Page 48 of The Merciless Don's Bride

The truth is, I’ve hardly thought about the company in the past couple of days. It’s not that I don’t care. The company is my dad’s legacy and I know how important it is to him. I just have much more important things in mind.

I take in the worried expression on my uncles face and decide that it doesn’t matter what the will says. He’ll make a great CEO for the company. I thought I’d inherit the position from my dad. Now I just don’t want it.

I have no idea what I want.

Or should I say the truth of what I want is all too terrifying?

“After the wedding, I should be able to appear for the will,” I assure my uncle. “Don’t stress. Keep your chin up.”

He offers me a small smile, “I should be encouraging you, shouldn’t I?

“You know I’ll be alright, uncle. I’m pretty damn strong.”

“Just like your father,” he agrees with a nod.

***

The music begins, soft and classical, and for a moment I wonder if my legs will work.

My hand is nearly trembling in Uncle Miguel’s arm. For all my bravado earlier, when faced with the reality of the situation I’m scared shitless. My uncle notices but he doesn’t say anything. He just pats my fingers lightly, as if that alone can help in anyway.

I’m glad for his presence though. Glad he’s at least here to provide support. To walk me down the aisle. The doors finallyswing wide open and I blink against the sudden brightness. A flood of warm light pours through the cathedral windows.

About a hundred eyes turn towards me. Unfamiliar. Judging. Watching.

I want to run. Instead I take a single step. And then another. One breath at a time.

The aisle stretches long than it has any right to, lined with rows of strangers dressed in black dark suits and colder expressions. Most of them dangerous looking. There’s a few woman as well, elegant, with diamonds glinting on their throats. I don’t know any of them but I know what they represent.

The Cosa Nostra. The mafia. That’s who they are. That’s what I’m marrying into.

My fingers tighten around my uncle’s arm. And then I see him.

Damien is standing at the end of the aisle, hands clasped loosely in front of him, back straight, face impassive. He’s wearing a velvet black suit tailored to his tall frame, black tie knotted neatly at his throat.

There’s not a hint of nerves in him. And why would there be? He’s the one that wanted this.

Right now he’s the eye of the storm. Calm, composed, untouchable. It pisses me off a little bit which is good. Anger is better than fear.

When we reach the altar, uncle Miguel gently passes my hand to Damien’s. The moment his fingers close around mine, something inside of me quiets. It’s like the battle raging in my mind grows duller, less sharp.

I stand in front of Damien and he leans in, mouth near my ear, his voice a low murmur no one else can hear.

“It’s okay to be afraid, sweetheart. All you have to do is just breathe. I’ve got you,” I assure her.

His words are steadying. Infuriatingly so. I breathe. When I glance up at him, he’s not smiling but the tenderness in his eyes is clear.

The priest begins to speak and I’m thrown back to my last experience in a church. Burying my father and getting married in less than three weeks. I swear you can’t make this shit up.

Words blur. Something about unity, love, commitment but I hear none of it. My pulse is pounding in my ears. I can feel Damien’s hand, still wrapped around mine, warm and unwavering. He doesn’t let go, not once.

And when we’re asked the important questions, he doesn’t hesitate.

“I do,” he says in reply to the priest, his voice low and sure, reverberating through me like a tether pulling me back to earth.

Then it’s my turn. The priest asks the question, I open my mouth to reply and nothing comes out. I pause, I hesitate. It stretches too long. Heads turn toward me, waiting expectant. I hear whispers. And then I meet Damien’s gaze. It’s quiet and unreadable but not cold.

“February 18, three years ago,” he says vaguely.

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