Page 85 of No Promises, No Lies

“O’Rourke?” he demands. Every alarm in my body goes off, screaming at me to run, run,run.

I press my lips together.

“You let a dirty Irish O’Rourke touch youagain?” he screams, his face so close to mine spittle sprays across my cheek. The back of his hand follows it. I brace myself on the arm of the chair to keep from being knocked out of it.

Taking his time, Matteo reaches over me. He picks up my skating bag and rips it open. I hold my breath as he pulls out my custom skates, holding them by their laces. “You mock me, Aurora.”The skates spin slowly in his grasp.

My hands come up in defense. “No, I’m not—I didn’tdoanything! He put his arm around me! It was a PR photo. I’m sorry!” I’m practically begging. The light from the fire in the hearth glints off my skate blade as Matteo moves closer to the fire. “Please, don’t!” I plead with my eyes, my bottom lip quivering, and not for show.The skates… the last pair my mother bought me just before…

“You make a fool out of me.” He shakes his head, pissed, but with a cruel smile on his face.He’s enjoying watching me beg.“You’re not sorry, but you will be.” He tosses my skates into the fire.

“No!” I squeal, diving after them. But Matteo grabs hold of my hair and drags me back, throwing me headfirst into the far wall of his study. I collapse onto the floor. Flashes of light blur my vision. The metallic taste of blood in my mouth. Before I can get my bearings, he comes after me again, wrapping his hand around my throat and hauling me up by it.

I scramble to get my legs under me, his grip punishing. Panicking, I claw at his face, aiming for his eyes—desperate for oxygen. He curses as I drag my fingernails down his cheek. He drops me and I inhale sharply, my lungs screaming. Pain and fear are second to my growing rage. “I won’t marry you! You can’t make me!” I shout at him, once I have recovered enough breath. My voice hoarse. I’m sure I’ll have bruises on my throat tomorrow.

I expect him to lunge for me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he straightens. Adjusting his suit, he tugs up the hem of his pants as he lowers himself to my level. “Oh, you’ll marry me, Aurora, if I have to tape your mouth shut and say “I do” for you.”Matteo’slips curl up into a sadistic smile. “Or your father will do it for me.”

I blink up at him, feeling a fleeting moment of satisfaction at the angry claw mark marring his left cheek. “What’s the matter, Aurora?” he taunts, “You thought you could refuse me?” His laugh is bitter. “You can scream, cry, throw a tantrum in church on Saturday… It won’t change a goddamn thing. Theweddingis just a formality. You will be my wife. Youbelongto me. Nothing you can do will change that, so get used to it.”

He kicks me. His designer dress shoes knocks the breath from me again with stabbing pain. I curl in on myself in an effort to protect my body. His next kick is stronger than the first, catching me in the back this time. A whimper escapes me, and I bite down hard on my lip to keep in my scream, hard enough to draw blood. I refuse to give him the satisfaction.

The fire flashes brighter and I look over just in time to catch sight of my skating boot flare as the fire engulfs it fully. A tear runs down my cheek before a surge of anger overtakes it.

I kick out with my feet when Matteo comes closer, intending to kick me again. The back of my foot catches him behind his knee and he falters, falling back onto the wooden coffee table. It splinters with a crack as he crashes through it.

Despite the pain screaming from my ribs, my lips twitch up in a faint smile. Anger I’ve never seen before flashes in his eyes when he sees it.

He’s on his feet faster than I could have ever anticipated, hauling me up roughly. “You bitch! I’ll fucking kill you.” He winds up, and his fist coming toward my face is the last thing I see before everything goes dark.

50

CHAMPAGNE PROBLEMS

RORY

“To the happy couple!” Sal Santorini, Matteo’s uncle, raises his glass of champagne. The room is full of guests following suit, beaming at Matteo and me.

I sit, with a painted smile, in the middle of the fancy Italian restaurant, lifting my glass before taking a small sip of champagne. I move with practiced indifference. Barely conscious—my body might be here, but my mind sure isn’t.

The Italian Capo, Cole DeLuca, rises, next up to deliver what is sure to be another eloquent toast to the blushing bride and happy groom on the eve of their wedding.

Thick and clever makeup covers the dark bruising by my eye and jaw. But nothing can hide the still raw and bloody cut on my lower lip. It draws the attention of well-wishers. Their eyes trail over it, widening at the sight. But then, just like those before them, they quickly avert their gaze, complimenting my dress or my hair.

My father’s gaze has been heavy on me all night. Coupled with the suffocating presence of my fiancé at my side, I feel as though I’m drowning. I sit stiff in my seat, barely uttering more than muttered thank-you’s at those congratulating us. Matteokeeps his hand over mine, appearing to everyone around us as the doting fiancé. In reality, it’s a subtle reminder of the control he has over me.

There’s silence, and a sharp pinch on the underside of my arm brings the restaurant back into focus. Expectant eyes are on me. Robotically, I raise my glass and more shouts fill the room as our guests dip their glasses back. The Italian made men in attendance are more exuberant following the congratulatory words from their capo.“Salud!”,“Tanti auguri!”,“Congratulations!”

Downing my glass, I lower it only to lock eyes with Niko. I hold his blazing gaze for a moment before dropping my eyes and pushing around some vegetables on my plate. The five course meal, my last before I’m sacrificed at the altar of my father’s quest for power.

My ribs hurt from sitting in this chair all night, still sore from the beating I endured from Matteo a few nights back. I try to ignore the pain. Disassociating further into the dark daydream where I drown to death in a room full of people. The crowd laughs and sips on a-thousand-dollar-a bottle champagne, ignoring my collapsing lungs and screams for help. Help that never comes.

After dinner, we make our rounds, greeting countless more guests I don’t know, the same lines on repeat.“I’m so excited. The wedding will be beautiful. Yes, I’m so lucky to have Matteo as my husband-to-be.”

A couple hours in and I don’t know how much longer I can do this. I stare off despondently as Matteo schmoozes some big name politician—and his wife—who showed up late, tuning back in just in time to hear Matteo promising to have them over for dinner soon before excusing us from the conversation.

My husband-to-be walks me back toward our table, glancing around first to check if anyone’s eyes are on us before tighteninghis grip on my arm. I wince. His fingers dig into my skin, already bruised, courtesy of him. He leans in, increasing pressure on my ribs where he knows a dark bruise, black and purple, mottles the skin.

Reluctantly, I force my eyes to his.

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