Page 53 of Brutal Crown
“Let’s get this over with,” I say quietly, squeezing her hand. I’m comforting her, but I’m also comforting myself.
She swallows thickly and nods. Then, like the perfect actress she is, an easy smile takes over her features.
The moment we enter the ballroom, the crowd turns as one. Some are smiling as we walk to the front of the room. Others stare pointedly at us, their serious eyes flashing through their masks.
My father stands near the front, his features rigid like stone. My brothers are by his side with similar expressions on their faces. My eyes meet Marco’s. I hold his gaze for a second before looking away. The Morettis are off to the left. They look slightly happier than my family. They look proud of their daughter. I catch Lucia’s eye, and she winks at me.
Silvia and I get into position in front of the room. The ritual begins.
“Tonight,” I start, my voice even, “I offer this heirloom—kept through generations of the Romano bloodline—to Silvia Moretti. As a symbol of the bond we form tonight and the future we commit to together.”
I reach into my coat and pull out the handkerchief. It is made of black silk, edged in crimson, and stitched with the old family crest. It first belonged to my great-grandmother, then it was passed down to my grandmother, my mother, and now, mywife-to-be.
I place it in Silvia’s hands.
She accepts it with a graceful nod, but I catch the slight tremble in her hands as she lifts it to her lips and kisses it. Murmurs ripple through the room. She agreed.
Then the glasses come, carried on a black tray by a servant. They gleam under the chandelier. Old glass, etched with the Romano seal. I take one and hand her the other.
We slowly raise the cups to our lips and look into each other’s eyes. Her gray eyes pierce into mine, and we drink without breaking eye contact. The wine burns on the way down to my throat.
And that’s it.
In the eyes of La Mano Nera, we are no longer two. We are one.
I expect to feelsomething,maybe a new surge of emotion toward Silvia. The ritual has been described as being strong and powerful. That should be strong enough to spark something between me and my future wife.
But the only thing I feel is my stomach sinking into a deeper, darker pit.
There’s loud applause. Camera shutters click. I turn to look at our families. My father nods once, one of approval and relief. Giovanni is smiling at his wife, and the Moretti siblings are smiling at their sister. I don’t look at my brothers.
In the next few minutes, the atmosphere shifts. It’s a bit lighter now, even though the tension from the ritual still hangs over us like a cloud. People begin to move, talking and mingling amongst themselves. People walk up to us to offer their congratulations.
And that’s when I feel her.
Lia.
I catch her out of the corner of my eye, blending in with the servers, a tray in her hand, her head slightly bowed. She’s dressed in black like all the other help, but my body reacts to her like she’s the most colorful person in the room.
My chest tightens, and my fingers twitch.
I thought the ritual would at least take away this suffering, this want, this painful ache in my chest whenever I see her. I thought it would make me immune to the power she held over me.
I thought wrong.
I watch as she slips through the room, avoiding my gaze. I know she feels me looking at her. She feels this pull. Yet she doesn’t turn to spare me a glance.
She hasn’t looked at me in days. Not since that night. Not since I buried myself so deep inside her and branded my soul with her name.
I told myself that having sex with her once would get her out of my system. I was wrong. I can still smell her when I close my eyes.
She disappears down a side hallway. A part of me wants to follow her, chase after her, and demand she look me in the eye, but I can’t do that now. I’ve lost that privilege. I am bound to someone else, who is currently responding to the greetings from a guest in front of us.
“…such a beautiful couple. I hope you will be blessed with a child soon,” the elderly woman with kind eyes says. She’s a distant relative of one of the other founding families.
Silvia says something I can’t hear while I force a smile on my lips.
I hope not.
