Page 1 of Love Him Like Water

CHAPTER ONE

Lore

As the evening sun dipped below the horizon, casting the city in hues of crimson and gold, I stood alone in the bridal suite, looking at my reflection in the ornate mirror, fingers trembling as I fastened the diamond headband and veil atop my dark hair.

I smoothed the fabric of my dress, my breath caught in my throat as my fingers traced over the delicate embroidery of my wedding gown.

With every moment that passed, the weight of my decision pressed upon me.

Marrying this man forsook the wishes of my family.

Not doing so would forsake myself.

The woman in the mirror betrayed none of the turmoil within. With each delicate brushstroke of makeup, I not only concealed my nerves, and the evidence of my lack of sleep, but the forbidden reasons I had made this decision.

To sign my life and future away to the notorious mob boss Renzo Lombardi.

An enemy of my family—the Costas—until the moment the two of us said I do.

A glance toward the wooden clock on the wall—the pendulum swinging a steady rhythm that somehow further set my nerves on edge—told me that those words would be said in less than fifteen minutes.

I fell into a sort of trance as I stood there, listening to the clock tick the minutes away, watching the pendulum swing side-to-side, much the way my heart felt pulled in two opposing directions.

The knock at the door caught me by surprise, tearing a gasp from me, and making my heart trip faster.

“It’s time,” the unfamiliar voice called.

When I was a girl, I pictured this moment a million times.

The door would open.

And there my father would be, teary-eyed, and ready to offer me his hand, to walk me down the aisle, to give me away to a man he deemed worthy.

Taking a deep breath, I walked toward the door, awkward in the long gown, and reached to pull it open.

My father was not there.

A small part of me hoped he might be, that he would change his mind, that he would take back the things he said about not playing a part in this ‘tragedy.’

All I found was an empty wall of cold gray stones.

And one of Renzo Lombardi’s men standing there, ready to walk me toward his boss.

He said nothing.

The way his gaze didn’t even travel over me, let alone linger, had a familiar insecurity rising through my system so quickly that I had to force my spine to straighten as we neared the chapel.

I hesitated at the last moment, some part of me whispering to run. Turn around, head for the doors, make my way out onto the streets, and run all the way back to my childhood home, back to the comfort of my old life.

“This is you,” the guard said, waving toward the entryway into the church.

I nodded, realizing at the last second that I’d left my bouquet in the bridal suite.

I hadn’t planned this wedding. Hadn’t picked out the flowers. When they’d shown up at the door—lush white chrysanthemums nestled in a circle of dark greenery—I’d immediately started sneezing, having to tuck them into the bathroom with a closed door to keep my allergies at bay.

My groom had planned this wedding.

He’d picked that bouquet.

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