Page 58 of Third Degree

I would be married to the woman I chose.

The one who I knew chose me.

It’d been hard because when I realized that she had run out of the wedding and wasn’t coming back, I longed to call her to let her know what my plan was. But I realized that I needed to protect her. I wasn’t sure what her dad was planning. I knew he must have told her she was getting married, and she tried to run away.

So, I grabbed her jacket that night and brought it with me today. I figured if she tried to Cinderella it out of the wedding, the very least I could do was be her Prince Charming even if I was nineteen years older than her, covered in tattoos, and born a Made man.

Julian, Ricardo, and Alex left the room, promising to see me at the wedding tomorrow and making sure that security was briefed on what exactly was needed of them.

Then I went back to the room and grabbed the black peacoat she had left two months ago at the wedding. In a move that the kids these days would refer to as “simp,” I grabbed the jacket and brought it to my nose, inhaling the faint smell of roses.

One more day and she would be mine. Forever.

20

Daphne

The morning of the wedding, I spent maybe a few minutes basking in the sunlight filtering in the room, nursing the hangover I had purposefully given myself. I leaned over the bed and grabbed the rest of my wine, slamming it back with two Motrin. Hair of the dog or something?

“Giannaaaa!” my mother’s piercing voice echoed throughout the house, pulling me out of my lethargy.

I groaned, rubbing my temples in frustration, realizing that the hair and makeup artist would be arriving soon. Peering out the window, I noticed the grandeur of the wedding preparations outside—rows of chairs and an overwhelming abundance of flowers. Just great.

Ugh. “I’m coming,” I muttered under my breath as I trudged downstairs in my pajamas.

My mother immediately launched into a tirade of Italian obscenities directed at me, her face flaming mad.

“What did I do now?” I asked with a complete lack of interest, attempting to deflect her ire.

“We have a photographer here, and you need to look presentable,” she snapped back.

“Why did you even hire a photographer? There’s nothing joyous about this day for me,” I retorted bitterly.

She gripped my ear tightly, pulling me closer to her.

“Ow!”

“You will behave. You will stop acting like a little brat. Turn it around.” Her voice softened at the end. “For me.”

“Fine,” I grumbled, though I had no clue how I was supposed to fake excitement when I was about to meet a man whose name I didn’t even know.

Last night, when my father returned home after signing away my life, he refused to divulge any details about the family I was about to be bound to. I was walking into this blindly, and now I had to endure being photographed in all the false happiness this day was meant to portray.

I sat in the makeup artist’s chair, forcing a smile as the photographer clicked away. The hairstylist leaned down and asked, “What look are we going for?”

“Whatever she wants,” I huffed, sinking deeper into the chair.

“Pick a style you want,” my cousin, Rina, chimed in, offering a small gesture of support. “If it’s the one thing you can control.” She shrugged and settled into the chair beside me.

Looking up at the hairstylist and makeup artist, I requested a natural half-up, half-down hairstyle with loose curls. It was similar to what Tatum had worn to her wedding; I didn’t have the time or energy to plan anything extravagant.

When they finished, I gazed at my reflection in the mirror and reluctantly admitted that I looked beautiful.

They had enhanced my natural features, giving me a radiant, glowing appearance. It didn’t match the dress, but my cousin was right. If this was the only aspect I could control, then I might as well do it my way.

I turned to face the glam team, giving them a quick hug and expressing my gratitude for making me feel pretty. As my phone rang, I checked the caller ID and saw that Tatum was calling. I couldn’t bring myself to answer it, not today. The conversations we needed to have would have to wait.

I walked over to where my mother was already dressed and ready. She had her hair straight and down past her shoulders. She was dressed in a modest black dress and looked perfect for my funeral… err wedding. She helped me slip into my wedding dress in silence, thankfully refraining from saying anything as the overwhelming poofiness consumed me.

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