of blue lilies at the end of every aisle.
Gem’s favorites.
I was at the meeting with the wedding planner when she picked out that exact arrangement.
Something about the flowers cuts through the panic, and I manage to suck in a single deep breath. Then another.
Gem isn’t here, but there are glimpses of her everywhere in this cathedral. She planned this wedding. She chose the flowers, and the music, and this dress, and this veil, and all the other little details that used to be so insignificant to me.
Now, I latch onto them. I claw my way out of my panic and remember that I’m doing this for my sister.
She’d want me to walk down this aisle with my head held high. She wouldn’t want me to fall apart in front of all of these fucking Messeros. I won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing my misery.
The tightness in my throat loosens. “I’m good,” I say to Vince.
When he and I are mere steps away from the altar, I come to a halt.
Everyone in the church quiets, and I can practically sense them salivating. They’re waiting for a sign of weakness, the fucking vultures. But they won’t get one.
I straighten my spine and pull back my shoulders. I let go of my brother’s arm, signaling I’ve got it from here. He gives my arm a squeeze and moves aside.
I take the last few steps toward the altar on my own.
When I’m standing before him, Rafaele reaches over and lifts my veil.
It’s funny how you can hate someone and still find them attractive. Rafaele’s high cheekbones and strong jaw feel like an affront. I don’t want to like a single thing about this horrible man, but I can’t help appreciating the sharp angles of his face, his broad shoulders, and the way his muscular body fills out that bespoke tux.
His jaw clenches. He sweeps his gaze over me, and when he returns to my face, there’s heat in his eyes that burns across my skin.
I look away, disturbed by the intensity. For the first time, I allow myself to face the audience. I find my oldest sister, Vale, standing in the front row beside her husband Damiano De Rossi.
She gives me a broken smile, her eyes swimming with tears. Those aren’t tears of happiness. My heart squeezes.
In the fourth row, I spot Sabina in a gray dress and drab black hat. I guess I’m not the only one who thinks of this wedding as more of a funeral.
A flicker of satisfaction appears in the pit of my belly at the outraged expression on her face. She must have registered that I’m wearing her old mistress’s diamonds. I lift my hand and pretend to brush a strand of hair behind my ear, making sure she also sees the bangles.
Her eyes narrow, and she slowly shakes her head as if in warning.
Does she really think she can scare me?
She’s wrong.
After all, there’s a far bigger monster in this church, and I’m about to marry him.
CHAPTER 9
RAFAELE
The priest is saying something, but I can’t hear a word. My pulse is loud inside my ears, a hard and steady drum, and a vein in Cleo’s neck ticks to the same damn beat.
An image of my teeth marks framing that vein flashes in front of my eyes.
This ceremony will take a half hour. I asked the priest as soon as her silhouette appeared at the end of the aisle. I wanted to know how long I’d have to wait to taste that luscious fucking mouth.
His answer irritated me.
Then I became irritated at my irritation.
I’m a patient man. I’m good at waiting. At biding my time.
A half hour is nothing. And yet it feels too long.
Too. Fucking. Long. Especially when my bride looks like this.
Cleo’s copper curls are pulled back from her face with two small braids. The rest of it cascades down her back. My grandmother’s jewels glitter around her neck and dangle from her ears.
She thinks she chose those diamonds, but really, they chose her. If she didn’t have the body or the character to wear them, they would have looked ridiculous on her. It takes a certain kind of woman to pull off wearing fifty fucking carats.
She does it effortlessly, like she was born to be dripping in diamonds and gold. My Aunt Maria tried to give me an earful about letting Cleo wear the prized family jewels, but I told her that if anyone is worthy of wearing them, it’s my future wife.