Page 17 of The Bratva's Sextuplets
I put on a robe and walk downstairs to Papa’s study, where I find him reviewing what looks like seating charts with two men I don’t recognize. They wear expensive suits but carry themselves like bodyguards rather than wedding coordinators. When I enter, Papa dismisses them with a nod.
“You look pale,” he says as I settle into the chair across from his desk. “Are you feeling well enough for today’s ceremony?”
“I’m feeling exactly as well as anyone would expect on the day they’re forced to marry a stranger.” I keep my voice level despite the anger building in my chest. “Who were those men? They didn’t look like wedding planners.”
Papa’s expression becomes carefully neutral. “They’re additional security consultants. Large events require careful management to ensure everyone’s safety.”
“Security consultants.” I repeat the phrase mockingly. “What kind of threats are you expecting at my wedding, Papa? Who exactly might want to hurt us today?”
“Any number of threats are possible with our business relationships and social position.” He opens a folder and pulls out what appears to be a guest list marked with various symbols and notations. “Prominent families attract attention, and not all of it is welcome. Today’s ceremony will include politicians, judges, and business leaders who prefer their associations remain private.”
The guest list looks more like a tactical briefing than a wedding invitation roster. Names are categorized by importance, political affiliation, and something labeled “security risk assessment.” I scan the pages, noting how many attendees I don’t recognize and how few represent genuine family friends.
“How many of these people actually know us?” I point to a section marked “Political Allies” that includes three judges, two city council members, and someone listed as “Federal Contact—Customs.” “How many of them care about this marriage for reasons that have nothing to do with business advantage?”
Papa closes the folder without answering directly. “Today’s ceremony represents the formal beginning of your adult life, Zita. The relationships you build with our guests will affect your future more than personal sentiment or romantic feelings.”
“My future as what, exactly? A political hostess? A networking accessory for criminal enterprises?” I stand and walk toward the window, needing distance from his careful explanations. “What role am I supposed to play in this performance you’ve orchestrated?”
“You’re supposed to be yourself—intelligent, educated, and gracious—while representing our family’s values and connections.” His tone is patient, bordering on condescending. “You’re supposed to demonstrate that the Lo Duca name means something worth respecting.”
“The Lo Duca name used to mean honest business and community involvement.” I turn back to face him. “Now it means getting in bed with criminal organizations and a questionable marriage.”
Papa sets down his coffee cup as carefully as he can with how bad his hand is shaking. “The Lo Duca name means survival and prosperity for everyone who depends on our success. Your mother never understood that distinction, and it cost our family dearly.”
The mention of Mom hits exactly the way he intended. “Mom understood the distinction perfectly. That’s why she left before she had to watch you destroy everything she believed in.”
“Your mother left because she was selfish and naïve about the realities of protecting what matters.” Papa’s voice hardens. “Don’t make the same mistake by prioritizing your feelings over facts.”
A knock on the study door interrupts our argument before it can escalate further. Francesca enters with a carefully composed expression. “Mr. Lo Duca, the hair and makeup teams have arrived. Miss Zita’s preparations need to begin if we’re going to maintain the schedule.” She glances between us with nervous energy, having overheard too many family conflicts unfold in this room.
“Of course.” Papa stands and straightens his tie with the movement of a man preparing for an important performance. “Zita, we’ll continue this conversation later. Today, I need you to focus on fulfilling your obligations with the dignity our family deserves.”
Fulfilling my obligations. As if I’m a contract clause rather than his daughter. I can see where he’d think that, since he’s been treating me like one since I was twelve years old.
The next fourhours pass in a blur of professional efficiency and forced cheerfulness. Hair stylists, makeup artists, and photographers transform my bedroom into a staging area for what everyone keeps calling “the most important day of your life.” They arrange my features and pose my expressions while discussing the ceremony like it’s a film production rather than a wedding.
“Tilt your chin slightly to the right,” instructs the photographer while capturing what he calls “getting ready” shots. “Perfect. Now, think about how happy you are to be marrying such a successful man.”
Think about how happy I am. The instruction is so absurd I almost laugh. Instead, I arrange my features into what I hope passes for bridal contentment while internally cataloging every reason why today represents the death of everything I wanted for my future.
The wedding dress fits perfectly, which somehow makes everything worse. The Italian silk feels like armor, the beadwork catches light like fragments of broken dreams, and the cathedraltrain ensures I can’t move without assistance. I look like a fairy tale princess preparing for her happily ever after, which makes the reality of my situation even more bitter.
“You look absolutely stunning,” Francesca says as she helps arrange the veil that belonged to my grandmother. “Your mother would be so proud to see you today.”
Mom would be horrified to see me today. She’d recognize this ceremony as a business transaction disguised as a romantic celebration. Francesca means well, and arguing about my mother’s probable reaction won’t change anything about my current circumstances, so I just nod.
“Thank you.” I study my reflection in the full-length mirror, noting how the professional styling makes me look older and more sophisticated than my twenty-two years. “I suppose it’s time to go to the church.”
The drive to St. Alphonsus Cathedral takes fifteen minutes that feel like an eternity. I sit alone in the back of Papa’s Mercedes while he handles last-minute coordination calls in the front seat. Through the tinted windows, I watch familiar Chicago neighborhoods pass by, wondering if I’ll ever see them the same way again after today.
The cathedral appears around a corner like something from a medieval fairy tale, its Gothic spires reaching toward gray October clouds that threaten rain. Cars line the street for blocks in both directions, and I see what looks like a media presence near the main entrance. This wedding is apparently newsworthy enough to attract television cameras and photographers.
“Remember,” Papa says as our car approaches the cathedral’s side entrance, “Today sets the tone for everything thatfollows. Your behavior reflects on our entire family and affects relationships that took years to build.”
“I understand my responsibilities.” I keep my voice steady despite the panic rising in my throat. “I understand exactly what’s expected of me.”
Papa studies my expression for a long moment, perhaps recognizing something dangerous in my tone. “Zita, I know this is difficult, but you’re stronger than your mother was. You can adapt to circumstances she couldn’t handle.”
